CHAPTER I

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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 _pere 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. Phene 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 Dore.--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 Abbe 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 archaeology; 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 "archaeological 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.