The old broadsides are now represented by the leaflets and posters which
so plentifully abound during modern elections. Within the last thirty
years election posters have assumed many different developments, though,
as a rule, it must be said that they are lacking in the incisive if
rather brutal force which characterised the cartoons and caricatures of
other days. The attempt once made by the late Mr. Lowe, afterwards Lord
Sherbrooke, to put a tax upon lucifer matches, called forth, I remember,
a perfect flood of ephemeral literature, as well as a quantity of
derisive illustrations, which no doubt played some part in causing the
abandonment of what was regarded as a very unpopular tax. A terra-cotta
statuette of Mr. Lowe standing upon a match-box is one of my treasures,
and another is a match-box crowned with the bust of the politician in
question.
Mr. Gladstone—his pastime of tree-felling, his habit of sending
post-cards, and his collars—afforded the caricaturist a very congenial
subject to work upon. I still have a very malicious cartoon entitled
“Khartoum _v._ Criterion,” in which the Grand Old Man is pictured
holding his sides with laughter in a box at the play, whilst above is
shown the death of General Gordon at Khartoum. As a matter of fact, by
no possibility could Mr. Gladstone have known that the very evening on
which he was going to the Criterion, Gordon was being done to death in
the far-off Soudan; and whatever may have been his faults, callousness
or inhumanity was most certainly not numbered amongst them.
A political caricaturist of modern days, whose works I collect, is Sir
F. Carruthers Gould. His wit, indeed, always of the most good-natured
description, is one of the most valuable assets of the Liberal party,
whilst the very moderation of his sarcasm, combined with an almost
preternatural aptitude for hitting off a situation, makes the work of
this talented caricaturist tell in a quite unusual degree.
The best amateur caricaturist I ever knew was the late Sir Frank
Lockwood, who used every year to send his friends some whimsical design
of his own composition. Among the New Year’s cards which he sent
me—souvenirs I still cherish—the best of a clever series is, I think,
the one I received at the end of 1893. In this Old Father Time is
pictured as a butler holding out a champagne bottle labelled 1894,
whilst another, 1893 sec, lies empty on the ground. Underneath is
written, “A fine wine, and not so dry as the last.” On another, Time—as
a sportsman carrying a dead pheasant, 1895—is shown keenly eyeing an
astonished young bird (1896) perched upon a milestone, the while he
murmurs, “I’ll have a shot at you next, my little man.” Sir Frank
Lockwood was a great loss to all his friends, for a more agreeable,
clever, and cheery companion never lived.
Looking over an old scrap-book of mine I came upon some Italian
caricatures of the carnival at Rome in the old days, when the Pope was
still an independent sovereign. These had been collected when I was
travelling in Italy with my mother about the year 1842. The carnival, I
remember, was not particularly gay. There were immense crowds, and a
perpetual rain of confetti and dead battered flowers, which increased to
a perfect storm when our carriage passed any house inhabited by our
friends. The people of Rome, however, enjoyed it all immensely, and a
young lady said to me, “If Paradise be half as delightful as the
carnival, what can be so happy?” Some English people, however, said it
was more like Purgatory!
During our travels at that time, when going by sea on a Tuscan vessel
from Genoa to Naples, we met Lord Vernon, who was our fellow-passenger
as far as Leghorn. He talked a great deal about Dante, the study of
whose works was his hobby, and also gave us a very lively description of
his interview with the Pope.
His Holiness, he said, after some very complimentary remarks, had
inquired of him how he translated the passage at the beginning of Canto
vii. of the “Inferno”—
“Papé Satan, Papé Satan, aleppé.”[1]
The difficulty, Lord Vernon told us, was overcome by his telling the
Pope that a great diversity of opinion existed as to the passage in
question, and he would therefore be especially grateful to his Holiness
if he, the highest authority possible, would tell him what the exact
meaning of it might be. The Pope, however, who was just as quick at
parrying home-thrusts as Lord Vernon, changed the subject, and pounced
upon another passage, describing the effect of sunshine upon a rock,
which he said he had been able to verify one day near his convent when
he was a Carmelite monk. Lord Vernon then said to him, “Your Holiness’s
observation is most valuable, and, with permission, I will put it in a
note to the translation I am making.” “No, no!” exclaimed the Pope; “non
bisogna mai nominare il Papa,”—“There is no need whatever to mention
the Pope at all.”
Anything which recalls the past becomes of interest as time goes on, and
some of the mementoes of other days which I have carefully preserved
bring vividly back to one’s mind scenes now almost historical, as well
as the people who figured in them.
Programmes of public meetings and menus of banquets are amongst the
trifles which I have collected and kept, and of these I have a
considerable number. The menus I sought for with the greatest eagerness
were those of public lunches or dinners attended by some great orator or
politician, and when I got them I generally managed also to obtain the
signature of the guest or guests of the evening, which naturally adds
very greatly to their interest. Of these souvenirs recalling great
social functions of the past, I have in particular a quantity of the
time of the Jubilee of 1887, which has now become almost an historic
memory. Besides their interest as souvenirs, these menus may one day be
interesting as illustrating the way in which the people of our time
dined. As a matter of fact, there has been very little change in the
number and nature of the dishes served at public dinners and banquets
during the last thirty-five years, as can be seen from some menus I
still retain as a remembrance of the entertainments given to the late
Shah of Persia (that is the one before the last), on his first visit to
this country in 1873.
Other relics which I treasure are certain old cards of invitation to
parties, weddings, and other social functions, which recall to my mind
friends for the most part, alas, long since passed away.
There was a good deal of robust joviality about the weddings of old
days, and the bride and bridegroom always drove away in a chariot drawn
by postillions resplendent in blue jackets and white breeches, and
wearing enormous white favours at their breasts. These, as a rule, were
mounted on what were generally known as “Newman’s Greys”—horses
supplied by Newman, the job-master. A team of four was by no means
uncommon, and very smart and appropriate such an equipage looked. What
astonishment would it not create at a wedding to-day! But the post-boys
and postillions of my youth in their quaint attire, together with
“Newman’s Greys,” have long ago journeyed their last great stage and
left no successors behind them. Their calling has now long been
obsolete, and were they once more to reappear they would attract about
as much attention as men in armour. Lord Lonsdale (I believe, almost
alone) still makes use of postillions, who in yellow jackets and white
beaver hats strike a picturesque note at Ascot and some other
race-meetings which he attends in old-fashioned style.
I remember some amusing stories told in connection with marriages of the
past. There was, for instance, the old peer who, though very proud of
his family, tempered his pride with a considerable sense of humour. One
day he was very much surprised to be told by his sister that she had
conceived a great affection for a well-known though somewhat eccentric
savant who, although generally esteemed, was of very humble Semitic
extraction.
Not quite determined as to what course of action he should take, he sent
for the prospective bridegroom with the intention of talking matters
over, and after some conversation said,—
“And now, sir, I should like to know something about your family?”
“I think it will be sufficient,” was the reply, “to say that I descend
from the illustrious blood of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob.”
“Oh,” said the peer, “of course our family has nothing to compare with
that! Therefore, if my sister really likes you, you had better take
her.”
The bridegroom became a Christian; but his brother-in-law always
expressed very sceptical views as to this conversion, and would often
say, “Christian—fine Christian, indeed—why, the fellow has
phylacteries sewn into the ends of his trousers.” Nevertheless the
marriage did not turn out at all badly, and proved anything but an
unhappy one.
Another rather amusing story is the one told about an East Anglian
clergyman of the past who was one day considerably embarrassed at
receiving a visit from a lady parishioner who, on entering the room, at
once said that she had come to ask his opinion, as her spiritual guide,
upon a subject about which she felt quite unable to make up her
mind—did he think that it could ever, under any circumstances, be right
for a woman to propose to a man?
Much taken aback, the poor rector replied that he certainly thought
there might be circumstances which would make such a proposal
justifiable; upon which, without the slightest hesitation, the lady
exclaimed, as Nathan said unto David, “_Thou_ art the man!” And, seeing
no possibility of escape, he was.
Norfolk in past times produced many strange types. I remember an old
parson who lived near my brother’s place—a landowner as well as a
clergyman, and one who farmed his own land, thus being what was known as
a “Squarson.” One Sunday his parishioners found affixed to the church
door a notice which said, “In consequence of domestic affliction there
will be no service to-day.” Everybody being naturally much concerned,
sympathetic inquiries were at once made, when it was ascertained that
the domestic affliction was an accident which had happened to a fine
bullock, in consequence of which it had been destroyed, after which the
rector had decided personally to superintend its being cut up. Another
old parson, at one of whose churches service was usually a mere form on
account of the lack of worshippers, found himself deprived of the
services of his ancient clerk, who was well used to his ways. On his
arrival at the church the following Sunday the new one set vigorously to
work at ringing the solitary bell, an innovation which was anything but
to the rector’s liking, as he quickly showed by shouting, “What on earth
are you doing, you fool, you? Don’t you know that if you go on ringing
like that some one is sure to come?”
My brother himself was something of a character, and could give an apt
enough reply when he chose. Two old ladies, cousins of ours, once
pestered him to let them see his country retreat, where he lived a very
solitary existence. Thinking at last to end their importunities, he
wrote saying that they might come and stay for a few days, in reply to
which he was informed that they hoped he would see that some one was
present as chaperon, as it would be hardly proper for them to be all
alone with him. Further correspondence (and their visit also, I must
add) was, however, checked by the brief note which he returned, in which
he said that as, according to computation, their ages and his own
amounted to about two hundred years, he thought that the voice of
scandal was not much to be feared.
People of original character and brilliant intellect were undoubtedly
more frequently to be met with some thirty or forty years ago than is
now the case, when almost every one seems to be cast in a mould of a
more or less mediocre kind.
There was, for instance, Mrs. Norton (who is still remembered on account
of her remarkable cleverness and graceful gift of versification), and
her sister, the beautiful Duchess of Somerset, who had been Queen of
Beauty at the Eglinton Tournament. I knew the latter very well, a most
original woman, possessed of a great deal of the Sheridan cleverness and
wit. Meeting her one day at an exhibition of pictures, one of the
principal features of which was a portrait of Mr. Gladstone, she led me
up to it and, pointing to the picture, a most execrable piece of
painting, said, “At last we Conservatives are avenged.” At one time she
was very much taken with the idea of utilising guinea-pigs as a new sort
of dish, declaring that they were most excellent when cooked, and
actually induced me to try them. I must candidly admit that they really
were not at all bad; she got me a little cookery book entirely filled
with recipes for preparing the curious little creatures for the table.
There does not now exist, I fancy, any brilliant little circle of people
such as in the ’sixties started that curious sheet the _Owl_, though
from time to time attempts at something of the sort have been made.
There was, for instance, the little coterie the members of which called
themselves “the Souls.”
These, I believe, had more or less regular meetings for mental communion
and improvement, and at one time they attracted a good deal of
attention. There were certainly several clever people amongst them, as
well as some exceedingly attractive and good-looking ladies, whose
mental aspirations (so they declared) lay in the direction of a higher
intellectual life than the one led by ordinary mortals.
The late Sir William Harcourt, whose keen and incisive wit was ever very
quick at summing up things at a true valuation, is said, when asked what
he thought of “the Souls,” to have replied, “All I know about ‘the
Souls’ is that some of them have very beautiful bodies.”
I often regret that I did not keep a complete set of the _Owl_; it was a
very clever little publication, and for a time created a considerable
sensation in London society. Originally started by Mr. Evelyn Ashley,
Mr. James Stuart Wortley, and the present Lord Glenesk, it was published
in a small shop in Catherine Street, the first number consisting of but
a single page containing some clever political comments, a little light
and satirical verse, as well as a good deal of amusing chit-chat. The
price was high, sixpence, for it was in no way intended for the general
public, being indeed, at its inception, sent gratuitously to many of the
best known people in London. Its success, however, was so enormous that
the scope of the paper was very considerably enlarged, many celebrated
people becoming contributors, including Laurence Oliphant, and an _Owl_
dinner being held every Monday, at which the forthcoming number of the
paper was discussed. By the public the _Owl_ was regarded more as an
aristocratic literary plaything than as anything else, but whenever it
appeared (for it was published or not according to the inclinations of
its editors) every copy would be sure to be snapped up. The political
information, in particular, contributed by those in the best position to
know, was especially good, and it used to be said, indeed, that the
_Times_ itself was occasionally anything but averse to drawing upon the
notes printed on the _Owl’s_ front sheet, which invariably contained a
good deal of novel and accurate information as to forthcoming events,
both in the parliamentary and diplomatic worlds.
Lord Wharncliffe used frequently to entertain the staff of the _Owl_ at
dinner at Wharncliffe House, occasionally contributing acrostics (for
which he had a natural bent) to the columns of the paper, whilst Lady
Wharncliffe would sometimes send notes as to any current event which
might be of interest to the fashionable world.
In the copy of the _Owl_ published on June 22, 1864, is an amusing
account of a meeting of the staff held at the Star and Garter, Richmond;
it is entitled “The Owls in the Ivy Bush.” On this occasion there were
present the Hon. Mrs. Norton, the Bishop of Oxford (Wilberforce), Lord
Houghton, Mr. Bernal Osborne, Laurence Oliphant, Sir William (then Mr.)
Vernon Harcourt, Abraham Hayward, and some others. A very brilliant
assemblage of wit and intellect, which, I fear, the London society of
to-day (or rather what passes for London society) would be totally
unable to equal.
Some of the jokes and scraps of verse which appeared in different
numbers of the _Owl_ were exceedingly brilliant and amusing, whilst fads
and fancies of the day were dealt with in a very humorous fashion.
The following lines, for instance, were published in the _Owl_ at the
time when Mr. Banting’s system of reducing fat was a general subject of
discussion:—
“BANTING IN INFERNIS”
Here lies the bones of him whose strife
Was how to drop the staff of life:
Falstaff he was; survivors he has shown ’em
How “nil” to leave “de mortuis nisi bonum.”
In another number is a witty riddle also dealing with the eminent
upholsterer in whose instructions for producing a reduction of weight
the fat people of 1864 placed so much trust:—
“Why is Lord Palmerston like Mr. Banting?” “Because his present measures
are far smaller than the clothes (close) of last session would warrant.”
My cousin, Sir Henry Drummond Wolff, is one of the few survivors of that
brilliant band who were contributors to the _Owl_, and no doubt will
have much that is amusing and interesting to say about it in the volume
of Memoirs which he has at last been persuaded to prepare for
publication. Unrivalled as a _raconteur_, Sir Henry was a constant guest
at my luncheon-table in the ’eighties, when almost every Sunday
three-fourths of the Fourth Party, that is to say, Lord Randolph
Churchill, Mr., now Sir John, Gorst, and Sir Henry used to give me the
pleasure of their company, to the delight of all who chanced to be
present.
Those were the early days of the Primrose League, the immediate success
of which put us all in very good spirits. A little later on, at the time
when the League as a political force was beginning to make its influence
felt, the late Comte de Paris became much interested in its methods,
conceiving the idea that some organisation of a similar kind might be
formed to promote Orleanist interests in France. He questioned me a good
deal about the League, I remember, and I referred him to my daughter,
who, ever an ardent worker on the Conservative side, thoroughly
understood its machinery. As a result of his inquiries, a French “White
Rose League” was soon afterwards formed, the badges being in the form of
a gilt rose, specimens of which we received and still retain. France,
however, manifested little enthusiasm at this attempt to breathe new
life into Royalist circles, and after a short time nothing more was
heard of the White Rose League, which soon relapsed into an obscurity
from which indeed it can hardly be said to have ever really emerged.
The originator of the Primrose League, as is well known, was Sir Henry
Drummond Wolff, who from the first received enthusiastic encouragement
from Lord Randolph Churchill, then a brilliant pillar of the
Conservative party, and full of political energy and intellectual
strength. An audacious conversationalist when in a good mood, few were
able to excel him in quickness and facility of expression, whilst he
would at times exhibit a gaiety which was very contagious. Nevertheless
Lord Randolph would never allow the tone of the conversation thus
engendered to degenerate into familiarity, and would be quick to resent
any approach to it. He always seemed to me as being a man who was
secretly conscious that he must make his mark quickly. Who can tell that
some foreboding of his premature end did not loom before him? Socially
his personality was a very striking one, and that personality he managed
to impress upon the electorate within a very short time of his entry
upon a political career. He realised, as it were, I think, that
advertisement (I am not speaking in a sense derogatory to his memory)
was necessary in a democratic age, and well advertised he was. The
newspapers were filled with his portraits and doings, whilst his
twirling moustache proved a never-ending subject of amusement to the
caricaturists. Theatres and music halls rang with references to
“Randy-Pandy,” who at one time was certainly the best known figure in
England. Then came the fall, brought on, I believe, by his conviction
that the Conservative Government were absolutely unable to do without
him. Bismarck it was, I think, who said, “no man is indispensable, every
man can be replaced,” or words to that effect, but Lord Randolph held a
different opinion.
Considering himself absolutely necessary to the very existence of the
Conservative party, the selection of Mr. Goschen to fill his place came
upon him as a complete surprise, for he had left that politician quite
out of the calculations which he had made.
Lord Randolph’s exclamation on learning that his resignation as
Chancellor of the Exchequer had been accepted is well known to
everybody, but the words “I forgot Goschen” were not the only ones which
were used by him.
Mr. Walter Long (who may now be called the chief hope of the
Conservative party) chanced to be present when Lord Randolph received
the first intimation of what was practically his political doom, and the
following is the true version of what occurred.
Mr. Long was that day in the smoking-room of the Carlton Club, sitting
with Lord Randolph, when the latter, who had just heard the news that
Lord Goschen (then, of course, Mr. Goschen, and not an M.P.) had
accepted the Chancellorship of the Exchequer, exclaimed: “All great men
make mistakes. Napoleon forgot Blücher, I forgot Goschen.”
I may add that it is with Mr. Long’s consent that I publish the true
version of a somewhat dramatic historical episode.
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[1] This is a line of exceedingly obscure meaning. Pollock in a note
translates it, “Ho, Satan! Ho, Satan! my Alpha or Chief!”