height of his career being the brilliant success of his bombardment
of Alexandria, which gave him his Peerage, and doubtless paved the
way to our occupation of Egypt. It is interesting to know that two
of his captains at the time were named John Fisher and Charles
Beresford.
The first Admiral Sir Edward Inglefield was our neighbour fifty years
ago, and many a nautical salute have we exchanged "over the garden
wall." As a "handy man" I never met his equal. If a pane of glass
in house or conservatory was broken he replaced it; if {125} the
kitchen clock stopped he soon made it go again; if a chimney took to
smoking it soon gave up the habit through his means.
On the other hand, Lady Inglefield used to say that the punctuality
with which she heard our wheels at night, when we returned from work,
regulated her movements.
[Sidenote: Sheridan's Granddaughter]
At a garden party given by them we met the celebrated Mrs. Norton,
the granddaughter of Richard Brinsley Sheridan, famous alike for her
poetry and novels, and for her unhappy relations with her mean and
cruel husband. She was still a beautiful woman in the sixties, and
it was easy to believe that she was the granddaughter of the lovely
Elizabeth Linley. Time had then all but obliterated the old and
untrue scandal that she had sold to _The Times_ the news of Peel's
conversion to Free Trade, and his intention to get the Corn Laws
repealed. George Meredith's novel, _Diana of the Crossways_, had
(though wholly against the author's will) done something to revive
the false report that, for her own financial ends, Caroline Norton
had wormed the secret out of Sidney Herbert; the truth being that
Delane had been told it by Lord Aberdeen himself, who intended him to
publish it.
On one occasion, when Sir Edward was in command of one of our fleets,
he condemned {126} a man to receive so many strokes from the lash,
and was on deck to see the sentence carried out. When the delinquent
approached he made certain signs known to Freemasons. "Oh," said the
Admiral, "a Mason, eh? Well, I doubt if you're better at that job
than as a seaman. Go down and take your punishment."
[Sidenote: Garnet Wolseley]
Having written of Lord Fisher, a great sailor, I will now turn my
attention to a great soldier, whom we first knew, fifty years ago, as
Sir Garnet Wolseley. We became friends and later on were neighbours.
To my regret, I only had a club acquaintance with Lord Roberts, who
was too true a gentleman ever to murmur: "I told you so--why did you
not listen to me?" The same with Lord Kitchener; we only knew him as
a fellow-guest at other people's tables. It was a Frenchman who
wrote this tribute on his sad end, which staggered the country:
"Great England's valiant soldier needed a nobler tomb than a hole in
the ground, and he had the noblest of all tombs. God ordered his
funeral; the waves sang his requiem; the organ-pipes were rocky
cliffs; his pall was the black sky, foam the flowers, and the
lightning his funeral torches."
Wolseley was, I repeat, a great soldier. One of those leaders whom
men will follow--even {127} unto death. These words were written
before the powerful biography written by two friends of mine, Sir
Frederick Maurice and Sir George Arthur, was published. I think he
saw service even before the Crimean War, where, as little more than a
boy, he became Captain, and was almost cut to pieces by bullets.
Then came Lucknow and service in many lands. He was a
Lieutenant-Colonel when twenty-six; and throughout his long career
honours of all kinds poured on him. He became Commander-in-Chief,
but was not destined to have realised the wish expressed to my
wife--"I hope I shall never die in a bed." There was something about
him, about that slight cheerful figure, and that glowing face, that
outspoken talk, that was very helpful and strengthening: he seemed in
some way to shed happiness round him.
Among the accumulated correspondence we found waiting after a holiday
in 1882 was a cheery letter from Wolseley, postmark Alexandria,
August 18th, in which he wrote: "The 'army' keeps arriving daily, and
I hope very soon to be in a position to bring Mr. Arabi to book."
The realisation of this prophecy, and the curious incident of an
atmospheric phenomenon caused by the comet of that year, prompted
some verses, that were sent to the hero of the achievement and thus
{128} acknowledged from the War Office: "I am very glad Bancroft
induced you to send me your lines on Tel-el-Kebir, for I like them
extremely. The word-painting is admirable, and the whole incident is
told most feelingly and well. I shall put the little poem away among
my treasures. Many, many thanks for it." I wonder where it is now.
He was a shockingly bad speller--double pp's and double ll's were
sure to be found where they were not wanted.
[Sidenote: A rebuff]
I was told of a terrible rebuff Wolseley brought upon himself on an
occasion when he took Madame Melba down to dinner, not having, most
unfortunately, caught her name when presented. He neglected her at
table and devoted himself to a charming lady on his other side, whom
he knew well. After a time he asked--as was rather his habit--too
loudly, "Who is my other neighbour?" "Surely you know Madame Melba,"
was the answer. "Only heard of her: never met her before: did not
catch her name: when I brought her down she conveyed nothing to me."
At last he turned to the great songstress and addressed some casual
remark to her. Melba quietly asked: "To whom am I speaking?" He
answered: "General Wolseley," and received the reply: "I am afraid
the name conveys {129} nothing to me." I hope Dame Nellie Melba will
forgive me for repeating the story.
Writing of Wolseley reminds me of another, his comrade, Sir Redvers
Buller, for years, with Lady Audrey, our friend and neighbour.
Buller was a man of unflinching courage and dogged bravery: it was
said that he had won his Victoria Cross three times over.
He invited me to join a congratulatory dinner party to be given by
him, at a military club, in honour of Wolseley having been made a
Field-Marshal. All the guests turned up except Wolseley, who had
received a late summons from Windsor, commanding him to dine at the
Castle, as Her Majesty wished to present the _bâton_ to him in person
on that very evening.
A long spell of years has passed since my wife and I were guests at
what was then Thomas's Hotel, in Berkeley Square, now converted into
flats, and met Evelyn Wood when he was about thirty, having already
won the V.C. in the Indian Mutiny, after beginning his adventurous
career as a midshipman and being wounded in the Crimea. We lost
sight of him for a long while, and he must have become a
Field-Marshal when he dined with us, as he often did, until
increasing deafness made him cautious of accepting such invitations.
He amused us once by {130} threatening to recite the Lord's Prayer in
an alarming number of languages if provoked.
Another Field-Marshal and V.C. whom we knew was the hero of
Ladysmith, Sir George White. I met him first on board a P. & O.
steamer when he was Governor of Gibraltar. We walked many a mile
together on the deck of the _Arabia_. Both he and Lady White were
very kind to me when I landed from his launch for a short stay on the
Rock, and enabled me to be present at a memorial service for the Duke
of Cambridge. When his own time came White was Governor of Chelsea
Hospital. His body was taken across London, for burial in his native
Ireland, to such a tribute of affection and regard from his comrades
and the people as is rarely given.
I first knew the popular old soldier and father of the charming Lady
Burnham and Lady Somerleyton, Sir Henry de Bathe, in the early days
of my membership of the Garrick, and was so struck by his appearance
that I did my best to suggest it in a part I played soon
afterwards--I suppose with a measure of success, for when I stepped
upon the stage Lady de Bathe (now the Dowager, still, happily, strong
and well), who was seated in the stalls, exclaimed audibly, "Why,
it's Henry!"
My wife was so impressed by a dramatic {131} story the old general
told of his Crimean days, that she often repeated it.
[Sidenote: A convict from Eton]
One evening, in the severe winter time, it was de Bathe's duty to
direct the clearing of the dead and wounded after a deadly encounter
with the enemy, the brunt of which had been borne by men drawn from
the French convict settlements, who were thrust into the hottest
places when trying work had to be done. The searching party came
across one poor fellow who was grievously wounded but still alive: de
Bathe had him placed upon a stretcher, lifted his head, and poured
brandy into the soldier's mouth. The man took his hand and pressed
it, murmuring in English, "Thank you, de Bathe." Thunderstruck, he
stooped down and asked how a Frenchman knew his name and could also
speak such perfect English. The wounded man smiled and whispered,
"Eton!" as he fainted; de Bathe accompanied the stretcher to the
French lines, saying that he would return as soon as his duty would
allow him. He did so, but the man was dead; de Bathe lifted the
sheet from his face and gazed upon it earnestly without recognising
the lost creature, once his school companion, then known only as a
French convict with a fictitious name.
I remember being once so fortunate, when {132} the old general dined
with me, as to place him between Sir William Howard Russell, the war
correspondent, and Dion Boucicault, the dramatist, and to learn that
all three of them in boyhood's days had been at the same school
together in Dublin.
Lord Rathmore--better remembered and thought of by me as David
Plunket--was a fascinating creature. What otherwise could he be with
such youthfulness, brightness, wit--such qualities as earned for him
the friendship of the sphinx-like Disraeli?
Our acquaintance with him began many years ago at Homburg, where we
had a happy time, and continued until 1915, when, with his company
and that of other pleasant people, my wife and I passed a holiday at
the old Queen Hotel, on The Stray, at Harrogate. He was a delightful
guest, an arresting personality at any table, and one of the most
gifted orators--I can use no smaller word--I have listened to; his
highly polished sentences being rendered even more attractive by his
sometimes pronounced stammer, which often added charm to his
brilliant flow of language. David Plunket's many friends at his
favourite club, the Garrick, where he was beloved, missed him greatly
and mourned his loss.
Lord Glenesk, always a great supporter of {133} the drama, gave us
his friendship for many years. As Sir Algernon Borthwick, he was, to
our great delight, at Balmoral when we were commanded by the late
Queen to act there. From his house in Piccadilly, we saw both joyful
and mournful processions. In a letter to my wife he wrote: "You were
the first to teach the school of Nature, and not only by your own
bright impersonations, but also by your influence over all those with
whom you were brought in contact, to prove that English art is second
to none."
Acquaintance with the first Lord Ashbourne, so long Lord Chancellor
of Ireland, began years ago in the Engadine, and I recall happy times
spent there and by the Lake of Como in his excellent company.
[Sidenote: Edward Carson]
We were dining with him one evening when my wife asked who was a
young man at the farther end of the table. "Oh," said her host, "his
name is Carson. He is a fellow-countryman of mine, who has just been
called to the English Bar, where he means to practise." "And where
he will go far, if I am any judge of a face," was my wife's reply.
Lord Ashbourne brought the "young Irishman" to her afterwards, and so
an affectionate and enduring friendship with the brilliant advocate,
the valiant patriot, Lord Carson, had its birth.
{134}
I was one of four who made up a table with Lord Ashbourne--who was
gay and amusing--to play bridge at the Athenæum on the day before he
was stricken.
I first met Edward Lawson, afterwards Lord Burnham, on the morning of
my wedding day, which chanced to be his birthday. My wife had made
his acquaintance before, as also that of his sage old father, who
founded the fortunes of the great newspaper, of which three
generations have now been justly proud.
I gratefully remember that it is to the senior of the trio the stage
owes much of its present recognition by the press. To digress for a
moment, it was well that Clement Scott, young and enthusiastic, was
given his head, and for a long while--years, in fact--his virile pen
was devoted to the service of the drama.
Lord Burnham continued in his father's footsteps, as, in his turn,
his own son has done. I remember hearing Burnham say, when asked if
there was any particular advantage in being very rich: "Only one; you
can afford to be robbed."
I was indebted to his constant kindness and hospitality, especially
at Hall Barn, for little short of fifty years, until the war broke
his splendid spirit and claimed him as its victim.
Of my friend since his boyhood, the present {135} Viscount, I will
only say, although I can hardly believe it, that I have given him a
sovereign when he went back to Eton!
[Sidenote: Alfred Lyttelton]
My first acquaintance with Alfred Lyttelton was as a spectator at
Lord's, in the field, and in the courts. Before I knew him I had the
privilege of two well-remembered talks with Miss Laura Tennant, whose
beauty and charm left a lasting impression. His career, political
and otherwise, is too well known to need a word from me. The
widespread popularity he enjoyed began early. He was captain of both
his school and university elevens, and held the tennis championship
without a break for many years.
A personal note I can strike with this most lovable man is through
going with him in Paris to see one of the earliest performances of
_Cyrano_ by Coquelin. He also did me the honour to take the place of
Sir Henry Thompson as my seconder at the Athenæum.
Alfred Lyttelton was spared the agonies of the Great War and the
bewildering sense of uncertainty as to what will result from it in
this much-altered world. On the day he was buried, in July, 1913,
the Oxford and Cambridge match was being played at Lord's. At the
solemn hour the game was stopped, and the great assemblage stood
uncovered as they {136} thought of him. Later, on the same day, Mr.
Asquith said of him in the House of Commons that he, perhaps of all
men of this generation, came nearest to the ideal of manhood which
every English father would like to see his son aspire to and attain.
It is among my happy memories to have been many times the guest of
that prince of hosts, Sir Henry Thompson, extending over twenty
years. No dinner parties were more justly celebrated than the
"octaves," generally eight guests and himself, he arranged with so
much thought and knowledge.
He was an exceptional, an extraordinary, man, in addition to his
skill as a great surgeon. He had talent as a painter, had pictures
hung in both the Academy and the Salon; he wrote novels, and his
knowledge of old Nanking china, of which he owned a fine collection,
was that of an expert; and he was founder and president of the
Cremation Society. He introduced me to motoring, when it was in its
infancy. He was an enthusiast in astronomy, having a private
observatory erected by himself. He gave a valuable book on this
subject to my wife with the inscription: "Homage from an Astronomer
to a Star of the First Magnitude."
[Sidenote: Public servants]
Other names crowd my mind: Sir Frank {137} Lascelles, so long our
Ambassador in Berlin, and Sir Rivers Wilson, also a distinguished
public servant--delightful hosts, delightful guests--both great
gentlemen, and both devoted to cards as an amusement. The former
cursed them (never his partner) when they persistently went against
him; the latter caressed them, however badly they treated him.
Of Schomberg McDonnell, known better to his big circle of friends as
"Pom," I recall one personal incident. He was the first to
congratulate me on my knighthood, through being at the time Lord
Salisbury's private secretary, a post which he had the courage to
give up to take his part in the South African War, where he did good
service with the C.I.V., and was rewarded on his return by being
reinstated. He again served his country in the Great War and died
from his wounds, beloved and regretted.
I must in these names include that of a friend of many years, Sir
Thomas Sutherland, so long the chairman of the P. & O. Company. To
the kindness of his invitations to be a guest on trial trips of ships
of that great fleet I owe the happiest "week-ends," in wonderful
company, I have ever spent.
"Mr. Alfred," as Alfred de Rothschild was generally spoken of, was
once our guest; {138} we were often his in Seamore Place. I was
invited to join a week-end party, when I might have seen the wonders
of his country home, with its circus and performing animals, but I
could not go. Being delicate and of a highly nervous temperament, he
must have been a mine of wealth to members of the medical profession.
He was a great lover and patron of the theatre. I remember a
peculiar incident concerning him when we revived Robertson's comedy
_School_ at the Haymarket. Sometimes for several nights running,
sometimes twice in a week, he took a large stage box, occupied it for
not more than half an hour, sat alone to see the second act of the
comedy, and then went.
[Sidenote: Burton and Stanley]
The two famous travellers and explorers, Burton and Stanley, were old
friends of ours. I couple their names because it so chanced that we
saw the most of them, and more intimately, together with Lady Burton
and Lady Stanley, in hotels--one in Switzerland, the other in
Italy--when we were all holiday making.
Burton's early career was that of a wild, untamed gipsy spirit. His
childhood was passed in France and Italy, when his mastery of tongues
began. At Oxford he acquired Arabic, having turned his back on Latin
and {139} Greek. He told me that, eventually, he conquered well over
thirty languages--I forget the exact number--as well as made progress
towards interpreting what he called the speech of monkeys. We first
met him at the table of a dear friend, Dr. George Bird, who asked how
he felt when he had killed a man. Burton replied that the doctor
ought to know, as he had done it oftener.
Stanley's fame was chiefly established by his "finding" of
Livingstone, when he was only about thirty, the search having
occupied eight months.
Of the two, Burton was the easier to get on with, being full of talk
and anecdotes. Stanley was reserved, and it often took my wife some
time to draw from him stories, full of interest, about the King of
Uganda and other persons, and incidents of his courageous travels.
[Sidenote: Labouchere]
Our acquaintance with Henry Labouchere dates back to the time when he
built the Queen's Theatre in Long Acre, where St. Martin's Hall
formerly stood, and of which his wife was the manageress. Henrietta
Hodson was a clever actress, whom, in the early days of the old
Prince of Wales's Theatre, we introduced to London. She afterwards
played Esther Eccles in _Caste_ with the first complete company which
toured the provinces.
{140}
Labouchere's varied career, after he left Eton and Cambridge, began
in diplomacy. Among many similar stories I have heard of him in
those days, is one of a pompous visitor who, calling at the embassy
in Washington, and not liking the look of so youthful an attaché,
said abruptly: "Can I see your boss?" Labouchere calmly replied:
"With pleasure, if you'll tell me to what part of my person you
refer."
After giving up diplomacy he entered Parliament; at one time
represented Northampton with Bradlaugh. I think it was then he
became known as "Labby," and a sort of licensed clown. He was also
prominently associated with journalism. His "Letters of a Besieged
Resident," sent over from Paris by balloons, were so sensational as
to increase the circulation of a daily paper by more than double.
We knew him best on the Lake of Como, at Cadenabbia, a place he
loved, which my wife said ought really to be renamed Cade_labbya_. I
remember his suddenly turning to her one morning and saying that he
would rather be deformed than unnoticed.
On the night that our Haymarket career commenced London was
fog-bound. The density lasted for days, being unique in its horrors,
as records of the time can tell. {141} Labouchere was at the theatre
and emerged with the rest of the audience into dreadful gloom. This
is the story of his reaching home. He ran heavily against a man, who
asked him in what direction he wanted to go. Labouchere replied,
"Queen Anne's Gate." The questioner said that he also was going that
way, in fact, that he lived hard by, and would take him there safely
if he chose to go with him. Labouchere had some fears as to being
trapped, but decided to risk it and be wary. The two plodded along
together arm-in-arm; they met with one or two minor difficulties; but
presently the cheerful stranger, who evidently was of humble station,
stood still in the pitch darkness and said: "Here we are; what's your
number?" Labouchere told him, and his companion answered: "Then we
must cross the road." They did so, the man groped about a door with
his fingers and said: "That's your house; you're all right now; try
your latchkey."
Labouchere, before rewarding his friendly guide, in amazement asked
how he had found his way so accurately on such a night. The simple
answer was: "I'm blind!"
He ended his days at his villa in Italy. When I read his name in the
Honours List as Privy Councillor, I sent him a telegram: {142}
"Labouchere, Florence. Congratulations. Bancroft." His reply was
to the effect that I had puzzled him dreadfully, as he had no idea to
what I referred until he received _The Times_ on the following day.
Oscar Browning--or shall I say "O.B."?--was an odd-looking creature.
We made his acquaintance in our haunt for many years, the Engadine,
when my wife christened him "The Wicked Monk." For my part, I never
felt quite certain how much of him was "Jekyll" and how little there
was of "Hyde."
Some time afterwards he sent word to me at the theatre that he was in
the stalls and would like to introduce me to a young friend who was
his companion. I arranged that he should do so at the end of the
play, when they were brought behind the scenes, and O.B. made me
known to Mr. George Curzon, who had recently left Eton, and whose
friendship, if I may use the word, I claim the privilege of having
since enjoyed, in the great position to which Browning had no doubt
foreseen that his pupil would attain. Our last meeting was when Lord
Curzon presided at the dinner given to another old friend of mine, T.
P. O'Connor, with a charm only equalled, in my experience, on
somewhat similar occasions by Lord Rosebery and Lord Balfour.
{143}
[Sidenote: Comyns Carr]
I think it was when I first met Comyns Carr--"Joe"--early in the
seventies, that I heard him rebuke a pushing young man as "a
pantaloon without his maturity and a clown without his colour"--the
sort of thing that he fired off throughout his life, as if he were a
well-charged satirical machine-gun.
He had been called to the Bar, but was then on the eve of his
marriage with the attractive Miss Strettell, the daughter of a
delightful old clergyman whom I knew as the chaplain at St. Moritz.
Carr did not stick to his first choice of a profession, which I
always regarded as a pity, but drifted into journalism instead. He
was, in his day, attached to many newspapers. Then, fostered by his
love and knowledge of art, came a long career when Sir Coutts
Lindsay, our old friend and guest, reigned at the Grosvenor Gallery,
with Carr as Director. It was famous for Sunday afternoon parties,
which were unique. The robes of Royalty rubbed against the skirts of
Bohemia. "Ladies and other dukes" were plentiful, as were the
followers of every art, and all were happy. Then he wrote plays;
next managed a theatre.