BOHEMIAN CONFESSIONS.
I arrive in London--A Rogue and Vagabond--Two Ladies--Letters of
Introduction--Bohemia--A Distinguished Member--My Double--A Rara
Avis--The Duke of Broadacres--The Savages--A Souvenir---Portraits
of the Past--J. L. Toole--Art and Artists--Sir Spencer Wells--John
Pettie--Milton's Garden.
I did not make my appearance in London with merely the proverbial
half-crown in my pocket, nor was I breathlessly expectant to find the
streets paved with gold. Thanks chiefly to my savings in Dublin, my
balance at my bankers' was sufficient to keep me for at least a year,
and as soon as the editors returned from their summer holidays I was
fortunate enough to procure commissions, which have been pouring in
pretty steadily ever since.
[Illustration: CARICATURE OF MYSELF, DRAWN WHEN I FIRST ARRIVED IN
LONDON.]
It was with a strange feeling that I found myself for the first time in
London, among four millions of people, with not one of whom I could
claim acquaintance, and I think it will not be out of place if I here
offer a hint which may possibly be of use to other young men who are
placed in similar circumstances. Upon first coming to the metropolis,
then, let them invariably act, in as much as it is possible, as if they
were Londoners old and seasoned. To stand gazing at St. Paul's with
mouth agape and eyes astare, or to enquire your way to the National
Gallery or Madame Tussaud's, is a sure means of finding yourself ere
long in the hands of the unscrupulous and designing. For my part, as I
took my first admiring peep at the masterpiece of Sir Christopher, I
whistled to myself with an air of nonchalance, and as I passed down
Fleet Street I made a point of nodding familiarly to the passers-by as
if I were already a frequent _habitue_ of the thoroughfare of letters.
Did I find myself accosted by any particularly ingenuous stranger asking
his way, I always promptly told him to go on as straight as ever he
could go--a piece of advice which, coming from one so young, I think was
highly proper and creditable, whatever may have proved its value in some
cases from a topographical point of view. On the other hand, the
following incident will serve to show the prudence of exercising due
caution in addressing strangers oneself.
Upon the evening of my arrival in the big city I had dined at the London
Restaurant, which was situate at the corner of Chancery Lane and Fleet
Street, in the premises now occupied by Messrs. Partridge and Cooper
(the name of this firm must not be taken as an indication of the nature
of my repast), and, fired with the curiosity of youth, I mounted the
knifeboard of an omnibus bound for Hyde Park. Arrived at the famous
statue of Wellington astride the impossible horse which has since ambled
off to the seclusion of Aldershot, and which at once recalled to my mind
the inimitable drawings of that infamous quadruped by John Leech, an
artist who had done as much to familiarise me with London scenes and
characters with his pencil as had Dickens with the pen, I happened to
ask a sturdy artisan who was sitting beside me whether this was Hyde
Park Corner.
"'Ide Park!" he muttered. "'Oo are you a-tryin' ter git at? 'Ide Park!
None o' yer 'anky panky with me, my covey!"
I forthwith slipped off that 'bus, not a little nettled that the first
person to whom I had spoken in London should have taken me for a rogue
and a vagabond.
I had been fortunate enough to secure quarters which had been
recommended to me in a comfortable boarding-house in one of the
old-fashioned Inns in Holborn--Thavies' Inn--in which, I was informed,
whether accurately or not I do not pretend to know, the Knight Templars
of old had once resided. There were no Knight Templars there when I
arrived, but in their stead I found some highly-proper and
non-belligerent clerics with their wives and families, and other
visitors from the country, who seemed very satisfied with the
comfortable provision that was made for them. But, best of all, I found
a hostess who soon became one of the kindest and best of friends I ever
had, and although I at once engaged a studio in the neighbouring
artistic quarter of Newman Street, I continued for some time to live in
Thavies' Inn in the enjoyment of the pleasant society and many
advantages of her pleasant home.
Not the least of these to me was the perfect gallery of characters who
were continually coming and going, and the many and various studies I
made of the different visitors to that boarding-house long supplied me
with ample material for my sketch-book.
I should be ungallant indeed were I to omit to add that not only was it
a lady who first made me feel at home amid the bustle and turmoil of
Modern Babylon, but that it was also a lady who primarily welcomed me as
a contributor to the Press and gave me my first work in London.
Curiously enough, both of these ladies possessed points of resemblance,
not only in person, but in manner and goodness of heart. It was Miss
Florence Marryat, then editress of _London Society_, who gave me my
first commission, and I am more anxious to record the fact because I am
aware that many a youthful journalist besides myself owed his first
introduction to the public to the sympathy and enterprise of this
accomplished lady. Perhaps I have less to grumble at personally than
most others concerning the treatment which, as a young man, I
experienced at the hands of editors; but I must say that the majority of
such potentates with whom I then came in contact lamentably lacked that
readiness to welcome new-comers which Miss Florence Marryat notably, and
possibly too readily, evinced. Here I may offer a hint to
beginners--that on coming to London letters of introduction are of
little or no value. One such letter I possessed, and it led me into
more trouble, and was the means of my losing more time, than I should
ever have received recompense for, even if it had obtained me the work
which it was intended to bring me.
In the first place, these letters often get into the hands of others
than the particular individuals to whom they are addressed. In my case
the letter had been inadvertently directed to the literary editor
instead of to the art editor of one of the largest publishing firms, and
that gentleman--I refer to the literary editor--was good enough to
supply me with a quantity of work. I executed the commission, but, lo
and behold! when I sent the work in, the monster Red Tape intervened in
the person of the art editor, who became scarlet with rage because he
had not been invoked instead of his colleague, and promptly repudiated
the entire contract. Thereupon the literary editor wrote to me saying
that unless I withdrew my contributions he would be personally out of
pocket; and it may not be uninteresting to record that some day, when I
strip this amongst my other mummies, it will be found that he
subsequently became a wearer of lawn sleeves. Thus, whilst the two
editors quarrelled between themselves, I was left out in the cold, and
became a considerable loser over the transaction.
_A propos_ of letters of introduction, I am reminded of a brother
artist, who, although a caricaturist, was entirely devoid of guile, and,
in addition, was as absent-minded as the popularly-accepted type of
ardent scientist or professor of ultra-abstruse subject. Well, this
curious species of satirist was setting forth on travels in foreign
climes, and in order to lighten in some measure the vicissitudes
inseparable from peripatetic wandering, he was provided with a letter of
introduction to a certain British consul. The writer of this letter
enclosed it in one to my friend, in which he said that he would find the
consul a most arrant snob, and a bumptious, arrogant humbug as well--in
fact, a cad to the backbone; but that he (my friend) was not to mind
this, for, as he could claim acquaintanceship with several dukes and
duchesses, all he had to do was to trot out their names for the
edification of the consul, who would then render him every attention,
and thus compensate him to some extent for having to come into contact
with such an insufferable vulgarian. On the return of the guileless
satirist to England the writer of the letter of introduction inquired
how he had fared with the consul, and great was his surprise to hear him
drawl out, in his habitual lethargic manner:
"Well, my dear fellow, he did not receive me very warmly, and he did not
ask me to dinner. In fact, he struck me as being rather cool."
"Well, you do surprise me!" rejoined his friend. "He's a horrible cad,
as I told you in my letter, but he's awfully hospitable, and I really
can't understand what you tell me. You gave him my letter of
introduction?"
"Well, I thought so," said my friend; "but, do you know, on my journey
home I discovered it in my pocket-book, so I must have handed him
instead your note to me about him!"
Of course, in the remarks which I have been making I have not been
alluding to letters of merely social introduction, which are of an
entirely different nature. Such letters are generally handed to the
individual to whom they are addressed at more propitious moments, when
he is not either hard at work, as the case may be, in his editorial
chair, or overburdened with anxiety as to the fluctuations of the Bank
rate.
Be that as it may, I cannot refrain from citing here the case of another
brother artist, who was particular in the extreme as regarded the
neatness of his apparel and his personal appearance in general; in fact,
he laboured, rightly or wrongly, under the impression that the manner in
which a letter of introduction is received and acted upon by the person
to whom it is addressed depends upon the raiment and _tout ensemble_ of
the bearer.
Well, it so happened that he once had a letter of introduction to a man
he particularly wished to know, but, of all places in the world, fate
had designed that he should have no choice but to deliver it in the
boring of the Channel Tunnel, where the dripping roof rendered it
necessary for all visitors to be encased from head to foot in the vilest
and most unbecoming tarpaulin overalls. It was in these circumstances,
then, that the introduction took place, and as nothing came of it, my
friend will now go to his grave in the firm belief that fine feathers
make fine birds in the eyes of all those who receive letters of
introduction.
The first Bohemian Club I joined was located over Gaze's Tourist Offices
in the Strand. Nearly my first engagement in London was for a still
flourishing sixpenny weekly. Started in Wellington Street, close by, the
editorial offices were there certainly, but editor, proprietors, and
others were not. They were only to be found in "the Club," so through
necessity I became a member. The flowing bowl of that iniquitous
concoction, punch, was brewed for the staff early in the afternoon and
kept flowing till early the next morning. The "Club" never closed day or
night till the broker's man took possession and closed it for good. I,
being young and unknown, was surprised to find myself an object of
attraction whenever I was in the Club. There was something strange about
me, something mysterious. This was so marked that my brief visits to
find my editor were few and far between. I discovered afterwards that
the curiosity and attention paid me had nothing to do with my work, or
my personal appearance, or my natural shyness or youth. It was aroused
by the fact that I was known as "the member who had paid his
subscription!"
[Illustration: AGE 20. [_From a photo. by W. & D. Downey._]]
This fact being noised abroad. I found it an easy matter to get elected
to another and a better Bohemian Club, having beautiful premises on the
Adelphi Terrace--a Club which has since gone through many vicissitudes,
but I think still exists in a small way. At the time I mention it was
much what the Savage Club is now; in fact, was located in the same
Terrace. Its smoking concerts, too, were its great attractions, and on
one of these evenings I played a part worth reciting, if only to
illustrate how difficult it is for some minds to understand a joke.
[Illustration: A SUCCESSFUL "MAKE-UP."]
A well-known literary man called to see me. On a table in my studio lay
a "make-up" box--used by actors preparing their faces for the
footlights--a bald head with fringe of light hair, large fair moustache,
wig paste, a suit of clothes too large for me, and other trifles. My
visitor's curiosity was aroused. Taking up my "properties," he asked me
what they were for. I explained to him a huge joke had been arranged as
a surprise at the Club smoking concert to take place that very evening,
in which I was to play a part with a well-known and highly-popular
member--the funny man of the Club, and an eccentric-looking one to boot.
He had conceived the idea to make me up as a double of himself. We were
the same height, but otherwise we in no way resembled each other. He was
stout, I was thin; he prematurely bald, I enjoyed a superabundance of
auburn locks; but he had very marked characteristics, and wore very
remarkable clothes. He was also very clever at "making-up." The idea was
to test his talent in this direction, and deceive the whole of our
friends. It was arranged that he was to leave the piano after singing
half his song, and I--up to that moment concealed--was to come forward
and continue it. This I explained to my visitor, who expressed his
belief that the deception was impossible. He promised to keep the
secret, and that evening was early in the room and seated close to the
piano. My "double"--fortunately for me, an amateur--sang the first
verses of one of his well-known songs, but in the middle of it
complained of the heat of the room (one of those large rooms on the
first floor in Adelphi Terrace, famous for the Angelica Kaufmann
paintings on the ceiling), and opening the French window close to the
piano he went out on to the balcony. There I was, having walked along
the balcony from the next room. So successful was my "make-up" that in
passing through the supper-room to get on to the balcony some of the
members spoke to me under the impression I was the other member! The
hall-porter had handed me a letter intended for my "double." Of course I
imitated his walk, his mannerisms at the piano, and his voice, but I
made a poor attempt to sing. This was the joke. "What was the matter?"
"Never sang like that before," "Evidently thinks it is funny to be
completely out of tune," "Hullo, what is this?" as _my_ "double" walked
through the crowded room just as I finished, and shook hands with me!
I would really have sung the song better, but my eye happened to catch
the puzzled stare of my friend the literary visitor in the front row. He
looked angry and annoyed, and before my "double" came up to me, my
friend, scowling at me, said, "Sir, I think it is infernal bad taste on
your part to imitate my friend Harry Furniss!"
Who is it that says we English have no sense of humour? My "double" in
the preceding tale was my brother-in-law, who as a boy was the companion
of Mr. George Grossmith, and in fact once appeared as an amateur at
German Reed's, the old Gallery of Illustration, in a piece, with "Gee
Gee" as his double, entitled "Too much Alike."
He was also an inveterate and clever _raconteur_, and of course
occasionally made a slip, as for instance, on a railway journey to
Brighton once, when he found himself alone with a stranger. The stranger
in conversation happened to ask my relative casually if he were fond of
travelling. "Travelling? I should rather think so" he replied airily,
and imagining he was impressing someone who was "something in the City,"
he continued, "Yes, sir, I'm a pretty experienced traveller. Been mostly
round the world and all that kind of thing, you know, and had my share
of adventures, I can tell you!" After a bit he gained more confidence,
and launched into details, giving the stranger the benefit of his
experience. "Why, sir, you read in books that hunters of big game, such
as tigers, watch their eyes. Not a bit of it. What you have got to do
is to watch the _tail_, and that's the thing. It mesmerises the animal,
so to speak, and you have him at your mercy," and so forth, and so
forth. On arriving at the hotel he found his travelling companion had
just signed his name in the visitors' book. It was Richard Burton! My
brother-in-law hastened to apologise to Sir Richard for his absurd
tales. He had no idea, of course, to whom he was retailing his stiff
yarns. Burton laughed. "My dear sir, not a word, please. I was more
entertained than I can tell you. You really might have travelled--you
lie so well!"
[Illustration: TWO TRAVELLERS.]
One of the most eccentric men I ever met, and certainly one of the most
successful journalists--a _rara avis_, for he made a fortune in Fleet
Street, and retired to live in a castle in the country--was a man whose
name, although a very singular one, remains absolutely unknown even to
members of the Fourth Estate. He was a clever, hard-working journalist;
every line he wrote--and he was always writing--was printed and
well-paid for, but he never signed an article, whilst others,
journalists, specialists, poets, essayists--logrollers of high
degree--see their name often enough, are "celebrities," "men of the
time," feted and written about, but eventually retire on the Civil List.
Eccentricity is the breath of their nostrils, their very existence
depends upon it, publicity is essential. My friend's eccentricity was
for his own pleasure. He lived in a frugal--some might think in a
miserly way--in two rooms in one of the Inns of Court. Perhaps I shall
be more correct if I say he _existed_ in one. A loaf of bread and half a
pint of milk was his daily fare. The room he slept in he worked in. The
other was empty, save for bundles of dusty old newspapers containing
articles from his ever active brain. "I keep this room," said he, "for
times when I am over-wrought. Then I shut myself up in it, and _roar_!
When by this process I have blown away my mental cobwebs, my brain
regains its pristine energy, and I go back to my study calm and
collected, having done no one any harm, and myself a lot of good." I
have dined at his Club with him in the most luxurious fashion, quite
regardless of expense. He was a capital host, but, like the magazines he
wrote for, he only appeared replete once a month. His Press work he
looked upon as mere bread and milk. His work was excellent, journalism
which editors term "safe," neither too brilliant nor too dull, certainly
having no trace whatever of eccentricity.
I may here offer an opinion, and make a suggestion to young journalists,
and that is--safe, steady, dull mediocrity is what pays in the long run;
to attempt to be brilliant when not a genius is fatal. To have the
genius, brilliancy, pluck, and success means tremendous prosperity and
favour for a time, but the editors and the public tire of your
cleverness. You are too much in evidence. It is safer from a mere
business standpoint to be the steady, stupid tortoise than the brilliant
hare. The man or woman who writes a carefully thought-out essay is
flattered, and quoted, and talked about: for that article the writer may
possibly receive as many sovereigns as the writer of a newspaper article
receives shillings; but the shillings come every day, and the sovereigns
once a month. It is wiser in the long run to be satisfied with a loaf
and milk once a day than with a dinner at a Club every four weeks.
If in the old days the Bohemian scribbler was not in Society, he could
at least imagine himself there. There was nothing to prevent his
speaking of a member of the aristocracy as "one of us" with far less
embarrassment and with as much truth as he could nowadays when he _is_
invited--but still as the oil that never will mix with water. Except in
imagination--an imagination such as I recollect a well-known figure in
literary Bohemia had when I knew it well, a writer of stories for the
popular papers: Society stories, in which a Duke ran away with a
governess, or a Duchess eloped with an artist, each weekly instalment
winding up with a sensational event, so as to carry forward the interest
of the reader. This writer--quite excellent in his way--a thorough
Bohemian, knowing nothing about the Society he wrote about, had the
power of making himself, and sometimes fresh acquaintances, believe that
he played in real life a part in the story he was writing. He did not
refer to the experiences as related by him as incidents in his story,
but as actual events of the day.
[Illustration: "THE DUKE OF BROADACRES."]
"Brandy and soda? Thanks. My dear fellow, I feel a perfect wreck, shaken
to pieces. I had an experience to-day I shall never forget. I have just
arrived from Devonshire; ran down by a night train to look at a hunter
Lord Briarrose wanted to sell me. Bob--that is Briarrose--and I
travelled together. He is going to be married, you know; heiress; great
beauty--neighbour--rolling in wealth. I stopped at the Castle last
night, and before Bob was up I was on the thoroughbred and well over the
country, returning about eleven along the top of the cliffs. To my
horror, I saw a carriage and pair charging down a road which at one time
continued a long distance skirting the cliffs. Cliffs had fallen; road
cut off; unprotected; drop down cliff eight hundred feet on to pointed
rocks and deep sea. There was nothing between the runaway horses and the
cliff, except a storm-broken solitary tree with one branch curved over
the road. When the horses bolted, the groom fell off. There was only a
lady in the carriage, powerless to stop the frightened steeds dashing on
to death. As she approached I was electrified. Something told me she was
Bob's _fiancee_. A moment and I was charging the hunter under that tree.
Jumping up out of the saddle, I clasped the solitary branch with both
hands, and turning as an acrobat would on a trapeze, I hung by my legs,
hands downwards, calling to the lady to clasp them. The fiery steeds and
the oscillating carriage dashed under me--our hands met. With a
superhuman effort I raised the fainting fairy form out of the vehicle as
it passed like a whirlwind. The next moment horses and carriage were
being dashed to pieces on the rocks below. Under our united weight the
branch of the tree broke, and we fell unhurt on the moss-covered path.
When the eyes of the fair lady opened to gaze upon her deliverer, I
started as if shot. She sprang to her feet. 'Reginald!' she cried. 'Is
it you?'
"She was my first love. We had not seen each other for years! Thanks.
I'll have some more brandy. Hot this time, with some sugar, please."
The following week _The London Library_ appeared. I bought it, and read
"The Duke's Oak," all about Lord Briarrose and Lady Betty Buttercup and
the runaway horses. The tree with the one branch gave the title to the
story, and the Dashing Duke of Broadacres was the aristocratic
acrobat--my friend the author!
[Illustration: FROM A SKETCH BY HERBERT JOHNSON.]
The Savage Club is a remnant of Bohemian London. It was started at a
period when art, literature, and the drama were at their lowest ebb--in
the "good old days" when artists wore seedy velveteen coats, smoked
clays, and generally had their works of art exhibited in pawnbrokers'
windows; when journalists were paid at the same rate and received the
same treatment as office-boys; and when actors commanded as many
shillings a week as they do pounds at present. This typical trio now
exists only in the imagination of the lady novelist. When first the
little band of Savages met they smoked their calumets over a
public-house in the vicinity of Drury Lane, in a room with a sanded
floor; a chop and a pint of ale was their fare, and good-fellowship
atoned for lack of funds. The Brothers Brough, Andrew Halliday, Tom
Robertson, and other clever men were the original Savages, and the
latter in one of his charming pieces made capital out of an incident at
the Club. One member asks another for a few shillings. "Very sorry, old
chap, I haven't got it, but I'll ask Smith." Smith replies, "Not a cent
myself, but I'll ask Brown." Brown asks Robinson, and so on until a
Croesus is found with five shillings in his pocket, which he is only
too willing to lend. But this true Bohemianism is as dead as Queen Anne,
and the Savages now live merely on the traditions of the past. His
Majesty the King, when Prince of Wales, was a member of the Club, and an
Earl takes the chair and entertains my Lord Mayor with his flunkeys and
all. The Club is now as much advertised as the Imperial Institute, but
the true old flavour is no more. No doubt some excellent men and good
fellows are still in the Savage wigwam. Some Bohemians--a sprinkling of
those Micawbers, "waiting for something to turn up"--keep up its
reputation, but in reality it is only Savage now in name.
[Illustration: THE EARL OF DUNRAVEN AS A SAVAGE.]
I was not thirty when I ceased to be a member. I had been on the
committee, and had taken an active part in matters concerning it, until
it changed its character and lost its true Bohemian individuality, and
being a member of the Garrick Club, I found matured in it the element
the Savage endeavoured at that time to emulate. Although I am still in
my forties, few of those with whom I smoked the calumet of peace round
the camp fire at a great pow-wow in the wigwam of the excellent Savages,
alas! remain.
The old Grecian Theatre in the City Road was the nursery of many members
of the theatrical profession, and authors too. Two well-known members
of the Savage Club, Merritt and Pettitt, were writers of the common
stuff necessary for the melodramas of the kind connected with their
names. Merritt would have made an equal fortune if exhibited as the
original fat boy in "Pickwick," or as a prize baby at a show. I suppose
my readers are aware that it is not necessary to be a baby in order to
be exhibited as one, for I recollect, in my Bohemian days, going down to
Woolwich Gardens when the famous William Holland was manager of them,
and accidentally strolling into a tent outside of which was a placard,
"The Largest Baby in the World! 6d." I was not expected,--and the "Baby"
was walking about in his baby-clothes, with little pink bows on his
shoulders, smoking a horrible black clay pipe. He was the dwarf
policeman in Holland's pantomime in the winter-time!
[Illustration: "ANOTHER GAP IN OUR RANKS."]
Merritt would have made a capital prize baby. He was tall, very stout,
and possessed of a perfectly hairless, baby's face and a squeaky little
voice. I shall never forget a prize remark this transpontine author made
in the Savage Club, when an editor rushed in and said, "Have you heard
the news? Carlyle is dead!" Merritt rose, and putting his hand on his
chest, squeaked out, "Another gap in our ranks!"
[Illustration: "JOPE."]
A peculiar figure in Bohemia in those old days was "J." Pope, known as
"Jope," brother of the late celebrated K.C. Jo was nearly as large as
his brother, the well-known legal luminary, and Paul Merritt rolled into
one, and wore his black wide-awake on the back of his pleasing,
intelligent head. I saw him one sultry autumn evening leaning against a
lamp-post in Chancery Lane to take breath.
"Hullo, Pope, where are you going?"
"My dear boy, let me lean on you a minute. I'm going up to the
Birkbeck--to lecture--to lecture on 'Air, and How We Breathe!'"
As a contrast to the popular Doctor was a wit more popularly known, H. J.
Byron--as thin as the proverbial lamp-post. Of course the stories about
Byron would fill a volume, but there is one that is always worth
repeating, and that is his reply to a vulgar and obtrusive stranger who
met him at Plymouth, and said to him, "Mr. Byron, I've 'ad a walk _h_all
round the 'Oe."
"Yes, old chap, and the next time you have a walk I advise you to walk
all round the H."
[Illustration: H. J. BYRON.]
In those merry gatherings I recall the familiar features of true
Bohemians, when Bohemianism was at its best--not the ornamental names of
those one finds mentioned in all reports of the famous gatherings, but
of the members who really used and made the Club. Few of the outside
public recollect, for instance, the name of Arthur Mathieson, who wrote
and sang that pathetic ballad, "The Little Hero"; who also was an actor
and writer of ability,--in fact, he was what is fatal to men of his
class--a veritable Crichton. Being in appearance not unlike Sir Henry
Irving, he was engaged by our leading actor to play his double in "The
Corsican Brothers," and made up so like his chief that no one could
possibly tell the difference between the two. One evening during the run
of the piece an old Irishwoman who was duster of the theatre, and with
whom the genial double of Sir Henry often had a friendly word,
approached as she thought the familiar M., and in a rather frivolous
mood innocently tickled the actor under the chin with her dusting-broom.
"My good woman, what do you mean?"
The poor Irishwoman dropped on her knees, clasped her hands and said,
"The Saints protect me! it's the Masther himself--I'm kilt entoirely."
The "Masther," however, probably enjoyed the humour of it. Sir Henry,
like his dear old friend Mr. J. L. Toole, has found a relief in
occasional harmless fun. Toole, however, was irrepressible.
[Illustration: A PRESENTATION.]
I was one day walking with him in Leeds (when he was appearing in the
evening on the stage, and I on the platform). A street hawker proffered
the comedian a metal pencil-case for the sum of a halfpenny. Toole made
this valuable purchase. As soon as I left the platform that night, I
found a note for me, inviting me to the theatre directly after the
performance. Toole came back on to the stage, and making me an elaborate
and complimentary speech, referring to me as "a brother artist in
another sphere," etc., etc., presented me with the pencil! I made an
appropriate reply, and we went to supper.
The following paragraph from the pen of Mr. Toole appeared in the Press
the next day in London as well as the provinces:
"Brother artists, even when working in different grooves, do not lack
appreciation of each other's work. After Mr. Harry Furniss's lecture in
Leeds the other night, he and Mr. Toole foregathered; and the popular
and genial actor presented the 'comedian of the pencil' with a very neat
and handsome pencil-case, just adapted for the jotting down, wherever
duty takes him, of those graphic sketches with which the caricaturist
amuses us week by week."
I must confess I am sometimes guilty of mild practical jokes, but I am
always careful to select reciprocative and kindred spirits--with such a
spirit of practical joking as J. L. Toole, for instance. He and I have
had many a joke at each other's expense. It so happened that when he was
producing the great success, "The House Boat," he wintered at Hastings,
where I had a house for the season, and we saw a great deal of each
other. Toole was always what is called a bad study--that is, it was with
great difficulty and pain he learnt his parts. On this occasion the time
was drawing nearer and nearer for the production; he was getting more
and more nervous about his new part, and I received a visit from his
friend the late Edmund Routledge, asking me to protect "Johnny" from his
friends--in other words, to keep his whereabouts dark, as he had to
study. Toole had had one or two little practical jokes with me, which I
owed him for, so having to rush up to town, I had the following letter
written to him:
"DEAR MR. TOOLE,--I suppose you recollect your old friends in Smoketown
when you performed one night at our Hall and did us the honour of
stopping at our house over Sunday. You then kindly asked us all to stop
with you when we went to London--a promise we have treasured ever since.
We called at Maida Vale yesterday, but finding you were at Hastings I
write now to say that we are on our way. Besides myself I am bringing
dear Aunt Jane you will remember--now unfortunately a confirmed
invalid--and my boy Tom who has got a bad leg, and Uncle William and his
three daughters, and my dear Sue, who, I am sorry to say, is still
suffering, but I think a week at Hastings will do us all a world of
good--particularly to have you to amuse us all the time.
"Yours very truly,"
And a signature was attached which I could not myself read.
The next day in London a hansom pulled up close to where I was walking,
and a friend of Toole's jumped out, and, seizing my hand, he said, "I
say, Furniss, you travel about a lot, lecturing and all that kind of
thing--do you know Smoketown?"
[Illustration: SAVAGE CLUB.
MY DESIGN FOR THE MENU 25TH ANNIVERSARY DINNER.
_The Original Drawing was by request presented to His Royal Highness._]
"Smoketown!" I said, "Smoketown!" (Truth to tell, at the moment I had
quite forgotten all about my letter to Toole; then it dawned upon me.)
"Oh, yes--well," I said; "I had one night there, and some frightful
friends of Toole's bored my life out. He had invited them, I believe, to
stop with him in London, and they--"
"Just the people I want. What's their name?"
"I forget that entirely."
"Can you read this?" he said, producing my letter.
"No," I said; "I can't read that signature."
"Do you know where they are likely to put up in town?"
"Not the slightest idea."
"I've tried every hotel in London."
"Temperance?" I asked.
"No, not one. Happy thought!--of course that is where they'll be."
"Try them all," I said, as I waved my hand. And off the cab rushed to
visit the various temperance hotels in London.
The next day I returned to Hastings, and went straight to Mr. Toole's
hotel. Getting the hall porter into my confidence, he sent up a message
to Mr. Toole that a gentleman with a large family had arrived to see
him; and the porter and I made the noise of ten up the stairs, and
eventually the gentleman and family were announced at Toole's door. I
shall never forget poor Toole, standing in an attitude so familiar to
the British public, with his eye-glass in his hand and his eyes cast on
the ground--he was afraid to raise them. As soon as he did, however, his
other hand caught the first book that was handy, and it was flung at my
head.
Bohemianism, when I arrived in London, was emigrating from the tavern of
sanded floors and clay pipes into Clubland. Artists, authors, actors,
and journalists were starting clubs of their own, simply to continue the
same pot-house life without restraint; in place of turning the
public-house into a club, they turned the club into a public-house. If
journalists in Grub Street were at their worst in those days, artists
were at their best. The great boom in trade which followed the
Franco-German War produced a wave of extraordinary prosperity, which
landed many a tramp struggling in troubled waters safely on the beach of
fortune. Working men in the North were drinking champagne; some of them
rose to be masters and millionaires. They tired of drinking champagne,
they could not play the pianos they had bought, or enjoy the mansions
they had built; but they could rival each other in covering their walls
with pictures, so the poorest "pot-boiler" found a ready sale. The most
indifferent daubs were sold as quickly as they could be framed. Artists
then built their mansions, drank champagne, and played on their grand
pianos. When I, still in my teens, first met these good fellows, I might
have been tempted, seeing what wretched work satisfied the
picture-dealer, to abandon black and white for colour; but already the
boom was over. Artists, like their patrons, had found out their mistake.
They had either to let or sell their costly houses, and have, with few
exceptions, little to show now for those wonderful days of prosperity in
the early seventies--which they still talk over in their clubs in
Bohemia.
[Illustration]
The few exceptions are the survival of the fittest. But the best of
artists have never seen such a boom in art as that I saw in my early
days in London. It cannot be denied that, from a fashionable point of
view, picture shows are going down. Artists have had to stand on one
side as popular Society favourites: the actors have taken their place.
One has only to visit the studios on "Show Sundays" to see what a
falling off there is. "Show Sunday" was, some years ago, one of the
events of the year. From Kensington to St. John's Wood, and up to
Hampstead, the studios of the mighty attracted hosts of fashionable
people to these annual gatherings.
A familiar figure at these for many years was the genial Sir Spencer
Wells, the well-known surgeon. He lived monarch of all he surveyed at
Golder's Hill, Hampstead, and many a morning I met him when riding, and
we jogged into town together. He was a capital _raconteur_, a happy wit,
and told one incident I always recall to mind as I pass a house on the
top of Fitzjohn's Avenue, where a few years ago lived, painted and
"received" that Wilson Barrett of the brush, Edwin Long, R.A., a
hard-working, self-made artist who amassed a fortune by successfully
gauging the taste of the large middle-class English public in mixing
religion with voluptuous melodrama. On the annual "Show Sunday" no
studio was more popular than Long's. His subjects perhaps had something
to do with it. They were in keeping with the Sabbath. The work too was
as smooth and as highly finished as the most orthodox sermon. _Ars longa
est._ Yes, said some cynic, but art is not Long. But anyway Long's art
was commercially successful, and he was what is known as "a good
business man."
[Illustration]
As haberdashers in the days of crude advertising used to place men in
costume at the shop door--a fireman when they were selling off a damaged
salvage stock, or a sailor or, if a _very_ enterprising tradesman, a
diver, helmet and all, when selling off goods damaged from a wreck--so
did this Academician, when exhibiting Biblical subjects on "Show
Sunday," engage a Nubian model to stand at the door of his shop. This
man had also to announce the names of the guests, and when the small,
spectacled, simple man with the large smile gave his name, Sir Spencer
Wells, the model pulled himself up to his full height and in his best
English proudly and loudly announced to the crowd in the studio--
"The Prince of Wales!"
The effect was magical: all fell in line, ladies curtseyed, men bowed,
when the Prince of Hampstead Heath entered. The artist looked as black
as his model, and the visitors laughed.
At the other end of Fitzjohn's Avenue once lived that ever popular
Academician, the late Mr. John Pettie. Mr. Pettie was a vigorous
draughtsman and a beautiful colourist, and many of his portraits are
very fine. He seemed to revel in painting a red coat--an object to many
painters as maddening as it is to the infuriated bull. On one "Show
Sunday" before the sending-in day of the Royal Academy, at which he
exhibited, I recollect admiring a portrait of Mr. Lamb, the celebrated
golfer, in his red coat, when the original of the portrait came into the
studio. Not feeling very well, Mr. Pettie had to avoid the crowd of his
admirers seeing him. There were a few exceptions, of which I was one. I
had just left him when I saw Mr. Lamb before his picture. In this
portrait the "bulger" golf club--which Mr. Lamb, I believe, invented, to
the delight of the golfing world--is introduced. I ran back to Mr.
Pettie and told him that there was a stupid man in the studio wanting to
know why artists always draw golf clubs wrongly; that as a Scotchman he
must protest against such a club, which was out of shape, like a club
foot. "Tell him, mon, it's a bulger--Lamb's invention!" I returned. "He
wants to know who Mr. Lamb is, and what is a bulger?--perhaps it's a new
kind of hunting-crop and not a golf club at all?" In rushed Mr. Pettie,
like an enraged lion, to slay the ignorant visitor, but in reality to
shake hands with Mr. Lamb and explain my childish joke.
Leaving Pettie, I called at a studio near Hampstead occupied by a very
clever Irish artist, who was very much depressed when I entered. Gazing
in bewilderment at his picture for the Academy, representing Milton with
his daughters in his garden at Chalfont St. Giles, he said--
"Furniss, I'm in an awful state entoirely over this picture. One of
those critic fellows has been in here, and he tells me this picture
won't do at all at all. I've painted in Milton's garden as I've seen it,
but the critic tells me that these are all modern flowers and weren't
known in the country in the poet's time. Now, what on earth am Oi to
do?"
"Oh, don't bother about those critics," I said. "They know nothing.
Milton was blind, don't you know, so how could he tell whether the
flowers were correct or not?"
"Begorrah, Furniss, you're right. Oi never thought of that. It's just
like those ignorant critic chaps to upset a fellow in this way."