'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.
On my coming of age, Doctor Doran sent me the following advice, which
at the first attempt I had some difficulty in deciphering. Later on,
however, I soon discovered that it was intended, to complete the joke,
that it should be begun at the end and from there read.
DORAN JOHN.
Yours truly ever,
Yourself find will you which in condition the see to surprised be
will you, anything yourself deny never and advice my follow you
if, fact in.
Everything in consideration first the yourself make.
Thing bad a always is which, behind be never then will you as
others all before yourself put.
Difference the all makes which, it like you unless, lamb the with
down lie or, lark the with rise don't. By done be to like would
you as you to do others till wait. Own your as good as be cannot
course of which, others of opinion the considering by distracted
be not will you then as own your but advice nobody's take.
To-morrow till off put can you what to-day do never.
Life through guidance your for advice of words few a you give me
let now.
Him cut to happened I although him for regard great a have and
years for him known have I. Morning very this himself shaving saw
I man a of photo the you send I herewith.
LESLIE DEAR MY.
On the morning of my birthday, which was to be celebrated by a dance,
I felt so ill and consequently became so depressed, I was obliged
eventually to pay a visit to the family doctor, who impressed me with
the seriousness of my condition and prophesied all sorts of calamities
after sounding my heart and feeling my pulse.
"You must be very--very careful," he said, shaking his head. "My dear
boy, I'm sorry to say it; but you must not dance to-night."
I was overwhelmed.
"But," I expostulated, "I came to ask you to make me fit so that I
might dance."
"You must give up dancing for a time," he said, with great firmness.
I sank into the deepest dejection; life seemed bereft of half its
interest. When the evening drew on and the guests began to arrive, I
saw my favourite partners carried off, and as I watched the crowd of
dancers enjoying themselves my dejection grew deeper. Heaven knows
what would have become of me had not my doctor's daughter arrived
late, being a very pretty girl, and, I knew, one of the best dancers
there, I threw discretion to the four winds, and went up to her.
"Don't tell your father," I said. "But will you have the next with
me?"
She laughed and accepted. I danced every dance after that.
At the end of the evening, Arthur Sullivan played a "Sir Roger," with
Chappell's man at the piano; I realized none of the dire effects I had
expected, and the next day felt better than I had done for months.
The capriciousness of one's memory is extraordinary (at least in the
light--or darkness--of one's usual forgetfulness). I remember my first
dinner-party perfectly; and my kind host and hostess had on this
occasion invited a particularly attractive girl for me to take down.
Most of the guests were elderly people, and some of them were hungry
people also. I had received an invitation from my hostess for almost a
fortnight previously, but on that occasion the dinner had been
postponed, and their usual hour altered for the convenience of a
guest. I, who had not been notified to that effect, arrived in
consequence half an hour late, to find the guests still waiting; my
inward embarrassment was great when I faced the pairs of hungry and
expectant eyes. There was one awfully fat parson who looked as though
food came before Church matters. I remember even now his expression of
intense relief. I hope he was satisfied. We had a most perfect dinner,
and I took down my partner. I felt my hostess's eye upon me; I do not
think the lady realized that the fault lay with herself and not with
me.
My first dinner-party at home was spoiled for me by an accident. I sat
next to Mrs. Edmund Yates, who was a beautiful woman, resplendent that
evening in a gorgeous gown. Everything had up till now gone smoothly,
and I felt that I was getting along nicely when my sleeve caught my
glass and swept it over--as Fate would have it--Mrs. Yates' dress. I
was terribly upset--so was she, and so was the liqueur.
Commissioned portraits were occupying most of my time in those days,
and I exhibited (at the Royal Academy) one drawing of my brother
Russell, and one of my sister Beatrice. The latter work was much
admired by Mr. "Dolly" Storey,[2] who paid me the compliment of
offering to buy it from me; but on hearing my parents wished to keep
it in the family, he offered me a very good price for any other
drawing of similar character.
Although I made a considerable number of portraits, I was always
caricaturing the various personalities--interesting, extraordinary or
amusing--who crossed my path.
At a garden party at Lord Leven's, in Roehampton Lane, I saw Professor
Owen or "Old Bones" (as he was irreverently nicknamed), and, struck
with his antediluvian incongruity amidst the beautiful surroundings of
the garden, and the children there, I resolved to caricature him.
Impressing his strange and whimsical face upon my memory, I returned
home and at once conveyed my impressions to paper. I "caught" him in
his best clothes, with the tall white hat, which made a contrast to
his florid face; it is hardly one's idea of a garden party "get up" as
will be seen by the boots. I suppose some eccentricity must be
forgiven in the light of his genius, for "Old Bones" was a man, and a
scientist, of prodigious activity. There was no end to his
works--especially their titles, of which, for instance, "On the
Archetype and Homologies of the Vertebrate Animals," is a fair
example; while "Memoir on a Gigantic Sloth," has possibilities. He
belonged to innumerable societies, geological, zoological,
chirurgical, and so forth; and he was, as _Vanity Fair_ described him,
"a simple-minded creature, although a bit of a dandy."
[Illustration: 1903
SIR WILLIAM CROOKES.]
[Illustration: 1904.
SIR OLIVER LODGE.]
[Illustration: SIR WILLIAM HUGGINS.
1903.]
[Illustration: PROFESSOR OWEN.
1873 _"My first" in "Vanity Fair_".]
A little before this, Mr. Gibson Bowles, then editor of _Vanity Fair_,
had become dissatisfied with the artists who were working for him in
the absence of Pellegrini, and, owing to a disagreement, was looking
for a new cartoonist. Millais, remembering my ambitions in that
direction (for when I saw the first numbers of _Vanity Fair_ I was
greatly taken with Pellegrini's caricatures, and, having a book of
drawings of a similar character, had thought that if only I could get
one drawing in _Vanity Fair_ I should die happy), called to see my
book of caricatures. This book contained drawings made at various
times, from my early youth up to that period; and when Millais saw the
sketch of "Old Bones," he was very taken with it.
"I like so much this one of Professor Owen," he said. "It's just the
sort of thing that Bowles would delight in. Re-draw it the same size
as the cartoons in _Vanity Fair_ and I'll take it to him."
I called with the cartoon, which was accepted--but was unsigned. I had
invented a rather amusing signature in the form of a fool's bauble,
but this did not meet with Mr. Bowles' approval. After a little
discussion he handed me a Johnson's dictionary, in order that I might
search there for some appropriate pseudonym. The dictionary fell open
in my hand in a most portentous manner at the "S's," and my eye fell
with the same promptitude on the word SPY.
"How's that?" I said. "The verb to spy, to observe secretly, or to
discover at a distance or in concealment."
"Just the thing," said Bowles. And so we settled it, and since then,
like the Soap man (this is not an advertisement), I have used no other
(with one exception, of which I will tell later).
Becoming a permanent member of the staff of _Vanity Fair_ and my dream
more than realized, I turned my attention to caricature
whole-heartedly and with infinite pleasure.
On the publication of my first drawing, Pellegrini called upon Gibson
Bowles (rather suddenly, considering his previous indifference and
silence), to tell him in flattering terms what he thought of the
caricature, and to inquire into the identity of the artist. _I_ in my
turn received the following letter from Mr. Arthur Lewis.
Thorpe Lodge,
March, 1873.
MY DEAR LESLIE WARD,
I've just got my last week's _Vanity Fair_. I presume the
admirable cartoon of Professor Owen is yours, as you said you'd
some idea of doing him for a trial of your skill. I cannot
refrain from sending you my congratulations on so successful a
commencement. Without flattering, I can tell you that I think it
almost (if at all) without exception the best of the whole
series.
I hope we may have many more of such quaint yet kindly
caricatures from your pencil.
Believe me,
Sincerely yours,
ARTHUR LEWIS.
I was extremely pleased to receive this flattering letter and
encouragement from a man whom I admired; whose opinions, as those of
an amateur artist of undoubted ability, were worth considering; and
who was entirely in sympathy with my choice of a career. Mr. Arthur
Lewis knew everybody in literary and artistic circles; at his house in
Campden Hill all the most delightful artists and _artistes_ of the day
came to amuse and be amused. There, in the garden, where one might
imagine oneself miles away from London, Mrs. Arthur Lewis (Kate Terry
of former years) entertained, and, in the summer time, gave charming
garden parties.
[Illustration: THOMAS GIBSON BOWLES (TOMMY),
_Founder of "Vanity Fair."_
1905]
[Illustration: COLONEL HALL WALKER.
1906.]
[Illustration: COLONEL FRED. BURNABY.
1876.]
Before his marriage, Mr. Lewis was noted for his suppers at Moray
Lodge, where he once entertained the Prince of Wales. It was from this
house, by the way, that the Moray Minstrels derived their name.
On Sunday mornings he was pleased to paint, for as he was a very busy
man, the week end was the only time he could spare for his favourite
occupation. One of his pictures, after being hung on the line at the
Royal Academy, was bought by a stranger from William Agnew for two
hundred pounds. Lewis told me with great pride that he was prouder of
that cheque than of any he ever received, and as a rich man he must
have been the recipient of large sums.
It was at the Lawsons' house that I first met my fellow artist Carlo
Pellegrini. Previous to our meeting, a mutual acquaintance had
jestingly and rather fiendishly accosted Pellegrini one day with a
remark concerning my work.
"Hullo, Pellegrini! You've got a rival."
"Oh, that boy," replied the caricaturist, "I taught 'im all 'e know!"
This was news indeed to me, for as well as owing my education in
drawing to the Academy Schools, I had caricatured from my earliest
childhood. At the time I treated the assertion as a joke; but in later
life, when the fiction was believed by journalists and set forth in
print, I rather regretted my former indifference.
An episode occurred shortly after the publication of my caricature of
the late Lord Alington, showing how easily such misunderstandings
might gain credence. A friend of mine met me one day. "My dear
fellow," he began, "there's a capital caricature in Sotheran's that
you could study with advantage--you should go and have a look at it.
You may get a few tips from it." I stared a moment to make sure that
he was not pulling my leg, then I understood. "My dear old fool," I
said. "Go and have another look and at the signature to it--that
particular drawing is mine."
Pellegrini was quite as individual in his outward appearance as he was
by temperament. In person he was little and stout, and extremely
fastidious. He always wore white spats, and their whiteness was ever
immaculate, for he rode everywhere, a fact which probably accounted
for his bad health in later years. His boots, too, were the acme of
perfection, and his nails were as long and pointed as those of a
Mandarin. He used to tell the story of his arrival in London, without
the proverbial penny, and how he wandered about the streets unable to
find a night's lodging, until, growing weary and desperate, he slept
in a cab. There were other stories of how he fought with Garibaldi,
having a charmed life while the bullets whistled past him, or of his
destined career of diplomacy, and of his Medici descent. One of the
most amusing characteristics of Pellegrini was the way in which he
related an anecdote. His expressive eyes, which always seemed to be
observing everything, would commence to flash before the words came;
and his English, which was ever poor, stumbled and tripped, for
although he was rather too quick to recollect slang terms, his grammar
remained appalling, but delightfully naive. As the story progressed
his eyes would roll and flash, and, working himself up into a frenzy
as Neapolitans do, he would become extremely excited, until when the
crisis came, the point of the story burst upon the listeners' ears
with a bomb-like suddenness. His own description of how he would treat
his enemy was inimitable. First he created his subject, and then
imagined him lying in terrible agony and poverty by the wayside, and
dying of thirst.
"I go up to 'im and I say, 'You thirsty?' and 'e say 'e die ... 'Ah!'
I reply, 'I go and fetch you some water.... I take it and 'old it to
'is lips ... then ... when 'is lips close on the brim ..." (here
Carlo's eyes would flash and distend)" ... I take the cup away and 'e
fall back and die!"
In reality, in spite of his melodramatic description, I expect
Pellegrini would have been the first to help the sufferer, for he had
a tender heart and the kindest of dispositions.
Our meeting at the Lawsons' was the beginning of a lasting friendship.
I became fond of "Pelican," as his friends called him, and always
found his company refreshing. There are innumerable stories to tell of
him, some hardly polite, but none the less entertaining. I think his
quaint English added to the humour of his narrative, his naive
self-glorification and childish conceit added not a little to the
entertainment of his hearers.
A friend once said to him, "Pelican, I noticed in the picture of
D---- (a Colonel in the Blues) that 'Spy' has left out the spurs!"
"Ah," replied Carlo, smiting his chest with a blow of conscious pride,
"_I_ never make mistake in the _closes_."
As a matter of fact, D---- had stood in a position in which his spurs
were concealed.
I scored off Pellegrini on another occasion, much to his amusement.
Weldon, "Norroy King at Arms," invited us to dine with him to meet
Sandys the artist, who did not turn up. Pellegrini, who had a habit of
sleeping after meals, partook of the excellent dinner, and then,
taking a cigar and the most comfortable armchair, sank into a profound
slumber, punctuated by violent snores. Weldon and I after attempting
conversation, exchanged looks rather glumly across his sleeping body,
when Weldon had an inspiration.
"I say, Ward," he exclaimed, "here's an opportunity, we may as well do
something to amuse ourselves--do take a pencil and draw him!"
So I drew the caricaturist, who, waking presently from his slumbers,
was immensely tickled by my sketch, and wrote across the corner
"approved by C. P." The drawing now hangs in the Beefsteak Club.
Another episode _a propos_ of Carlo's slumbers occurred in there.
I must mention first of all an extraordinary accomplishment of
Pellegrini's, which I do not remember ever having noticed in any other
man--the habit of retaining a cigar in his mouth while he slept and
snored. One day as he slept by the fire I watched him drawing in his
breath and letting it go in his usual queer fashion ... when the
cigar fell out of his mouth! Feeling that a substitute was needed, I,
in a spirit of curiosity, replaced it by a cork; the indrawing and
expanding continued as before; then he snored--- once--twice--thrice;
and suddenly the cork shot out, and, making a noise like a pop-gun,
flew with considerable force into the fire. Pleased with my
experiment, I rescued it, but it was rather too burnt to replace. Then
an irresistible piece of devilry made me dab the tip of his nose with
it. Stirring in his sleep, he brushed his face with his hand with the
action of one who brushes away a fly. I made another little dab in a
carefully chosen spot, with the same result. The men sitting at the
other end of the room began to giggle, and the caricaturist in burnt
cork began to grow interesting. Presently Carlo awoke, stretched, and
giving his face a final rub, stood up, accompanied by a roar of
laughter. Going to the nearest glass, Pellegrini saw his comic
reflection.
[Illustration: PELLEGRINI ASLEEP.]
[Illustration: _A looker-on at Wimbledon Common during a Volunteer
Review, 1867_.]
[Illustration: _A Ballet Dancer, Manchester Theatre. ("The Ballet of
Hens"), 1871_.]
[Illustration: PELLEGRINI "APE." _"My fellow, what I care! I say to
'im, 'you go to----'_]
"Oh!" he said, dramatically, "I do not accept apologize--you no longer
remain member 'ere!--write to the Committee--most unclubbable
that--you wait ... we shall see!"
I tried to pacify him, but he waved me aside. The next morning he
wrote me the following letter:--
Studio,
53, Mortimer Street,
Cavendish Square.
DEAR LESLIE,
Forgive me if I took the joke of last evening too much _au
serieux_.
Ever yours,
PELLEGRINI.
During my first years on _Vanity Fair_ (or thereabouts) Pellegrini
was engaged in making an excellent series of caricatures of the
members of the Marlborough Club, in which the Prince of Wales was much
interested. His Royal Highness enjoyed Pellegrini's genius and his
company. The drawings were reproduced in the most costly manner, and
the collection was still unfinished when, owing to a disagreement,
Pellegrini refused to complete them.
The famous caricaturist numbered some eminent men amongst his friends.
Paolo Tosti and the late Chevalier Martino (Marine Painter in Ordinary
to the King) I remember especially. In the early days Pellegrini was
constantly to be seen at Pagani's, where there gradually gathered a
coterie of well-known Italians and Englishmen. In this way the
restaurant became the _rendezvous_ of interesting people, and Pagani's
undoubtedly owed its fame to Pellegrini.
In later years, illness barred him from many pleasant places, and kept
him a prisoner in nursing homes. He suffered from a variety of
ailments, and not the least amongst them was lumbago.
I was at the Fielding Club one evening when "Pelican" came crawling
in, looking white and ill; blue circles round his eyes accentuated his
look of misery.
"Come along, Pelican," I said, thinking to cheer him, for we
frequently played together, "come and play billiards."
"Ah!" he groaned, his hand on his back. "I cannot play billiard
to-night, my boy, I 'ave lumbago!"
Later the hospital claimed him, and it was sad to visit an old friend
whose sufferings were acute, in such changed surroundings at Fitzroy
Square.
The King of Italy decorated him, and when I came with my
congratulations, he said, "Oh! Don't! It come too late!"
There is yet another memory of him in brighter circumstances which
comes to me quite clearly across the years. One of my sisters was
staying at my studio in William Street, when the Neapolitan came in
full of his quaint humour. Looking at her gallantly, he smiled, and
said, with a soft sigh and with such child-like admiration as to be
irresistibly comical, "Oh, those beautiful cat's-eye!"
I remember the day was glorious and the season at its height. We were
going out, when he said, "I _must_ carry your sunshade." This was only
an excuse for foolery, for he took it and, walking with it, assumed a
mincing gait to the accompaniment of remarkably comic grimaces. My
sister, remonstrating, said, "Really, Mr. Pellegrini, I can't walk
with you like this."
"Very well," he replied, and crossing over with the same absurd
gestures, he walked on the other side of the road, twirling the red
sunshade all the way to Gunter's, where he continued his fooling by
trying to persuade the waitress to supply him with a liqueur (which
was decidedly forbidden).
While we ate our ices, he conquered the girl with high-flown and
exaggerated compliments, and finally had his way; and as for the
liqueur, success found him more or less indifferent to its
consumption, for the jest had been nearly all bravado.
James J. Tissot was an occasional contributor to _Vanity Fair_. His
work can hardly be called caricature; for the sketches were rather
characteristic and undoubtedly brilliant drawings of his subjects. He
was achieving considerable popularity (especially with dealers) by
painting lively scenes--usually in grey tones--of Greenwich breakfast
parties, modern subjects with a pretty female figure as the centre of
attraction. Tissot had a strong personality, and from the
psychological point of view his story is extraordinary. The woman to
whom he was devoted (and who figured so frequently in his pictures)
died, and Tissot, overcome with grief, perhaps with remorse, left
England and went to the East to seek distraction in foreign travel. In
Palestine he stayed and painted; and here he drew a series of
religious pictures illustrating the life of Christ. They were
exhibited at the Dore Gallery on his return to England, and showed an
extraordinary change of outlook. He became at first extremely
religious, and then the victim of religious mania. Later, he surprised
his world by becoming a monk, driven by his devotion to the memory of
the dead woman to the extremities which often arise when a strong
character is suddenly disrupted by great sorrow. Finally, he entered a
monastery, where he eventually lost his reason and died.
He used to say in his sane days, when talking about his work, and
about art in general, "If you feel the drapery or the hang of a
garment in a drawing is shaky, and your model cannot understand the
subtleties of the pose you require, get a cheval glass, pose yourself,
if possible, and sketch your reflection. Sometimes it is astonishing
how successful the result is."
Before I proceed any further with my recollections of _Vanity Fair_ I
think perhaps I might jog the reader's memory by a few reminiscences
of the early days of that paper, which was almost the first paper
which could be called a society journal. _The Owl_ was the first to
be published of that type, and out of this pioneer arose _Vanity
Fair_. In those days the eager public paid a shilling for their weekly
publications; and _Vanity Fair_ was founded by Mr. Gibson Bowles
(better known as "Tommy"), since a member of Parliament, and at that
time the best editor the paper ever had. He had the gift of the right
word in the right place; and it may be remarked that a dislike of
Dickens prevented any quotations from that well-known author from
entering the pages, and that he opposed the fashion of that period of
alluding to a lady of title with the Christian name as a prefix.
Among the earliest contributors were the late Colonel Fred Burnaby and
the late Captain Alexander Cockburn, a son of the late Chief Justice,
Lady Desart, Lady Florence Dixie (who was editress at one time), and
the late Mr. "Willie Wyllats." The latter, an even more brilliant
writer than many of the rising men of that generation, also wrote for
_Vanity Fair_ at that period.
The caricatures in _Vanity Fair_ were supplemented by very terse and
extremely clever comments upon the lives of the subjects portrayed by
the cartoonist. These were signed "Jehu, Junior," and were in
themselves enough to attract the reader by their caustic wit.
Looking back to-day it is strange to read in the light of great events
these miniature biographies of politicians now forgotten, of others
who left their party to go over, of statesmen, of judges who sat on
important cases and are now only remembered in connection with a
trivial poisoner, an impostor in a claim, of careers then unproved but
now shining clearly in the light of fame, and of others whose light
is extinguished--all within so short a lapse of time.
In those days I stalked my man and caricatured him from memory. Many
men I was unable to observe closely, and I was obliged to rely upon
the accuracy of my eyesight, for distance sometimes lends an entirely
fictitious appearance to the face. I listened to John Stuart Mill at a
lecture on "Woman's Rights"; and then as he recited passages from his
notes in a weak voice, it was made extremely clear that his pen was
mightier than his personal magnetism upon a platform. A strange
protuberance upon his forehead attracted me; and, the oddly-shaped
skull dipping slightly in the middle, "the feminine philosopher" just
escaped being bereft not only of his hair when I saw him, but of that
highly important organ--the bump of reverence.
His nose resembled a parrot's, and his frame was spare. In fact, he
was ascetic and thin-looking generally; but his manner and personality
breathed charm and intellect.
With Anthony Trollope I was more fortunate, for my kind friend, Mr.
James Virtue, the publisher, invited me to his charming house at
Walton, where I was able to observe the novelist by making a close
study of him from various points of view. We went a delightful walk
together to St. George's Hill, and while Trollope admired the scenery,
I noted the beauties of Nature in another way, committed those mental
observations to my mental note-book, and came home to what fun I could
get out of them.
The famous novelist was not in the least conscious of my eagle eye,
and imagining I should let him down gently, Mr. Virtue did not warn
him, luckily for me, for I had an excellent subject. When the
caricature appeared, Trollope was furious, and naturally did not
hesitate to give poor Virtue a "blowing-up," whereupon I in turn
received a stiff letter from Mr. Virtue. It surprised me not a little,
that he should take the matter so seriously; but for a time Mr. Virtue
was decidedly "short" with me. Luckily, however, his displeasure only
lasted a short period, for he was too genuinely amiable a man to let
such a thing make a permanent difference to his ordinary behaviour.
[Illustration: JOHN TENNIEL.
1878.]
[Illustration: ANTHONY TROLLOPE.
1873.]
[Illustration: SIR FRANCIS DOYLE, BART.
1877.]
I had portrayed Trollope's strange thumb, which he held erect whilst
smoking, with his cigar between his first and second fingers, his
pockets standing out on either side of his trousers, his coat buttoned
once and then parting over a small but comfortable corporation. The
letterpress on this occasion I consider was far more severe than my
caricature, for I had not praised the books with faint damns as being
"sufficiently faithful to the external aspect of English life to
interest those who see nothing but its external aspects and yet
sufficiently removed from all depth of humanity to conciliate all
respected parents." Nor had I implied that "his manners are a little
rough, as is his voice; but he is nevertheless extremely popular
amongst his friends, while by his readers he is looked upon with
gratitude due to one who has for so many years amused without ever
shocking them. Whether this reputation would not last longer if he had
shocked them occasionally, is a question which the bookseller of a
future generation will be able to answer."
It is an ill wind that blows nobody any good, for through this drawing
I received an offer from Edmund Yates, who was then starting _The
World_, to make a series of caricatures regularly for the forthcoming
paper. My father, who was anxious for me to continue my more serious
work of portraiture, advised me to do half the number requested by
Yates. When Yates heard my decision he refused to consider a smaller
number of contributions, and so the matter dropped. Previous to this I
had illustrated a number of his lectures by drawings of celebrities,
and I declined the extra work with some reluctance. Looking back, I
see the excellence of my father's advice that I should not devote the
whole of my time to work for reproductions, and I have often regretted
that I did not give more time to my more serious work. I never
realized that _Vanity Fair_ might one day cease to exist for me, or
that a period might arrive when, owing to the ever enlarging field of
photography, that type of work would be no longer in such demand.
My father was himself a caricaturist of no mean order; and one of my
most cherished possessions is a caricature which my father made of me
as a child, drawn on the day before I returned to Eton after a
holiday. In it I am represented as a most injured person, because a
very callous conversation is being carried on in the face of the great
tragedy of my life (at the moment), the ending of the holidays. Of
course I caricatured my father in due time for _Vanity Fair_; and he
was a delightful subject.
"For heaven's sake, don't let me down gently!" he said. And I didn't!
In consequence, friends complained of my want of respect, whereas my
father regarded the drawing with amusement, for he could always
appreciate a joke against himself.
Once, however, I remember an amusing incident in which for quite a
long time he failed to see any humour. My mother and sister, with my
father and me, were returning from some theatre, and we hailed a cab.
Getting in, my father said "Home" to the cabby, whereupon the man
replied, "Where, sir?" "Home," replied my father, a trifle louder.
"Where, sir?" answered the cabby, his voice mounting one note higher
in the scale. "Go home," cried my father, irascibly. Still the cab
didn't move, and the expression on the face of the driver was a study.
"Do you hear?" thundered my father. "No," replied the man. Then we
came to the rescue.
But to return to the subject. Dr. Doran (whom I had caricatured
shortly before in _Vanity Fair_) possessed the same delightful
magnanimity as regards a joke against himself, and I really found that
men of this type appreciated caricature. This drawing of my father's
friend caused me extreme disappointment when it appeared, for during
its manipulation by the lithographers it had suffered considerably.
The original now hangs in the National Portrait Gallery, to which it
was presented, I believe, by one of the trustees of that institution.
In January, 1873, the death of Lord Lytton (whose funeral I attended
with my parents, as I had also been present at Thackeray's) led to my
receiving a commission from Mr. Thomas, the editor of the _Graphic_.
Mr. Thomas, knowing that I was acquainted with the great author, sent
me a water-colour sketch of the Hall at Knebworth by old Mr. Macquoid
(the father of Percy Macquoid), in which I was to place a figure of
Lord Lytton. My introduction to the paper came through Luke Fildes,
who, besides making the drawing of Charles Dickens's "Empty Chair"
after his death, was then making the very interesting drawing of
Napoleon III. on his deathbed. Small, Gregory and Herkomer also helped
to make the _Graphic_, and I produced portrait drawings of celebrated
people, including Miss Elizabeth Tompson, Disraeli, Sir John Cockburn,
Millais, Gladstone and Leighton.
[Illustration: "MILES BUGGLEBURY."
_With praiseworthy ambitions but a failure in life._
1867.]