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.
Before I proceed any further with the reminiscences of my school-days
and after, I should like to recall a few memories of the men and women
who visited the studios of my parents. Artists of course predominated,
and amongst the latter were men who distinguished themselves in the
world. Many of them, through no fault of their genius, have lost some
of their shining reputation. Others, who were merely popular painters
of the hour, are forgotten. Again, a few who were somewhat obscure in
their lifetime, have gained a posthumous reputation, and still others
have to await recognition in the future.
It is an age of reactions. Just as the pre-Raphaelite movement
"revolted" against the academic art preceding it, so the photographic
idealism of pre-Raphaelitism was superseded by a reaction in art
resulting and undoubtedly profiting by its really fine example. I will
not go as far as to say Whistler gained by the pre-Raphaelites; but
his art assuredly became all the more conspicuous by contrast, and
perhaps his school is indirectly responsible for the latest reaction
in favour of raw colour. In the "back to the land" style of painting
which we find in favour with a few modern artists, abnormal looking
women are painted with surprising results, and these artists seem to
delight in a sort of blatant realism that becomes nauseous. With
passionate brutality they present their subjects to us, and their
admirers call the result "life." Let us have truth by all means, and
let us not, on the other hand, lapse into the merely pretty; but let
the truth we portray be imaginative truth allied to beauty.
That reminds me of the "plum-box" artist, who used to go round to
country houses when I was a boy, with a completed painted picture of
what was then considered the ideal and fashionable face, which
consisted mainly of big eyes, veiled by sweeping lashes, a perfect
complexion, a rosebud mouth, and glossy curls. The artist (one feels
more inclined to call him the "tradesman") then superimposed the
features of his sitter upon this fancy background, and the result
invariably gave great pleasure and satisfaction.
Nowadays it has become the fashion or the pose of the moment to decry
the works of the Victorians as old-fashioned, and in many cases with
undoubtedly good reason; but unfortunately the best work is often
included in the same category. In the rage for modernity, culminating
in "post-impressionism," "futurism," and other "isms," in art,
literature, the stage, and, I believe, costume, the thorough and
highly conscientious work of some of our greatest men has become
obscured; they are like the classic which nobody reads, and they
stand unchallenged, but unnoticed except by the very few. Perhaps
their genius will survive to-day's reactionary rush into what is
sometimes described as individualism, and the worship of personality
before beauty, which, if carried to excess as it is to-day, seems to
verge into mere charlatanism. We are a little too near the great ones
to see them clearly, and perhaps they can only be judged by their
peers. Sometimes I see the casual onlooker glance at, sum up, and
condemn, pictures which I know represent the unfaltering patience of a
lifetime, combined with a passionate idealism of motive. The abundance
of art schools, the enormous reduction in prices, the overwhelming
commercialism which sets its heel upon the true artist, to crush him
out of existence unless he compromises with art, all combine to render
the art and artist in general widely different from the men of my
early days. True, the Victorian came at a great moment, and now more
than ever, if I may misquote: "art is good ... with an inheritance."
Among the innumerable artists I knew during my later school-days,
Maclise stands out a massive figure and a strong personality. He
reminded me in a certain grand way of a great bull; his chin was
especially bovine; it was not exactly a dewlap or a double chin, but a
heavy gradation of flesh going down into his collar. In the National
Portrait Gallery there is a portrait by my father of Maclise as a
young man.
His work is to me typical of the man: he was a magnificent
draughtsman, a cartoonist of fine ideas. In the National Collection at
Kensington there are some beautiful pencil drawings by him of various
celebrities of the day, and they are perfect in line and study of
character. In the Royal Gallery of the House of Lords may be seen his
"Battle of Waterloo" and "Death of Nelson," which are extremely
masterly in drawing and composition. But in my opinion he lost his
charm of line when he attempted paint, for his colouring is
unsympathetic and the effect is hard. His crudity of colour is not so
noticeable, however, in the frescoes as in his oil-paintings.
Sir Edwin Landseer was an artist who, like Maclise, received large
sums for his pictures. He was considered one of the greatest painters
of the day, but I am afraid it is no longer the fashion to admire him,
although his best works must always hold the position they have
deservedly won. I wonder how many people remember that the lions in
Trafalgar Square were designed by our great animal painter.
"The Sleeping Bloodhound" stands out amongst Landseer's pictures as a
masterpiece. It was painted in two hours from the dead body of a
favourite hound.
It is curious that in many instances, especially of early work, his
colour was very rich, and that in his later work his feeling for
colour seems to have weakened.
Tom Landseer no doubt contributed largely to his brother's reputation
by his masterly fine engravings of Sir Edwin's pictures, which were
sometimes unsatisfactory in colour and gained in black and white.
Herbert, whose name was prominent through his fresco of "Moses
breaking the Tablets," was quite a character in those days. I remember
he always spoke with what appeared to be a strong French accent,
although it has been said he had never been abroad in his life. The
story went that, going to Boulogne he stepped from the boat ...
slipped ... and broke his English. Later in life he worked himself
"out," and his Academy pictures of religious subjects became very
grotesque and quite a laughing-stock. I am afraid this type of work
needs a watchful sense of humour and a powerful talent to preserve its
gravity.
Mulready was an artist whose character showed in strong contrast to
that of Herbert. He was the dearest of old men; I can see him now with
his superb old head, benevolent and yet strong. He painted that
indisputably fine picture, "Choosing the Wedding Gown," now in the
National Collection at the Kensington Museum. Although the subject
will not be viewed with sympathetic interest by many of the present
generation, its worth is undoubted. His work is completely out of
date, but I remember one curious fact in connection with his crayon
drawings, which hung upon the walls of the Academy Schools; when
Leighton visited there, he had these drawings covered over, because
they were extremely antagonistic to his own teaching.
David Roberts, who was then considered the greatest painter of
interiors, began life as a scene painter, as did Stanfield who was his
contemporary and a very powerful sea painter. Both men were Royal
Academicians, as was Edward Cooke, an artist of less power than
Stanfield, but of not much less distinction, imbued with the spirit of
the old Dutch painters of sea and ships. He lived to a ripe old age
with his two sisters, but perhaps the youngest in appearance and
manner of the four was his wonderful old mother, who died when she was
close upon a hundred.
Then there were Burgess and Long who painted Spanish subjects. Long
was best known, however, by his picture of the "Babylonian Marriage
Mart," and Burgess as a young man sprang into fame with his picture
called "Bravo Toro." Like almost every other artist, Long took to
portrait painting, and his pictures became a great financial success;
but his portraits were not for the most part successful from an
artist's point of view.
Most of the well-known artists of the day visited my parents, and
amongst them I remember Sydney Cooper, David Roberts, C. R. Leslie,
Peter Graham, Stanfield, Edward Cooke, Frith, Millais, etc., etc.
Stephens, the art critic of the "Athenaeum," came with his intimate
friend, Holman Hunt; he assisted the famous pre-Raphaelite in painting
in the detail in some of his pictures, such as the Moorish temple in
"The Saviour in the Temple." Later, he wrote the catalogue of "Prints
and Drawings" at the British Museum. The last time I met Mr. Stephens,
he told me the greatest pleasure he could possibly have was to go
round London with my father, for there was not a place of interest of
which he could not tell some anecdote of historical or topical
information; and as an antiquary of some merit, the art critic was
evidently in a position to give his appreciation with the authority of
knowledge.
I think my father's closest friend was John Doran. To quote Mr.
Edge:--" ... Doctor Doran, known as the 'Doctor,' having graduated in
Germany as a 'Doctor of Philosophy.' He was a delightful raconteur, a
brilliant conversationalist, a man to put the shyest at his ease. He,
too, studied history and wrote some of the most delightful biographies
in the English language. The painter (my father) and the Doctor took
many an excursion together to old-world places celebrated for memories
quaint, tragic or humorous, and their rambles were perpetuated in
their pictures and books."
Doran began his literary career by producing a melodrama at the Surrey
Theatre when he was only fifteen years of age, and continued up to his
death to produce a series of interesting works, although he did not
write for the stage after his early success. He was editor of _Notes
and Queries_ and the author of "Table Traits and Something on Them."
Perhaps his best-known work was "Her Majesty's Servants." Among his
later works, "Monarchs Retired from Business," and "The History of
Court Fools" occur to my mind simultaneously.
The three following anecdotes from Dr. Doran's journal, will appeal on
the strength of their own dry humour and at the same time give the
reader a glimpse of the character of my father's Irish friend:--
_October_ 18th, 1833. In an antiquated edition of Burnet's "History of
His Own Times" it was stated that an old Earl of Eglinton had behaved
so scandalously that he was made to sit in the "Cutty Stool" (or stool
of repentance at kirk) for three Sabbaths running. On the fourth
Sunday he sat there again, so the minister called him down as his
penance was over. "It may be so," said the Earl, "but I shall always
sit here for the future ... it is the best seat in the kirk, and I do
not see a better man to take it from me."
_December_ 9th, 1833. Colonel Boldero told us after dinner a good
story of Luttrell that Rogers told him the other day. He was about to
sit for his picture, and asked Luttrell's advice as to how he should
be taken. "Oh," said Luttrell, "let it be as when you are entering a
pew--with your face in your hat."
[Illustration: JOHN EVERETT MILLAIS, R.A,, _Drawn by me from life for
the "Graphic" 1874._]
[Illustration: C. R. LESLIE, R.A. (MY GODFATHER). _Died in 1859._]
_December_ 5, 1833. Heard also at dinner a story of "Poodle" Byng.
Dining once at the Duke of Rutland's, he exclaimed on seeing fish on
the table, "Ah! My old friend haddock! I haven't seen that fish at a
gentleman's table since I was a boy!" The "Poodle" was never invited
to Belvoir again.
Mr. and Mrs. S. C. Hall, also well-known writers of the day, were
constant visitors at our house. S. C. Hall was said to have suggested
the character of Pecksniff to Dickens, perhaps because he interlarded
his conversation with pious remarks, which may have sounded singularly
hypocritical to many people. As a child I regarded him with terror,
because whenever he called he would come to our nursery and behave in
a manner he probably thought highly entertaining to children, which
consisted of pulling awful faces. His mass of white hair, bushy
eyebrows and staring eyes gave him an ogreish look, and added to my
fears when he shook his fist at me in mock horror. Then he would
tickle me as hard as he could; and as I hated this form of play, his
exertions only moved me to tears, so that when I heard him coming I
invariably hid myself until his departure.
Mr. Hall began life as a barrister and turned to literary work,
establishing the _Art Journal_, and carrying it on in the face of very
discouraging circumstances. Eventually he was successful, and his work
had an extensive influence, I suppose, on the progress of British art.
As a writer his output was enormous; he and his wife published between
them no fewer than two hundred and seventy volumes. As an ardent
spiritualist he was very interested at that time in a medium who, I am
afraid, was an atrocious humbug. One Good Friday my father called, to
find Mr. Hall in a state of great excitement.
"You've just missed dear Daniel," said Hall. "He floated in through
the window, round the house and out again, and I don't doubt we shall
see the day when he will float round St. Paul's."
Mrs. S. C. Hall (very Irish), who had a great personal reputation as a
writer, was most attractive and altogether a very interesting woman,
being a spiritualist and a philanthropist. She founded the Hospital
for Consumptives in the Fulham Road, and persuaded her great friend
Jenny Lind to sing at charity concerts to gain funds for her
institution. My father painted both of them, and the portrait of Mr.
Hall is now in the possession of the latter's family.
Ruskin was on very friendly terms with them, and it was the Halls who
introduced us to the Virtues, who were the proprietors and publishers
of the _Art Journal_. James Virtue, who was a fine oar and President
of the London Rowing Club, was one of the most cheerful men one could
wish to meet; and as hostess, his wife, who, I am happy to say, is
still living, was equally delightful. His brother William Virtue
afterwards saved my life--but that is anticipating events somewhat.
Mr. and Mrs. Tom Taylor were another interesting and talented couple
who were friends of my parents. Tom Taylor was the art critic of the
_Times_, and at one time editor of _Punch_. He was also the author of
several popular plays, of which _Still Waters Run Deep_ and the
_Ticket of Leave Man_, in which Henry Neville played the hero, are
perhaps the most widely known. In conjunction with Charles Reade he
wrote some amusing comedies; as well as writing in prose and verse for
_Punch_ he compiled some interesting biographies, of Reynolds,
Constable, David Cox, and C. R. Leslie, R.A. At dinner his appearance
was remarkable, for he usually wore a black velvet evening suit. A
curious trait of the dramatist's was his absent-minded manner and
forgetfulness of convention. Sometimes when walking in the street with
a friend he would grow interested, and, to emphasise his remarks,
turned to look more directly into the face of his companion, at the
same time placing his arm around his waist. In the case of a lady this
habit sometimes proved rather embarrassing!
Mr. Tom Taylor was a man of unbounded kindness in helping everybody
who was in need of money or in trouble; his generosity probably made
him the object of attentions from all sorts and conditions of people,
a fact very soon discovered by his domestics, for one day Mr. and Mrs.
Taylor returned from a walk to be met by a startled parlourmaid who
announced the presence of a strange-looking man who was waiting to see
them. Her suspicions being aroused by his wild appearance, she had
shown him into the pantry, fearing to leave him in the drawing-room.
On repairing to the pantry with curiosity not unmixed with wonder,
they discovered ... Tennyson ... quite at home and immensely tickled
by his situation.
Mrs. Tom Taylor was descended from Wycliffe, and in her early youth
lived with her two sisters with their father, the Rev. Mr. Barker (who
was quite a personality), in the country. Laura Barker was brought up
in circumstances very similar to the Brontes. She was extremely
talented, and began her musical career at the age of thirteen, when
her great musical gifts brought her to the notice of Paganini.
Paganini, after hearing her play, was much astonished at her power in
rendering--entirely from ear--his wonderful harmonies upon her violin.
General Perronet Thompson, on another occasion, was so pleased with
her performance that he encouraged her talent by presenting her with a
"Stradivarius." Later she became an art critic in Florence, and the
composer of many popular songs. When she married Mr. Tom Taylor she
continued to publish her talented songs under her maiden name.
A well-known composer, whose name is probably merged in memories of
the near past, is Sam Lover, who will be remembered as the writer of
"Molly Bawn," "Rory O'More," "The Four-leaved Shamrock," and many
others. His career was a strange and varied one. Beginning life as an
artist, he won his way to fame in Dublin, where he became a very
popular miniature painter, and many famous men of the day sat to him.
His roving taste, however, led him gradually to abandon art for
literature. In this again he was successful, and came to London, where
he contributed to most of the magazines of the day, and wrote several
novels. After more successes he began to compose the songs so well
known to-day. About the same time he wrote ballad poetry, but finding
the output a strain, he prepared a series of entertainments which he
entitled "Irish Evenings," in which he embodied songs and music of his
own composition. These entertainments became exceedingly popular, and
the reputation he acquired led him to extend his horizon to America.
On returning, he turned his experiences to account, and finally
changed his profession and sailed away to become an English foreign
consul in foreign lands. Before he left England he said to my mother,
"Mrs. Ward, if I return, I know I shall find you as young as when I
leave you!" He has not returned, but his words come back to me, for
indeed she seems to have discovered the secret of eternal youth.
Felix Moscheles the painter, was a constant visitor at our house, and
he was the son of old Mr. Moscheles the great composer and pianist and
friend of Mendelssohn. Felix Moscheles was a chum of Du Maurier when
both lived in Paris, and he wrote a biography of this eminent _Punch_
artist and author of "Trilby." Inheriting some of the remarkable gift
of his father (quite apart from his talent as a painter) Felix played
the piano, but he was astonishingly modest about his undoubted talent
and would only play very occasionally. He is an old man now, but
active still, for I heard his name not long ago in connection with a
Peace Society. Moscheles' niece, Miss Roche, who is Mrs. Henry
Dickens, the wife of the eminent K.C. and eldest surviving son of
Charles Dickens, inherits the musical talent of her family, and is
also well known in musical circles.
_A propos_ of the Dickens family, I remember an incident in connection
with one of Mr. Philip Calderon's pictures, when I was going through
the Royal Academy (then in Trafalgar Square). I noticed an old Darby
and Joan looking carefully through the catalogue for the title of a
picture by the artist representing a nude nymph riding on a wave of
the sea, surrounded by a friendly crowd of porpoises disporting
themselves gaily around her.
"Ah," said the old gentleman, "here we are.... 'Portrait of Mrs.
Charles Dickens, Junior!'"
Sir Theodore and Lady Martin (_nee_ Helen Faucit) used to visit my
parents. Sir Theodore was knighted when he had completed the Queen's
book, and his wife, when she left the stage, dined more than once at
her Majesty's table.
When I was still at school, Garibaldi visited England, and after being
universally feted in London, and honoured with a banquet by the Lord
Mayor, suddenly announced his intention of returning to Italy. The
cause of the resolution was the subject of much controversy at the
time, as he would, by his departure, cancel many engagements and upset
the preparations the provinces had made to receive him. Garibaldi
embarked for Italy after a sojourn of seven weeks in England,
accompanied by the Duke and Duchess of Sutherland in their yacht.
His son, Minotti Garibaldi, came to our house, and his visit recalls
an amusing episode in connection with one of my father's pictures. An
eccentric old art critic, a low churchman, who, as such, cultivated a
modesty in dress and a deep humility of demeanour that consorted oddly
with his rubicund feature (which had roused our housekeeper to remark
"Mr. So-and-so, 'e's got a nose to light a pipe"), was calling upon my
father to view his picture of "Anne Boleyn at the Queen Stairs of the
Tower." Anne Boleyn is represented in the picture as having sunk down
from exhaustion and fear on the lower step leading to the place of
execution. After remarking upon the masterly manner of the painting,
the old man paused, and looking up under his eyes he placed a
thoughtful finger upon his forehead and said in mournful accents,
"_The hutter 'elplessness_!" A little later young Garibaldi called
and was introduced to our pious critic, who, not quite knowing what to
say, but feeling he should rise to the occasion, made a spasmodic
attempt at tact and ejaculated "_'Ow's yer pa?_"
[Illustration: THE MARQUIS OF WINCHESTER, 1904.]
The late Lord Crewe comes to my mind now as one of my parents'
friends; he cultivated the society of artists and ... bishops! He was
very absent-minded, and there is a story told of him, which, although
far-fetched, is very typical. Suddenly recollecting his duties as host
of a large house party, he approached his guests one afternoon and
asked them if they would care to go riding, and finding several
agreeable, made arrangements with each one to be at the hall door at
2.30, when he would supply them with an excellent white horse. At the
appointed hour, guest after guest arrived booted, breeched, and
habited, until nearly the whole party had assembled. They waited, and
finally had the satisfaction of seeing Lord Crewe ride away, quite
oblivious, on the white horse.
My parents, after staying there some time, arrived home to find a
letter inviting them to Crewe Hall and written in a way that suggested
an absence of years. Lord Crewe's extraordinary absent-mindedness was
proverbial, and, since he was not aware of it, caused him to be
considerably taken advantage of. He used to dine at the "Athenaeum,"
and usually at the same table. Another member came rushing in one day
to obtain a place for dinner for himself. All being engaged, the
waiter was obliged to refuse the extra guest, when the flurried member
pointed to an empty seat.
"Oh, sir," said the waiter with apologetic deference, "That's Lord
Crewe's."
"Never mind," said the urgent would-be diner. "Tell him when he
comes--that he's dined!"
It is to be supposed the waiter found his deception worth while, for
when Lord Crewe arrived, he was met with surprise and quiet
expostulation.
"You dined an hour ago, my lord," said the unscrupulous waiter.
"So I did," murmured the poor victim, as he retraced his steps.
I once remember his coming all the way from Crewe to dine with my
people. After dinner my sister Beatrice, who played the violin,
performed her latest piece for his benefit. Lord Crewe, evidently
tired after his meal, went to sleep and slept soundly until the
finish, when he awoke suddenly, applauded loudly and eulogised her
talent at some length.
Marks, the R.A., paid a visit to Crewe Hall; after which he composed
some very tuneful and witty songs of "the noble Earl of Crewe," which
set forth that gentleman's idiosyncrasies at no small length, much to
the amusement of all who heard them.
I wonder how many people nowadays remember Fechter the actor. I often
saw him when I was a boy, and thought his acting splendid. His love
scene with Kate Terry in the _Duke's Motto_ took London by storm. He
had a marked foreign accent that did not interfere in the least with
the clear elocution that he owed to Bellew's instruction. Fechter was
born in London and educated in France as a sculptor, but his
inclinations tended towards the stage; he made his debut at the Salle
Moliere, and achieved success as Duval in _La Dame aux Camellias_.
After acting in Italy, Germany, and France, he came to England and won
his laurels upon our stage. In conversation he was brilliant, and in
appearance gave one the impression of strength both physically and
mentally; I think his face is to this day more deeply impressed upon
my mind than that of any other actor I remember excepting Irving. My
father painted his portrait in the costume he wore in Hamlet and many
years after my mother presented the picture to Henry Irving; but she
still has the dress which Fechter gave her when leaving England.
Charles Dickens thought highly of him, as the following letter will
show.
3, Hanover Terrace,
Thursday, Twenty-fifth April, 1861.
MY DEAR WARD,
I have the greatest interest in Fechter (on whom I called; by the
way, I hope he knows), and I should have been heartily glad to
meet him again. But--one word in such a case is as good, or bad,
as a thousand....
I am engaged on Tuesday beyond the possibilities of backing out
or putting off.
With kind regards to Mrs. Ward, in which my daughter and Miss
Hogarth join,
Very faithfully yours,
CHARLES DICKENS.
Irving (when comparatively unknown to the London public) I first saw
in _Lost in London_, and not long afterwards when he played "Macbeth,"
I could not resist caricaturing him.
Sothern I remember, of course, in "Lord Dundreary;" and Lytton, his
son, also a successful actor in comparatively late years, and a
playfellow of my brother Russell.
W. S. Gilbert came often to our Sunday "evenings" at Kent Villa. Years
after, I recollect a story he told in the Club against himself. He was
at the Derby, and crossing over from the stand, he got amongst the
crowd who hustled and jostled him without the slightest regard for his
comfort. He remonstrated with them, and receiving a good deal of
impertinence in consequence, he lost his temper. When he at length
emerged from the crush, he discovered his watch, a unique repeater and
gold chain worth about two hundred pounds, had disappeared. The five
minutes' talk proved to be one of the most expensive he had ever
indulged in.
Although my father was interested in all sorts and conditions of men,
historians, as I have remarked before, possessed a supreme attraction
for him, and he sought the society of such men, as they in their turn
sought his, whenever opportunity presented itself. William Hepworth
Dixon, the historian, became friendly with my father shortly after our
arrival at Kent Villa, and in the company of Douglas Jerrold was
frequently at our house.
Mr. Dixon wrote a series of papers in the _Daily News_ on the
"Literature of the Lower Orders," which were precursors of Henry
Mayhew's inquiries into the conditions of the London poor. He took a
great interest in the lower classes and was instrumental in obtaining
a free entry for the public to the Tower of London. Afterwards he
became chief editor of the _Athenaeum_. As a traveller he visited
Italy, Spain, Hungary--all Europe, in fact, as well as Canada and the
United States, where he went to Salt Lake City and wrote a history of
the Mormons. He finally met with a riding accident in Cyprus which
made him more or less of an invalid afterwards. His extraordinary
reluctance to enter a church is one of the idiosyncrasies that returns
to me; this must have puzzled my father, who was a very religious man
and a constant church-goer.
Lord Stanhope (formerly Lord Mahon) was another historian, and an
intimate friend of my father's. When the first Peel Ministry was
formed in 1834, Lord Mahon appeared as Under-Secretary of State for
Foreign Affairs, and during the last year of the Peel Ministry he held
the office of Secretary to the Board of Control and supported the
repeal of the Corn Laws. He subsequently pursued a somewhat wavering
course, voted with the Protectionists against the change in the
Navigation Laws, and lost his seat for Hertford at the general
election of 1852. Afterwards his lordship devoted most of his life to
historical research and wrote among other works "A History of the War
of the Succession in Spain." His portrait is amongst the many my
father painted of men distinguished in their studies; Bulwer,
Thackeray, Lord Macaulay, Hallam, Dickens, Collins, were also subjects
for his brush.
Sir Charles Dilke (the Dilkes were then proprietors of the _Athenaeum_)
once came to dine with us, and was mortally offended because a foreign
ambassador was given precedence, as is etiquette as well as politeness
to a stranger amongst us. He took my sister down, and sulked and
grumbled to her all dinner time, venting on our high-backed antique
chairs his annoyance at what he imagined to be a serious slight to his
dignity and position.
I went with my father to Charles Dickens' last reading. He was an
amateur actor of high repute, and his rendering of the famous novels
was exceedingly dramatic. Wilkie Collins once wrote a play, called
_The Lighthouse_, for some private theatricals in which Dickens acted.
My father designed the invitation card, and the original drawing was
sold at the Dickens' sale at Christie's, where it fetched a high
price. At the last party given by Miss Dickens before he died, I was
introduced to the great author, and curiously enough, he said, "I am
so pleased to make your acquaintance, and I hope this will not be
_your last visit_." That evening Joachim gave us an exhibition of his
incomparable art. Lord Houghton, who was as absent-minded in his way
as his brother-in-law, Lord Crewe, was one of the guests. He fell
asleep during Joachim's recital, and snored. As the exquisite chords
from the violin rose on the air, Lord Houghton's snores sounded loudly
in opposition, sometimes drowning a delicate passage, and at others
lost in a passionate rush of melody from the player, who must have
needed all his composure to prevent him waking the slumbering lord.
About that time I made several slight caricatures of Dickens, which
have been not only exhibited, but published.
[Illustration: LORD HOUGHTON. 1882.]
[Illustration: FRED ARCHER. 1881.]
[Illustration: THE DUKE OF BEAUFORT.]