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.
After leaving school, I took a trip with some schoolfellows to Paris.
Our visit was not remarkably adventurous. I remember my interest in
the outside seats on the trains, our nearly being frozen to death
while indulging in the novelty of a journey to Versailles, and my
excitement when I thought I had discovered Shakespeare in the
_Morgue_, although second thoughts led me to the conclusion I was a
little late in the day.
My great ambition at this period of my life was to be able to study
drawing and painting, but my father was inexorable in his decision,
and I entered the office of Sydney Smirke, R.A., to learn
architecture.
Mr. Smirke was one of three talented brothers (the sons of the very
distinguished artist, Robert Smirke, R.A.), Sir Edward Smirke, the
City Solicitor, and Sir Robert Smirke, R.A., who achieved fame as an
architect and designed Covent Garden Theatre among buildings of note.
It is probable (I was told at the time) that Mr. Sydney Smirke would
have received a knighthood, had he not opposed Queen Victoria's desire
at that time that all Art Exhibitions should be restricted to the
neighbourhood of South Kensington. He had then decided with the
Committee who commissioned him upon the present site of Burlington
House for the Royal Academy, which was to be built to his design.
Among his best-known works are the Carlton and Conservative Club
houses, the Reading Room, and the Roman and Assyrian Galleries at the
British Museum.
While I was in Mr. Smirke's office, I longed more than ever to be an
artist, for the purely mechanical part of the profession did not
appeal to me in the least, neither did the prospect of an architect's
life commend itself. After a year during which I worked very
conscientiously, considering my adverse sympathies, with bricks and
mortar, Mr. Smirke finished his last work on Burlington House, and
announced his intention of retiring.
In the meantime I had visited Christchurch and Bournemouth, and had
completed a series of drawings of interiors. One of these--of the Lady
Chapel--was bought by Montague Williams, whose wife had then recently
died. My picture, which represented a woman placing flowers upon a
tomb, figured in the drawing, was the best work I had done up to that
period, and it probably possessed some sad association or suggestion
for him. I had wished to sell the picture to the Rev. Zacchary Nash,
the Rector of Christchurch, and he wrote to me, saying, "If you very
much wish me to buy the water-colour drawing, I will; but I dislike
all pictures, and consider they never rise to my preconceived idea of
the subject or object they are intended to represent."
The walls of his house were entirely without the usual ornamentation,
and I do not remember to have seen there a single picture, with the
exception of the usual conventional and handed-down portraits of
relations.
I was made a member of the Architectural Association, and exhibited my
drawings of Christchurch, which were so highly appreciated by my
father, and so pleased him by what he considered my advance in the
architectural profession, that I had not the heart to tell him of my
ever-increasing desire to leave it and go through the Academy Schools,
and become a painter. He had repeatedly said he would rather I swept a
crossing than be an artist, whereupon I decided upon the one outside
our house, in anticipation.
On my return, my father immediately exerted himself to find a new
office for me, and Mr. Smirke suggested a colleague of his, Mr.
Street, in the following letter:--
MY DEAR SIR,
... with regard to Leslie I quite concur with you in wishing him
to get into some busy and eminent office where he can see and
profit by all the matters connected with the carrying out of
architectural work. I have enclosed herewith a note to Mr.
Street, requesting him to tell me candidly whether he can readily
admit Leslie into his office, and I shall not fail to let him
know how highly I appreciate Leslie's qualification. At the same
time I must remind you that in an eminent architect's office,
each stool has its money value and very big premiums are
realised. What I shall tell Street will be that in taking Leslie
into his office he is taking an excellent draughtsman with taste
and intelligence to boot, and not a raw recruit--one in short,
who would be found useful from the first day of his entrance.
Yours sincerely,
SYDNEY SMIRKE.
My father in the meantime had spoken to his friend Mr. Edward Barry,
R.A., with a view to my entering his office. This interview resulted
in my calling upon Mr. Barry with specimens of my work, of which he
approved and upon which he complimented me. At the same time he warned
me that T-squares and compass, and not the paint brush, would be my
daily implements for at least five years. This was too much for me,
and I frankly told him it would be impossible, and that three
years--until my coming of age--would be my limit. Barry then expressed
his opinion that an artist's career was what I was fitted for, and not
an architect's office, and although I quite agreed with him I went
home with a heavy heart at the thought of my father's disappointment.
On my return I sought my room, and, after locking the door, I sat down
to consider the situation. Also, I found that--perhaps from the effect
of my excitement--my nose was bleeding, and I endeavoured to staunch
the flow of blood. Presently, before I had decided upon a tactful plan
of action, my father knocked at the door, and when I opened it, rushed
in, greatly excited to hear the result of the interview. A rousing
scene followed, and although I respected his feelings and was sorry to
go against his wishes, I instinctively clung to my decision to live my
life as I chose and to follow my own career. The same evening my
father consulted his friend, Mr. Frith, on the matter, and he kindly
consented to act as mediator in this affair of my future career. After
trying to dissuade me, and presenting an artist's life from its very
blackest standpoint, and still finding me full of hope and enthusiasm,
Mr. Frith at last said, "I don't mind telling you that, had you been
my son, I should certainly have encouraged you in your desire to adopt
an artist's profession."
[Illustration: SIR ALFRED SCOTT-GATTY, C.V.O. (GARTER KING-AT-ARMS,
1905).]
Finally my father was persuaded, and as there was nothing more to be
said, we shook hands upon my determination. Thus we buried the
long-cherished idea of my architectural career, of which I was
heartily glad to hear the last.
After the disagreement, Frith, to encourage me, commissioned me to
"square out" one of his pictures from a small sketch--"The Procession
of Our Lady of Boulogne." I received eighteen guineas when my task was
completed, but in my excitement at receiving my first cheque, I threw
it (in its envelope) accidentally in the fire. I was in despair when I
discovered my blunder, and, in my ignorance of paper money, went to
Frith and told him of the calamity. He chaffed me, and said, "You
know, Leslie, I'm not compelled to give you another cheque ... but if
you wish it I will." Whereupon he gave me my long-looked-for and
fateful eighteen guineas.
I was now free to face my future and to begin life as I wished; and in
the meanwhile I nearly ended it prematurely while I was on a visit to
my friend William Virtue, at Sunbury. At my host's suggestion, we
started with three friends for a bathe in the river, early on a Sunday
morning, the tide being high and the current strong. I was a fair
swimmer and very fond of the pastime, and so, when our return home
for breakfast was suggested, I thought to have one more plunge,
whereupon Bill, as we called him, being familiar with the current in
the vicinity of the weir, advised me to avail myself of one in
particular, which would, if I followed it, he said, carry me back to
the boat. I acted upon the suggestion, but upon reaching our boat
found myself unable to get a firm enough grip upon it, and, after
making several attempts, became quite exhausted, and then tried to
float on my back to give myself a rest. Then an article I had been
reading the night before headed "Precautions in case of Drowning,"
came to my mind, with the advice when exhausted to "Throw yourself
upon your back." But this precaution proved fruitless, as at this
moment an under-current sucked me down. Being by this time quite
helpless, I was shot up again like the imp in the bottle, only to be
washed under again, and then in desperation I called for "Help!" and
sank for the last time. In my case no past incidents lit up my brain
with one lightning flash of thought--no beautiful ideas surged up--as
one has heard told in novels. I only thought of the boat ... I must
get to the boat ... and when I sank I said to myself, "Good-bye."
My host, who was then in smooth water on the other side of the river
exclaimed, to the rest of the party, "Where's Ward?" and as he spoke
he observed the ring in the water where I had disappeared. Fearing I
was dead, he exclaimed, "Good God, how shall I break the news?" but he
plunged in and lost no time in rescuing me.
How it was done, he was scarcely able to say, but he found me obedient
to his directions, and, being a powerfully built man, he was able to
battle against the rush of water, whilst supporting me. I was
eventually dragged into the boat, and, wonderful to relate, I had
retained sufficient consciousness to know I was alive, while fearing
at the same time for Virtue, who, placing me in safety, had swum after
another of our party who had rashly gone to the aid of both of us, and
was in difficulties himself. Needless to add, my heroic friend was in
a fainting condition when we reached his house, but with the aid of a
little brandy, he soon recovered, and no harm came to any of us. In
fact, in the afternoon I had sufficiently recovered to walk to
Teddington, where I called upon the Edward Levys, who had taken a
house there for the summer. Feeling quite fit in spite of the episode
of the morning, I was sitting in the drawing-room regaling my hostess
with the little incident of my rescue, when she asked me to ring the
bell for tea. On either side of the fireplace a bell appeared to be
attached to the wall. One of these, as happens in old-fashioned
houses, was a dummy, and this one I attempted to pull; being at that
age when a young man does not wish to be outwitted, and finding the
bell was extremely difficult to manage, I gave it an extra hard tug,
and, to my consternation, pulled off the dummy handle and with it
masses of plaster which came showering down all around me. My feelings
on discovering my blunder were too deep for words.
Another lamentable accident happened to me when I was attempting to
coax my coming moustache with a pair of curling tongs--to curl the
edges! In carelessly handling the lamp (which exploded), and in trying
to blow out the flames, I burnt myself so badly that I lost every atom
of hair on my face, eyebrows, eyelashes, and the rest. Seeing an
advertisement a little later for hair restorer and moustache
renovator, I bought it in high hopes, and rubbed it well in (as
directions) before going to bed. When, the next morning I arose,
expectant, I was puzzled to find my lips swollen out of all
proportion, and my disappointment was not untinged with feelings that
can be left to the imagination.
About this time I received my first commission, through Mrs. Pender
(afterwards Lady Pender), who asked my father if I could be induced to
undertake a series of drawings for a friend of hers, Mrs. Butler
Johnstone Munro. Of course, I jumped at the offer, and lost no time in
making the acquaintance of my patroness, who was an eccentric old lady
of eighty, and quite an original character. Her brother, Mr. Munro of
Novar, had left her his collection of pictures of all schools, which
she prized greatly, and she wished me to make a plan and series of
drawings to scale, of the pictures in their frames exactly as they
hung upon the walls of her house in Hamilton Place, that it might give
her an idea how they should be placed in a mansion she was moving
into. The work took me a little over three months to complete, and
when it was done, I made sure of a handsome remuneration from Mrs.
Butler Johnstone, who was very wealthy. Alas! the five-pound note
which she paid me after my first day's work was all I ever got, for
she died suddenly while I was taking a summer holiday, and I was "mug"
enough not to send in a claim to her executors. Thus only the memory
and satisfaction of having studied some of the finest pictures in this
country was left me by way of compensation for my trouble. I often,
however, look back in amusement at some of my experiences while I was
working for this quaint old lady, who, I may mention, seemed to
consider me at her beck and call, and used to telegraph for me to come
and show her guests a portfolio containing an almost unique set of
water-colour drawings by Turner. Colonel Butler Johnstone, M.P. (my
patroness's husband) came into the room one day when I was starting
upon my commission; _he_ evidently had no sympathy with art, for he
said that he thought that I might be better occupied. It seemed to
him, he said, rather ridiculous to undertake such tedious work,
because when it was completed he couldn't see the object of it.
This was a little disconcerting, but I was not discouraged.
I remember, one summer morning, Mrs. Butler Johnstone arriving on
horseback at my father's house, and sending in a message by the
servant to inform Mr. Leslie Ward, that the "Honourable Mrs. Butler
Johnstone Munro" was waiting to see him, and, upon my hastening
downstairs, I saw at the front door, mounted upon a good, but aged
horse, my strange employer, shielding her wrinkled old face from the
sun with a white parasol, which I afterwards discovered she habitually
used whilst riding in the Park during the season. This call was to ask
me to accompany her to the Kensington Museum, and there to act as her
mouthpiece, she being desirous of making a proposition to Sir
Wentworth Cole as to her intention of making a temporary loan of
pictures to that institute. While we were driving to the Museum in a
hansom cab, I remember that a somewhat ridiculous _contretemps_ took
place. The old lady, in giving her directions to the driver, managed
to get her bonnet and cape entangled and dragged off, and I was
reprimanded severely for the vain attempts I made to act as the
"gallant" in assisting her to replace them.
My visit for six weeks, with my parents, to the first Lord Lytton
(Bulwer Lytton) at Knebworth, made a great impression upon my mind, as
I suppose I began to consider myself "grown up," and was rather
flattered on receiving so interesting an invitation. During my stay I
made a water-colour painting of the great hall, which was hung with
rich red hangings and a fine old Elizabethan curtain. I also both
caricatured from memory and drew a portrait of my host (for which he
sat), for his appearance proved an irresistible attraction to me. Lord
Lytton had a remarkably narrow face with a high forehead; his nose was
piercingly aquiline, and seemed to swoop down between his closely-set
blue eyes, which changed in expression as his interest waxed and
waned. When he was interestedly questioning his neighbour, he became
almost satanic looking, and his glance grew so keenly inquisitive as
to give the appearance of a "cast" in his eyes. Carefully curled hair
crowned his forehead, and his bushy eyebrows, beard and moustache gave
a curious expression to his face, which was rather pale, except in the
evening, when he slightly "touched up," as the dandies of his day were
in the habit of doing. His _beau ideal_ was D'Orsay, and he showed the
nicest care in the choice of his clothes. His trousers were baggy as
they tapered downward, and rather suggested a sailor's in the way they
widened towards the feet. I can see him now standing on the hearthrug
awaiting the announcement of dinner--dressed up "to the eyes," and
listening with bent, attentive head to his guests. It was typical of
Lord Lytton that he listened to the most insignificant of his guests
with all the deference that he would have shown to the greatest.
Replacing his hookah (for he smoked opium) he would be silent for a
considerable time, watching us out of his odd eyes, and when he spoke
it was in a soft voice which he never raised above a low tone. He told
many stories of "Dis-ra-eel-i," whose name he pronounced with slow
deliberation, and one strained one's ears to catch every word that he
said, they were so interesting. I wish I could remember them now.
AT KNEBWORTH.
[Illustration: _In an inquisitive mood. Sketched from memory._]
[Illustration: _Slight Sketch of Knebworth._]
[Illustration: FIRST LORD LYTTON (BULWER LYTTON). _Drawn from life._
1869.]
[Illustration: _Silent Before dinner. Sketched from memory_]
In Art he had no taste whatever, but he was especially fond of artists
with literary tastes, which perhaps explains why he "took" so much to
Maclise and my father. Maclise (whom he considered everything that
could be desired both as a personality and an artist) painted his
portrait, which is now at Knebworth. It is an extraordinarily good
likeness, but very hard in the quality of painting, and unsympathetic
in treatment.
When I was at Knebworth I first found myself in public opposition to
my father's dislike of tobacco. I do not think I have mentioned this
distaste before. When he gave a dinner at home, he usually persuaded a
friend to choose the cigars, and was very glad to escape from the
atmosphere of tobacco when they were being smoked by his guests. Later
in life the doctor ordered an occasional cigarette to soothe his
nerves; he smoked _one_, and that was too much for him.
_A propos_ of this detestation of tobacco, I suffered what I supposed
then to be one of the most humiliating moments of my life. When the
cigars were handed round to the guests after dinner, I took one and
began to light it, whereupon my father, who had never allowed me to
smoke in his presence, saw my cigar, and waved it magnificently down.
Considering myself "grown up," I was at the most sensitive period of
my boyhood, and I felt I must appear ridiculous in the eyes of all the
men at the table, when possibly the whole episode had passed
unnoticed, or if they had observed me, would not have given a moment's
notice to the occurrence.
There was a French cook at Knebworth who used to go fishing in the
lake for minnows. Lord Lytton was wont to damp my ardour when I
expressed a desire to fish, by informing me that there were pike, but
that nobody had ever succeeded in catching any. Strangely enough, from
the moment I started to fish, I was very successful. Never a day
passed without my making a good haul; and although the Frenchman
failed to catch them, he knew the secret of stuffing and serving them
for dinner.
Lord Lytton was in some respects rather curious, for he informed me
that if I went on fishing I should empty the lake. However, I went
down one morning and found the whole lake drained and the fish
destroyed. The only explanation which occurred to me was that he might
have regarded fishing as cruel, just as he considered shooting brutal;
for after once hearing the cries of a hare he had wounded he never
handled a gun again.
An American lady named Madame de Rossit was then acting as Lord
Lytton's secretary. She had her little daughter with her, a very
precocious child, who had been brought up evidently on the great man's
poetry. I remember a very painful evening when all the household and
the neighbours were present to hear the child recite "The Lady of
Lyons." Anything more distressing could hardly be imagined.
Hume, the spiritualist and medium, whom I mentioned in connection with
the S. C. Halls, constantly came, and Lord Lytton, with a view to
testing my psychic possibilities, arranged that I should work with the
planchette. He was, I think, making experiments more out of curiosity
than earnest belief. Our attempts were entirely without results. I was
evidently not _en rapport_.
My host was always attracted by the mysterious; he loved haunted rooms
and tales of ghosts. There was a room at Knebworth where a "yellow
boy" walked at midnight, and the house itself was full of surprises.
For instance, you went to a bookcase to take down a volume, and found
the books were merely shams, or you attempted to open another case,
and found it was a concealed entrance to the drawing-room. There were
some fine pieces of old oak in the house, nevertheless, and upon my
mother's expression of admiration for one old door he had it packed
and sent to her as a present.
In the grounds, there was a curious maze that we found just as
troublesome, but more picturesque. Then there was the beautiful
_Horace_ Garden, of which my father made a painting. Down a delightful
green vista of lawns, barred with shadows from the trees overhead,
stood statues of the Greek and Roman poets and philosophers, grey
against the sunlit scene. This garden was Lytton's idea, and it was
certainly one of the greatest "beauty spots" of Knebworth. The house
itself did not inspire me; but at night, when the moon shone, the
griffins on the front, silhouetted romantically against the sky, gave
a mysterious beauty to the building, in the glamour of the moonlight.
I will conclude my memories of Knebworth with Lord Lytton's advice to
me that no young man's education was complete until he had mastered
the entire works of Sir Walter Scott.
On my return to London, I sent my painting to the Royal Academy, where
it was very favourably received and well hung.
The _Telegraph_, coupling me with my father in this notice, said: "We
have already mentioned a masterly drawing by E. M. Ward, R.A., and we
would call attention to the work of something more than promise by the
Academician's young son, 'The Hall at Knebworth, Herts.'"
Needless to say, I was encouraged by kindly criticism, for having
chosen my profession in the teeth of opposition, I felt I had to
succeed, and was extremely anxious to gain the approval of my father.
I entered Carey's to take a preliminary course of instruction
preparatory to the Royal Academy Schools. These studios were well
known in former days as Sass's School of Art, where many eminent
artists had attended before they rose to fame. At the same time I
studied at the Slade School, where Poynter was then professor. I then
copied at the National Gallery the well-known picture of "A Tailor,"
by Moroni, selected by my father, who had a very high regard for that
wonderful old master. Now that everything was running smoothly I was
quite happy. I was at liberty to follow my own desires, with the
thought of the future before me, which I faced with all the optimism
of youth and an untroubled mind.
With these high hopes I was considerably enlivened by my first holiday
in Scotland with a Scotch school friend. Dunlop and I started on tour
from Edinburgh, where I was introduced to the Adams. Mr. Adam was a
solicitor who, with all the security of a comfortable practice and
successful life, was very anxious to bring up his son in his office;
but Patrick dreamed of an artistic career, and had other ambitions. He
read the lives of Constable, Turner, and David Cox, and, becoming
inspired by the example of these great men, and by the works of Sam
Bough (a painter of whom Edinburgh is proud), he rose at dawn to paint
before going to his father's office, where he regarded the hours spent
on his stool as so much waste of time, and longed for evening when he
could return to his beloved pursuits again. When we met, our
sympathies went out to one another, and we spent our time discussing
art. Together we visited the local galleries and steeped ourselves in
the beauty we found there.
At Holyrood Palace we were shown the room where the ill-fated Rizzio
was murdered, and where the sad scene of love, passion, and hatred was
enacted in so small a space, which was yet large enough to hold
destinies between its walls. The blood-stain was pointed out to me,
and I was informed at the same time that the episode of Mary Queen of
Scots and the unfortunate Italian was the subject of E. M. Ward's
picture of the year in the Royal Academy. (This painting, by the way,
was purchased by the late Sir John Pender.) It is to be supposed that
I appeared duly impressed.
When we left Edinburgh, my newly-found friend, Patrick Adam, suggested
we should correspond about Art; but although he became a successful
painter, and one of the foremost Scottish Academicians, I have never
met him from that day to this.
During our visits to the picture galleries, my friend Richard Dunlop,
who was a matter-of-fact Scot and not in the least temperamental or of
an artistic turn of mind (but a splendid fellow for a' that), became
distinctly bored, and after we had visited Mr. Arthur Lewis (who was a
very keen sportsman and deer-stalker to the day of his death) and his
wife, formerly Kate Terry, at Glen Urquhart, he retraced his steps and
left me to go on alone. My continual eulogies of the beauties we saw,
the exquisite colours and effects of landscape evidently became too
much for him. I am glad to say that he still remains one of my best
friends, and I always associate him with our mutual and equally valued
friend, Charlie Frith.
On the various boats in which I voyaged from time to time, I enjoyed
watching the passengers, and occasionally caricaturing people who
amused me. There was one pale curate who looked as though he might
have understudied Penley in _The Private Secretary_. He wore a long
coat and broad-brimmed hat, and his smile was always dawning to order,
whereupon charming dimples appeared in his cheeks. I watched him
shedding the cheerful light of his fascinating smile upon the ladies,
until gradually a change crept over him; the smile wore off, and
presently the sea claimed him. I always think a man or woman should be
economical with their expressions when they are apt to be victims of
_mal-de-mer_, for so few smiles at sea last until the voyage is over.
About this period I was fortunate enough to be invited to Cheshire by
some friends of my parents, to the house of Mr. and Mrs. George Fox,
who lived at Alderley Edge. My host, who was a well-known
_connoisseur_, possessed a remarkable collection of pictures. I
remember one by Thomas Faed (called "God's Acre," representing two
little children by their mother's grave). The painting was full of
delicate sentiment, a qualification perhaps rather despised in these
days; but the masterly loose handling and fine colour redeemed it from
any such criticism from myself. I fear the picture would not realise
anything like the considerable price given for it by my host, which, I
believe, was over two thousand five hundred pounds.
[Illustration: MR GEORGE LANE FOX. 1878.]
[Illustration: LORD PORTMAN. 1898.]
[Illustration: DUKE OF GRAFTON. 1886.]
My first evening at the Fox's is never forgotten, for I made an
amusing blunder in all the superiority and imagined importance of
nineteen years.
Harry Fox, the son of the house, was then twenty-one. On that
memorable evening I was sitting in the drawing-room when he entered,
and, attempting to be friendly and conversational, I said to him--
"Well, are you home from school now?"
My friend, who married an equally fine horse-woman, was a splendid
rider in those days (as he is now). He was always dapper in his
appearance, and alert in his bearing. _My_ hunting days began when I
visited Alderley Edge, and although I had ridden at Upton, Slough, I
was somewhat of a novice at the riding with which I here intended to
compete.
I followed the hounds upon a powerful weight carrier called the
"Count," and became a very good acrobat when I was riding him. The
horse over-jumped a good deal, but, growing accustomed to seeing me
come over his ears, would wait until I got on to his back again. I
jumped over everything, and because I had very little experience, I
did not profit by the example of some of the finest riders when I saw
them avoiding unnecessary obstacles.
One day I was riding the "Count" and when jumping a hedge, I lighted
on my head. If you can think you have broken your neck, I did at that
moment. Another rider following nearly landed on top of me.
"Are you hurt?" he called.
"Give me some brandy," I replied, stirring from what I had previously
imagined to be my last sleep. Instead, he cantered on. It was enough:
I could speak.
This callous behaviour roused me to such resentment that I tried to
rise--at the crucial moment the "Count" stepped heavily upon my foot.
I swore violently, and, anger impelling me to action, I mounted him
and rode away.
Riding one evening as the twilight was falling and the surrounding
country growing faint in the failing light, I rode my horse into a
bog. We soon found ourselves up to the knees and in an apparently
inextricable position. The situation was growing unpleasant when the
horse, instinctively recognising the danger, made a supreme struggle
for liberty, and, after some exertion, we emerged and reached home
safely.
I used to follow Mr. Brocklehurst, the then Master of the Cheshire
Harriers, and old Mr. Cobbett (the son of the great William Cobbett)
who dressed so exactly in the same fashion as his famous father, one
could almost imagine he had left Madame Tussaud's, with his snuff-box,
to take a day's hunting in Cheshire. Sir William Cobbett (the
grandson) still adheres as nearly as possible to that old tradition of
dress.
It was in Cheshire, at Alderley, that I met Edmund Ashton, an old
Etonian and a jolly fellow, who became engaged to Fox's sister. The
village was gay with decorations on the day of the wedding; on one
triumphal arch the local poet had evidently exerted his muse, for in
big letters shone the following couplet:--
On this day with joy and pride
Edmund weds his youthful bride.
Under the hospitable roof of Mr. Fox, a trio of us (Will Jaffray, now
Sir William, Harry Fox and I) formed a bond of friendship maintained
to this day, and which has always been one of the pleasantest facts of
my life.
About this time I settled to work in earnest and entered the R.A.
schools as probationer in Architecture, with drawings of a monument to
a naval victory, after which I became a full student for a study made
from the antique.
Old Charles Landseer (brother of Sir Edwin and "Tom" Landseer the
engraver) was then keeper. He was a quaint old gentleman, but I fear
his teaching didn't carry much weight. What I do remember about him
was that as he stooped to look over one's work the evident dye that
had once been sprinkled on the back of his head had remained there
until it became solidified and resembled old varnish.
There was an old student too who bore somewhat the same appearance,
and seemed privileged to remain for ever a student. In his case the
rust seemed to have spread to his clothes, so that I can remember the
peg on which he hung his coat was left severely alone, in fact, no
other student would permit of his hat or coat being near it.
It is a shame to mention old George Cruikshank in the same breath, but
while on the subject of hair dye he also toned his grey hair, but in
a perfectly harmless manner. What was comic in him was that up to the
last he wore a lock which, being suspended by a broad and very visible
piece of elastic, was evidently in his mind quite a success.
Among the students whose names come into my head as being prominent
students at the time were Ouless, Alfred Gilbert, Miss Starr, Swan,
Cope, Waterlow, Hamo Thornycroft, Percy Macquoid, and Forbes
Robertson.
I can remember the latter coming up to me one day in the antique
school, and evidently elated by the fact, saying--
"Ward, to whom do you think I have been introduced to-day?" And while
I was waiting to consider an answer, he said--
"_The Great Man_ ... and this day is the happiest of my life."
I congratulated him.... I knew at once to whom he referred and what
pleasure the meeting must have been to him, knowing the enthusiastic
admiration in which he held Irving. He became a friend of Sir Henry's,
and finally, fascinated by the stage and finding his dramatic talent
stronger than his artistic aptitude, clever as he was as an artist, he
abandoned painting as a profession, and went on the stage. The Garrick
Club, of which Sir Johnston is a member, possesses a portrait by him
of Phelps as Cardinal Wolsey. The only regret is that so great an
actor should be retiring from the stage, although he has indeed won
his laurels. It is to be hoped that his clever brother Norman Forbes
will carry on the family tradition for some time to come.
[Illustration: signatures]
Fred Walker, then one of the visiting artists at the R.A. schools, was
a man who possessed great individuality, a highly strung and
excessively nervous temperament, and, unfortunately, very bad health.
It was the custom of the students, with whom he was very popular, to
give an annual dinner, and about this time the toast of the evening
was "Fred Walker." When his health was drunk, I remember he got up to
reply, and found himself from sheer nervousness quite speechless,
whereupon he murmured a scarcely audible "Thank you," and collapsed
into his seat again. Du Maurier drew the character of "Little Billee"
from this artist. He died young, and after his death his pictures
fetched very high prices, especially some delicate and beautiful water
colours. "The Haven of Rest," now in the Tate Gallery, is a poem on
canvas, and it is also one of his most popular works, which will
certainly live. Sir Hubert Herkomer was undoubtedly influenced by him
in his earlier days.
Marks and Fred Walker were the first two Academicians who lent their
names to poster designs, and they were very much "called over the
coals" for it. Millais came in for a like share of condemnation when
he sold his "Bubbles" to Pears' Soap. In these days of advertisement,
when the hoardings are covered with every type of art, and really
great artists apply their talent to the demands of commercialism, the
censure levelled at Millais, Walker, and Marks appears rather more
like fiction than fact.
Another novelty of that period was the musical play which Arthur
Sullivan pioneered so successfully. My first experience of that
delightful form of entertainment was at the Bennett Benefit, given by
the staff of _Punch_ to raise funds for the family of one of their
then deceased contributors.
The musical version of _Box and Cox_ which was produced for the first
time, was entitled _Cox and Box_ and attracted a good deal of
attention. Sullivan, who had composed the music, conducted it himself;
Sir Francis Burnand wrote the libretto, and Sir Henry de Bathe acted
the part of the "Bouncer," with George du Maurier and Sir Spencer
Ponsonby as the lodgers.
Another musical play, _Les Deux Aveugles_, followed, in which Sir
Henry de Bathe and Du Maurier acted again with Arthur Cecil.
The _Punch_ staff performed in a play by Tom Taylor, entitled _The
Wolf in Sheep's Clothing_, and the cast included the author, Mark
Lemon, Tenniel, Shirley Brooks, Kate Terry, and Florence Terry (who
took the child's part).
The production was a most artistic one, and attracted a very
distinguished audience: everybody of any consequence in the world of
art, literature, and the stage, flocked to see _Punch_ behind the
footlights.
[Illustration: _From a life-size oil picture_ _painted by Leslie Ward,
1909_.
SIR WILLIAM JAFFRAY, BART.]