MY CLUBS
The Arts Club.--Mrs. Frith's funeral.--The sympathetic
waiter.--Swinburne.--Whistler.--Edmund Yates.--The Orleans
Club.--Sir George Wombwell.--"Hughie" Drummond.--"Fatty"
Coleman.--Lady Meux.--The Prize Fighter and her nephew.--The
Curate.--The Theobald's Tiger.--Whistler and his pictures.--
Charles Brookfield.--Mrs. Brookfield.--The Lotus Club.--Kate
Vaughan.--Nellie Farren.--The Lyric Club.--The Gallery Club.
--Some Members.--The Jockey Club Stand.--My plunge on the
turf.--The Beefsteak Club.--Toole and Irving.--The Fielding
Club.--Archie Wortley.--Charles Keene.--The Amateur Pantomime.
--Some of the caste.--Corney Grain.--A night on Ebury Bridge.
--The Punch Bowl Club.--Oliver Wendell Holmes.--Lord Houghton
and the herring.
"The pleasantest society is that where the members feel a warm
respect for one another."--_Goethe_.
It was in 1874 that my parents left London and returned to Windsor,
and I being obliged to remain in town, took rooms in Connaught Street,
and a studio in William Street, Lowndes Square. I also joined the Arts
Club, Hanover Square, and finding that dining alone had its drawbacks,
especially after the delightful family life at home, I frequently used
my club as a more sociable place to have my meals in. There was also a
pearl among waiters whose sympathetic and also clairvoyant sense
enabled him to tell by one's expression exactly what one wanted. If
one came in looking fit he would say perhaps, "Ah, yes! I think
so-and-so to-day," or if one came in jaded and weary, he would wheedle
one into a chair and say in tactful tones, just tinged with sadness,
"Leave it to me, sir." But if simultaneously another member burst in
with hilarious mood and cried, "Now then, Shave, what have you for
dinner?" the obliging creature would be waiting for him with a bright
reflection of his mood and suggest some quite appropriate and savoury
dish.
Shave was my mainstay in many a dark hour. I shall always remember the
only time he disappointed me. I had been to my godmother's funeral,
and feeling tired--the black coaches and all the inevitable solemnity
of death had oppressed me--when arriving at the door of my club, I saw
a very funereal looking carriage outside the door, which reminded me
very forcibly of the scene I had just left. Throwing off the growing
feeling of depression, I bethought me of my lunch, and, consoled with
the remembrance of the coming tact of my attendant waiter, I walked
quickly into the club. Not seeing him, I said to the hall porter,
"Where's Shave?"
"He's in that carriage, sir!" replied the man. "At least, 'is corpse
is."
This was the finishing touch! I had imagined men might come and
go--but that poor Shave would go on for ever. I discovered on
inquiring later that the sudden death was due to suicide after
depression resulting from some misunderstanding which I did not
inquire into, which must have affected his brain.
I belonged to the club shortly after Swinburne had resigned his
membership, and the following story was repeated to me. It seems that
he had spent an evening in the club; and he was about to leave when,
selecting what he thought was his hat from amongst the many, he felt
he had inadvertently mistaken another for his own. Replacing it, he
tried again. Several times he repeated the process of trying on in
hopes of finding the right hat, but all in vain. Growing excited, he
began to try on indiscriminately, without success; then, finding he
had lost his hat, he lost his head, and dashed the offending hats to
the ground in turn. At last, after a grand _finale_ of destruction, he
strode hatless from the club, leaving devastation behind him.
Whistler once came searching for _his_ opera hat. I was comfortably
ensconced, and did not assist him. Finally, roused by his persistent
search, I got up to help, and found to my chagrin that I had been
sitting on the hat, and that, in so doing, I had ruined the springs
and rendered it useless. He put it on, nevertheless, and although the
effect was "amazing" (his favourite expression), Jimmy accepted my
apologies most good-humouredly and philosophically.
One of the occasions of note at the club was an annual fish dinner
held at the "Old Ship," Greenwich, but when that custom ceased the
dinner took place at the club itself. It was at one of these
festivities that Edmund Yates, who had been very bitter against me
previously in his paper, made, I remember, a very kindly allusion to
myself. I had caricatured him, as he thought, with intent to hurt his
feelings; and he had publicly--and very unjustly--accused me of
artistic snobbery. He had said that I was in the habit of caricaturing
only those who were socially unimportant, and flattering noble lords;
but at this dinner I was sitting almost opposite him, and when he rose
to reply to a toast, he endeavoured to propitiate me by referring to
himself as "portly, but not quite so portly as the artist of _Vanity
Fair_ had depicted him." This I understood to be a tentative offering
of the olive branch. Later, when in prison for libel, he wrote his
reminiscences, in which he alluded in a more than friendly manner to
some drawings I had done for him in earlier days to illustrate
lectures that he delivered in America on Dickens and Thackeray.
The Arts Club numbered some very distinguished men among its numbers.
When I belonged, Val Prinsep, Marcus Stone, Phene Spiers, Louis Fagan,
Pellegrini, Archibald Forbes, Tenniel, Dr. Buzzard, Marks, and Tadema
were frequenters of the Club, as also was Charles Keene, who combined
an air of the sixteenth century very successfully with his idea of
modern dress. Keene used to smoke a clay pipe which was both becoming
and in keeping. These clays, of which he had a continual supply, were
among a number found in the Thames, where they had probably been
buried at some time, unless, perhaps, a pipe factory had existed in
old days on the banks of the river.
Another prominent member, John Tenniel, (so Linley Sambourne told me)
had never seen either Dizzy or Gladstone in the flesh till years after
his earlier cartoons of them appeared in _Punch_. It may be also new
to my reader that Sambourne gave the nucleus of the idea for his
famous cartoon "Dropping the Pilot" at one of the weekly dinners of
the staff, the original drawing of which, I believe, is in the
possession of Lord Rosebery.
When I left Connaught Street and went to live on the other side of the
Park, I became a member of the Orleans Club, and enjoyed the then
unique advantage of belonging to one where ladies were permitted to
dine. Here I made many pleasant acquaintances and spent a good time.
[Illustration: THE BEEFSTEAK CLUB.
_The Clubroom occupied from 1876 to 1895._]
Shortly after I joined the club a branch was opened at the Orleans
House, Twickenham; but, although it was a delightful place to go to in
the long summer days, and many a good cricket match was played there,
the attendance each season grew smaller until the club was forced to
close. I believe to-day the little Orleans in King Street, St. James',
continues to enjoy a considerable reputation for good food and
fellowship.
The late veteran Sir George Wombwell, a constant attendant, who was
known to be one of the smartest figures in London, and was always
immaculately dressed, unfortunately spilt one evening some coffee down
his shirt front, thereby spoiling his appearance for the supper he was
giving that same evening. Being much concerned, and as I was in the
club at the time, he consulted me as to what was best to be done. It
was too late to go home to change, he remarked. I thought a little.
What about billiard chalk? No, it wouldn't be sufficiently permanent.
Then, as luck would have it, I remembered there was a tube of Chinese
white in the pocket of my overcoat, so with this I completely
eradicated the stains. Sir George was so pleased with my success as a
shirt restorer that he invited me to his supper.
At this period I paid occasional visits to Theobald's Park. On one of
these, while Sir Henry Meux was away in Scotland, Lady Meux was
entertaining a few guests previous to leaving England. An idea struck
her before the party broke up, and she suggested a little farewell
dinner and a theatre afterwards in town.
"Where had we better dine?" she questioned. "Do any of you belong to
the Orleans Club?"
I was silent on purpose, but a tactless man at once said, "Leslie
Ward's the man; he's a member," so I knew I was "in for it," and as I
had received much hospitality at Theobald's, and as I was aware of no
rule that would interfere with our arrangement, beyond the one which
prohibited the introduction of actresses, I acquiesced.
"Capital," said Lady Meux, "we will dine there and I will stand the
dinner."
On the following day, upon arriving in town I hurried to the Orleans
Club. There I ordered a table to be ready for dinner in the private
room that evening, and to be nicely decorated with flowers.
When my lady guest arrived with her small party, which included a
parson, I was requested in the usual way to write their names in the
visitors' book. After this was done, we proceeded to the private
dining-room; but "My Lady," to my utmost astonishment, with a look of
disgust on her face turned to the door, saying--
"This won't do! We will dine in the public room."
Fortunately, as it was August, that was quite empty, so we dined in
comfort, having the room to ourselves.
A few days after, I received a letter from the club, saying that the
committee had met and considered that I should be asked to take my
name off the books immediately. I then wrote explaining that I was
quite ignorant of a rule which it seems had been (so innocently)
violated when I introduced my guest to the club. I received a reply
written in quite a friendly spirit, saying they had taken my letter
into consideration, and that I was reinstated.
Lady Meux was a hero-worshipper, and one of her peculiarities, which
in later years almost amounted to a mania, was the desire to leave
her property to a hero. Her difficulty in making a selection must have
been great. The popular generals or naval men who had distinguished
themselves held very high places in her esteem. Her sporting instinct,
which was very strong, was sometimes carried to extremes; for
instance, she once wished to test the courage of a nephew of her
husband's who was staying in her house, and engaged a professor in the
gentle art of prize-fighting to come down and try the boy. The man, by
way of a preliminary, knocked the boy about a little, which did not
satisfy Lady Meux, who urged the prize-fighter on to harder blows.
When the boy's blood began to flow, she was delighted, and considered
the ordeal was making a man of him; he made a very plucky stand
against his professional antagonist, and when his strength was just at
its ebb, the thoughtful lady let him off, and immediately gave him a
handsome present for the pluck he had shown.
On another occasion, a curate who depended upon her for the living on
her estate, was cruelly persuaded to allow himself to be used as a
sort of human firework display. He took his torture very
philosophically, and was first tied up in tarpaulin from head to foot,
and then covered with every imaginable kind of cracker, a large
Catherine Wheel forming a centre piece to complete the scheme. When
the fun began, he jerked and jumped, while the various fireworks
ignited and exploded with terrific effect. Afterwards, refreshment was
administered, and the company were so pleased at the courage he had
shown that the men asked him at once to come and have a drink with
them.
Actually, Lady Meux was a kind-hearted and intelligent woman in her
way; she used to organize "tea-fights" for the village children, and
many acts of a generous nature are to be attributed to her; although
perhaps her method of bestowing her gifts was sometimes a trifle
eccentric.
I was invited to stay at Theobald's Park with a sporting acquaintance.
The attractions of the surroundings of this country house were
somewhat unusual by reason of its menagerie, which contained a fine
collection of animals, including a valuable tiger, and a museum full
of old Roman curios, mummies, and innumerable curiosities, collected
by Sir Henry Meux, who was himself a connoisseur of antiquities. We
arrived, I remember, in advance of the rest of the house party, and
that evening, as we drank our coffee, our hostess told us rather an
uncanny story of a burglary which had happened shortly before. The man
had been arrested and was "doing time." (By the way, Lady Meux visited
his wife and befriended her during his imprisonment.) The next evening
we were sitting in the billiard room, when we were disturbed by the
loud barking of a dog.
"What's the matter, I wonder?" said my friend, as the noise didn't
cease.
A moment later, a great roar was heard, followed by most extraordinary
sounds, then on the top of this came the firing of a gun, then a
trampling and uproar, after which followed a volley of shots, and
immediately a sound as if every animal of the Zoo had broken loose,
the monkeys screaming and chattering above the trumpeting of the
elephant and the growls of the bear.
We jumped to our feet; my friend was horrified, and Lady Meux
shrieked: "There are the burglars!" and fled upstairs.
Abandoning our game of billiards, we prepared to seek the scene from
which such strange sounds were coming, when a footman appeared and
informed us that the tiger had got loose and had mauled the gardener's
boy.
"I have orders," he said, "to turn out the lights, lock the doors, and
forbid any one to go outside."
"How ridiculous!" said my friend. "I've had considerable experience
with tigers in India ... those orders are absurd ... turn up the
lights at once."
"No, sir; I daren't," answered the man.
A moment later, the gardener appeared with his clothing torn and his
arm all over blood.
"I've shot the tiger between the eyes," he said, "and effectually."
We were rather relieved, and after some instructions as to his
somewhat severe wound, finding we could be of no service, we prepared
to go to bed, when our hostess suddenly turned up in rather a
melodramatic looking boudoir gown, her hair dishevelled, and her face
white as death. We went up to her (as she paused in the doorway, with
her hand on her heart, she appeared to be suffering), and told her,
thinking to reassure her, that the tiger had been shot by the gardener
while mauling his son. When she realized the significance of our
words, she gave way to a frenzy of anger.
"What! You don't mean to say that horrible man has shot the dear tiger
that Sir Henry paid so much for! If he knew, he would no longer keep
him in his service--I shall dismiss him at once!" And with a final
burst of anger, she departed in a fit of hysterics.
When Lady Meux had gone, my friend, who was awfully upset, broke into
anger.
"What a heartless woman!" he said. "Why, the poor chap ought to be
well rewarded for his pluck, instead of which he will be dismissed.
What a damned shame!"
At that moment the footman entered again. "Perhaps you'd like to know,
sir," he announced, "the boy is still alive, and not so seriously hurt
as we first thought."
We were somewhat relieved by this news, and as the lights were out we
could not see to play billiards any longer, so we managed to grope
round and find some little refreshment and go to bed.
The next morning, as I was dressing I heard a voice outside calling my
name. Looking into the garden, I saw my friend, whose normal ruddy
colour had changed to a most deathly white.
"What's the matter?" I cried.
In a hoarse voice he besought me to come down, which I did. Taking me
to the managerie, he showed me the general scene of destruction;
bushes had been trampled down, some torn up by the roots, and
everywhere the signs of a great struggle met the eye. As we walked, he
told me how, going to the tiger's cage, he had looked for the body.
Seeing nothing but the broken bars, he looked into the sleeping
compartment where a live tiger had sprung at his face, which he had
withdrawn in the very nick of time. We were very puzzled by the fact
that the animal was alive and apparently unharmed, and as we paced up
and down by the cage, we tried to account for the tiger's reappearance
in the sleeping compartment. A reporter appeared a little later on
behalf of the local paper, but was ordered off the premises rather
peremptorily. As we walked, a groom accosted us, who informed us that
he was not one of the regular servants, but an odd man from
Newmarket.
"I don't 'arf like it," he began.
"What do you mean?" replied my friend.
"T'aint all right, you bet," he said, with a wink.
After some explanations, it transpired that the groom was trying to
tell us that we had been hoaxed, and the gardener's boy was as well as
we were and everybody concerned. I could not help laughing when I
realized how completely we had been taken in. The elephant, the dogs,
and all the menagerie, including the parrots, had been produced to
make the uproar and trample down the bushes. The gardener had attended
to the shooting, and all the servants were in the plot, and each had
been carefully rehearsed (under threat of dismissal) by their mistress
for the practical joke played upon her guest. The reporter, I may add,
was the _chef_ in disguise.
When I saw Lady Meux, who was pretending to be too ill and upset
(owing to the shock to her nerves) to come down, I congratulated her
upon her scheme, for I could not but admire the extraordinarily clever
acting she had displayed for the furthering of her plot; the tears,
the stage hysterics, and the way she had worked herself up into a
frenzy until I could not tell whether it was assumed or real, were all
marvellously clever. But when I asked her the reason of her plan, she
told me her object was to frighten our friend, who was becoming
addicted to the habit of taking more alcohol than was good for him,
and by dint of doing so, she hoped to startle him into reconsidering
his life, and by the means of a good shock, awaken his power of
resistance to what was becoming a steady habit. I never discovered
what our friend thought, and what the result was, but I know he was
really frightened.
As well as her leanings in the direction of warrior heroes, Lady Meux
had a keen sense of humour; she wished me to caricature one of the
guests who arrived in the house-party after the tiger affair. One
evening I was inspired, and did a really funny caricature of him, and
thinking she would be pleased with it, as a surprise I placed it on
the mantelpiece, hoping she would see it when she came down to dinner.
As fate would have it, my subject came in first; and when I arrived a
little later, it had gone, so I asked him if he had seen a caricature
of himself that I had done at my hostess' special request; as it was
not ill-natured, I had no hesitation in referring to it before him.
"Oh," he answered grimly. "I've put it where it deserved to go--in the
fire!"
My friend, Charles H. F. Brookfield, was lunching with Whistler one
day, when the artist complained of the scarcity of money and
commissions, and Brookfield, remembering Lady Meux had said she would
like her portrait painted, said, "Cheer up, Jimmy; I've an idea."
With his usual cleverness and tact, he persuaded the lady that here
was a genius waiting to do her justice, and the affair was arranged.
When Whistler saw Lady Meux in her pink satin, he was certainly
enchanted, but her sables inspired him with a desire to paint her
again, and her diamonds enhanced another dress so greatly that his
enthusiasm grew keener still, and with great skill he persuaded his
sitter to allow him to embark upon three pictures or even more.
Brookfield was so amused at the progress of the pictures which
Whistler painted at the same time, that he (Brookfield) made a clever
little sketch and caricature of the artist, his hair flying about in
his wild enthusiasm, attacking the pictures with an enormously long
brush. Two or three years ago, when some of Whistler's sketches were
up for auction, this little drawing was sold at Christie's as a
genuine Whistler for twenty pounds.
A host of amusing stories come to me with the mention of Brookfield,
some of which he told me himself with an incomparable drollery that
was entirely typical of the man, and others which are told of him by
his friends.
When he contemplated going upon the stage as a young man, many of his
friends remonstrated with him and endeavoured to persuade him to
abandon his decision. A near relation also wrote begging him not to
embark upon such a career, terminating his letter with a final appeal,
"I beg of you," he wrote, "not to go upon the stage--in the name of
Christ."
"I have no intention of acting under any other name but my own," wrote
the irrepressible young man in return.
When he had been upon the stage some time, he met by chance one of the
friends who had ranged himself on the side of the opposers.
"Hullo, Charlie," he said, rather condescendingly. "Still--er--on the
stage?"
"Oh yes," replied our friend. "And you--still in the Commons?"
I am indebted to a mutual friend, Mr. William Elliot, for the
following story of Brookfield in later years.
My friend met him one day with his wife in Jermyn Street; the next
time he saw him Brookfield remarked--
"It was so lucky I met you the other day, for it enabled me to tell my
wife something I have always been too shy to tell her before--that I
have become a Catholic." (Mrs. Brookfield had always been a Papist.)
"What nonsense," replied my friend. "How could my meeting you and your
wife start you on a confession of that nature?"
"Very simple," said "Brooks." "The moment you had gone I said to Ruth,
'What a pleasure it is to meet Willie Elliot--always the same--bright
and agreeable. All these years that I have known him I have only one
thing against him!'
"'What is that?' said Mrs. Brookfield.
"'He's a heretic!'" replied "Brooks."
A very typical story is told of how he wrote to the editor of _The
Lancet_ suggesting that they should publish a Christmas number, and
offering to write a humorous story entitled "My first Post-Mortem!"
Mrs. C. H. E. Brookfield is the author of several interesting books,
and I must not forget to mention Mrs. Brookfield, the mother of my
friend, whose personality and exquisite charm of manner were so
delightful. I had not the pleasure of her acquaintance in earlier
days, but, judging from portraits, she must have been extremely
beautiful, although it is strange that she should have been the
original of heroines in Thackeray's novels, the meek and mild "Amelia"
of "Vanity Fair" among them.
The Lotus Club was now a novelty, and I joined it, as did several of
my friends; and many an amusing evening was spent there. The
representatives of the Gaiety of that day, Nellie Farren, Kate
Vaughan, Kate Munroe, and Amalia were among the attractive actresses
who frequented the club. There were dances twice a week, and I well
remember dancing with Nellie Farren, who was the best waltzer of them
all. Kate Vaughan was delightful, but not such a good partner,
although, of course, her stage dancing was the absolute "poetry of
motion." Many were the pleasant hours I spent at that jolly club--and
I was young.
In 1876 the Beefsteak Club was founded by Archibald Stuart Wortley. I
was elected one of the original members. As a young man, I appreciated
the Beefsteak Club for what it was then--a gay and jolly place, more
or less Bohemian. In later bachelor days much of my time in the
evenings was spent there, and my constant attendance brought me into
contact with many of the most interesting and entertaining men of the
day.
Being a one-room club and also restricted to three hundred members
(the admittance of visitors being prohibited), it was always unique,
the conversation varying according to the different groups sitting
side by side at the dinner-table, and the members being selected
pretty equally from sailors, soldiers, actors, diplomats, legislators,
sporting men, artistic and literary men, and so on.
At one period, Friday nights were especially popular, and I think that
was because a member named Craigie (a retired army man) made a point
of never missing them. He was a great favourite with all, invariably
occupied the same seat, and by report missed only one Friday evening
during his membership. I remember that upon entering the Beefsteak
Club one Saturday evening, I was shown the chair in which Craigie
always sat. The seat was in ribbons.
It seems that on the only occasion that he was absent from his place
on a Friday a large stag's head fell plump on to it, piercing it
through and through.
What luck for our friend!
It was a _13_ pointer, and happened on a _Friday_ night too, so the
tables were turned against the old superstition.
Craigie's cheery laugh has, I regret to say, long been missed. Now he
is no more, so Friday nights have lost their special interest. The
Beefsteak is no longer the same late "sitting up" club, although it
still remains delightful, and while we regret the absence of the
retired editor of _Punch_ (Sir Francis Burnand), we hail the frequent
appearance of his successor (Sir Owen Seaman).
Just before my marriage, I was very much gratified by the extremely
kind way in which my friends "clubbed" together and presented me with
a handsome canteen of silver (quite an unprecedented occurrence, by
the way, in the Beefsteak Club). The presentation on that occasion was
made by Comyns Carr, who made one of his very appropriate and humorous
speeches. A friend writes to me, "Do you remember in your reply to
Carr's speech you started on a quotation from Shakespeare, 'froze up,'
and Biron got the book and read the passage? It was the end of 'Much
Ado,' where Benedick says, 'a college of wit-crackers cannot flout me
out of my humour. Dost thou think I care for a satire or an
epigram?... in brief since I do purpose to marry I will think nothing
to any purpose the world can say against it,'--a happy quotation.
Wit-cracker for Joe Carr was admirably apt." I was also much indebted
to my friend Frederick Post for his pains in helping to select the
gift.
The premises previous to this were in King William Street, over
Toole's Theatre, which was pulled down when the buildings of Charing
Cross Hospital were extended. By an odd series of coincidences, all my
addresses seem to be either in a King or a William Street, or the two
combined. They were--
My Studio William Street, Lowndes Square.
Orleans Club King Street, St. James.
Fielding Club King Street, Covent Garden.
Beefsteak Club King William Street, Strand.
My Insurance Office King Street, City.
_Vanity Fair_ Offices
(at one time) King William Street.
One evening at the Beefsteak Club, I watched George Grossmith chaffing
Corney Grain.
"Oh, Dick," he was saying, pointing a derisive finger at Dick's
waistcoat, "you're putting it on!"
"You little whipper-snapper, how dare you!" said Corney Grain, smiling
down at his friend.
When they had gone, it amused me to sit down at the writing table and
make a quick caricature while they were fresh in my mind. A member,
observing my preoccupation, jokingly asked me why I was so busy, and
if I usually spent so long over my correspondence. Whereupon I showed
him the drawing which represented the two humorists as I had watched
them, a tall Corney Grain waving aside with a fat and expansive hand,
a minute and impish Grossmith.
He handed it round to the members gathered by the fire, who, having
seen the two men in a similar position shortly before, were much
amused.
"If I were you I'd draw it larger and have it reproduced--it's bound
to be popular," he remarked.
Taking his advice I went home and sat up all night making a more
careful drawing from my sketch, which I elaborated with colour
afterwards. I offered the drawing to _Vanity Fair_ which, under the
rule of a temporary editor (in the absence of Gibson Bowles) was
refused. This gave me an opportunity of selling it privately to
Rudolph Lehmann, who paid me twice as much as a previous bidder had
offered for it. I had several reproductions made by the Autotype
Company which I coloured myself, and eventually was L250 in pocket. I
have an autograph book full of the signatures and letters of
distinguished people who became owners of these prints, including
those of King Edward and the Dukes of Edinburgh and Teck. Thus I had
to thank the short-sighted editor for my success. I quote the
following from George Grossmith's amusing reminiscences, "Piano & I."
"I allude to the permission by Mr. Leslie Ward, son of E. M.
Ward, R.A., the famous artist, to publish the portrait which
appears in this book. Most people are under the impression that
it was one of the cartoons in _Vanity Fair_--it was nothing of
the sort. It was a private enterprise of 'Spy.' The first issue
was tinted by the artist, signed by him and by Corney Grain and
myself. Those copies are now worth twenty or thirty times their
original value. The origin of the picture was this. Dick Grain
and I were most formidable rivals and most intimate friends.
Hostesses during the London season secured one or the other of
us. The following words are not absolutely verbatim, but as
nearly as possible as I can get to the fact.
"_Mrs. Jones:_ 'Are you coming to my party next Wednesday, Mrs.
Smith, to hear Corney Grain?'
"_Mrs. Smith:_ 'Indeed I am, and I sincerely hope you are coming
to my party on Thursday to hear George Grossmith. Oh, Mrs.
Robinson, how are you ... etc.'
"_Mrs. Robinson:_ 'Delighted to meet you both. Are you coming to
my afternoon on Saturday?'
"_Mrs. Smith and Mrs. Jones, together:_ 'Indeed we are, who have
you got?'
"_Mrs. Robinson:_ 'Oh, I have engaged Corney Grain and George
Grossmith!'"
[Illustration: GEORGE GROSSMITH. CORNEY GRAIN.
"_Gee Gee_." 1888.]
Corney Grain grew so weary of signing my cartoon, which was sent him
by persistent admirers, that he charged ten shillings and sixpence for
every print upon which he placed his autograph, and the proceeds went,
I believe, to the Actors' Benevolent Fund. The coloured copies were
frequently mistaken for the original drawing, and at the Edmund Yates
sale one of the reproductions fetched L18 owing to that mistaken
impression.
Corney Grain, in return for my caricature, had a friendly revenge in
some verses which he sent to my mother on the back of a New Year card.
I produce them here with apologies for myself--
LINES ON LESLIE.
If ever he manages to catch a train,
It goes where he doesn't want to go.
It starts at three or--thereabouts,
But--really--he doesn't quite know.
If he's due down south, he's up in the north,
Say in Scotland--eating porridge--
If he's bound for Chester--or Bangor--say,
You'll find him safe in Norwich.
At junctions he's always left behind,
For he quite forgets to change,
And he's shunted into sidings dark--
"I thought 'twas rather strange!"
REFRAIN.
'Twill constant change afford
To travel with Leslie Ward,
Wherever he may roam, tho' he's quite at home,
He's always all abroad.
If he leaves the train for a cup of tea,
The train goes on without him;
He's left his ticket and purse in the rack,
And he hasn't a penny about him.
He forgets the name of his hotel,
Tho' he's often stayed there before,
He thinks it's the Lion or the Antelope,
Or the something Horse or Boar.
But he's sure it's the name of an animal,
That you sometimes see at the Zoo!
Which gives you a pretty wide field of choice
From a Rat to a Kangaroo!
REFRAIN as before.
If he's due on a visit on Monday, say,
His coat is being repaired!
On Tuesday he's awfully sorry, you know,
But his shirts weren't properly aired.
On Wednesday he was going to start,
But he'd lost his mother's dog!
On Thursday he really meant to come,
But he lost his way--in a fog!
On Friday the cab was a_t the door_!
But his boots would not come on--
But on Saturday he _does_ arrive--
And--finds all the family gone!!
REFRAIN as before.
_R. Corney Grain._
I am afraid there is something of truth lurking in that poem, for I am
reminded to tell a story against myself. One bitterly cold winter's
night I was returning from my club, I arrived at my front door, and
failed to find my bunch of keys. I searched my pockets without
success, and at last assured that I was indeed unable to get in, I
retraced my steps and wondered in the meantime what I should do. It
was one-thirty on a winter's morning, I was in dress clothes, and my
feet becoming colder and colder in the thin pumps that but half
protected them; snow lay upon the ground and the outlook was the
reverse of inviting. I bethought me of the Grosvenor Hotel, so
hurrying back, I called in there and explained the situation to the
porter, who informed me that a bed there for the night was impossible
as I had no luggage with me. I expostulated and offered to send for my
clothes in the morning, but he refused to admit me. My feelings as I
paddled back in the slush in the direction of my studio were
unmentionable, especially as I discovered I had only a half-crown in
my pocket. Under my arm I held the Christmas number of _Vanity Fair_
which seemed to grow heavier and heavier, and a fine sleet began to
fall. Presently I met a policeman to whom I appealed in my trouble. He
was very sympathetic, and appeared to have hopes of obtaining shelter
for me.
"Anything will do," I said, shivering with cold. "Have you a cell
vacant at the station? I'd rather spend the night there than walking
about in the snow."
He smiled. "Oh," he said, "there's a mate of mine who lives close by."
We found the house and rang the bell. Presently the wife appeared at
the window and called out, "What on earth do you want waking me up
this time of the night?"
The constable began to explain, but the snow and the sleet came with
an icy blast, and with a shudder the woman shut the window with a bang
that had an air of finality about it.
We turned away (I was disconsolate), and walked along the road
undecided, until we came to a night-watchman's shanty, where I saw the
welcome glow of a fire and an old man in occupation. The policeman,
who was evidently a man of resource, said:--
"I've an idea--we'll go to that chap and perhaps he'll put you up for
a while."
He explained my sad case to the night-watchman, who was only too glad
to admit me to a share of his hut and fire; endeavouring to make me
quite comfortable, he piled sacks of cement by the fire and arranged a
coat for my eider-down, which was white with cement, as was everything
in the place. In spite of my discomfort, I longed to sleep, but my
queer old host, excited perhaps at the unexpected advent of a
nocturnal visitor, embarked upon a stream of conversation of his
former life spent in the Bush. It seemed to show a distinct
ingratitude to sleep, and I tried to listen, but the flow of talk
lulled me, and in spite of myself I fell into a deep slumber. It
seemed only a few minutes after, when he woke me and informed me that
it was time to turn out and six o'clock. I rose, and putting my hand
into my waistcoat pocket with the intention of rewarding the watchman
for his kindness--_I found my latch key!_ Afterwards I endeavoured to
persuade my quondam acquaintance to accept the remuneration of my only
half-crown, but he refused it, saying, "Keep it, sir; you may want it,
for a cab," so I presented him with the bulky Christmas number of
_Vanity Fair_.
Going by the next evening, I looked into his shanty to give him his
tip, and found him deeply engrossed in the volume, and, on close
scrutiny, found he was not reading indiscriminately, but beginning at
the beginning (as one would a novel), preparatory to going right
through, and when I asked him if the literature was to his taste, he
said--
"Oh, sir; I've only got to the fifth page!"
I have always felt a trifle embarrassed over the latch-key story,
especially when Charlie Brookfield used to tell it at the club with
embellishments of a witty order.
An old member of the club was rather given (owing to loss of memory)
to telling the same story rather too often, but as he was at the end
of his life and had been so popular, few avoided him, remembering his
brighter days. Up to the last he was courtly and charming, but, after
telling a story, he would explain: "That reminds me of another story!"
Whereupon he would repeat in exactly the same words the one he had
just told. That recalls an only half-intentional score of mine off
Brookfield. Brooks had one day a new audience, and was proceeding to
regale it with lively tales. Before beginning he said to me, "Don't
you listen; you know all my stories." Now he _did_ tell some that I
knew; but his comic chagrin was tremendous when, meaning really to
make an inquiry, and only slyly to insinuate my foreknowledge, said:
"Hullo, Brooks; have you seen Sir Henry lately?"
About this time the Fielding Club opened, and was ably managed. A good
number of interesting men belonged, including Sir Edward Lawson,
Montagu Williams, Irving, Serjeant Ballantyne, Toole, and hosts of
others. Toole used to come to the club and play cards; I remember his
usual expression and comic way of saying, "_Cash here forward_," when
he was winning. He was inimitable, for his stock phrases were so
entirely his own.
There was a regular coterie that played poker there. Alfred Thompson,
Johnnie Giffard, Corney Grain, Tom Bird, Henry Parker, myself, and
others were devoted to the game. One member especially was extremely
lucky. He possessed a thorough knowledge of the game and his
opponents, and he had the most impassive face I have ever seen. No
trace of any expression other than that of calm impersonal enjoyment
ever escaped him. He was never known to get up from the table without
winning, and he made a regular income out of his "coups" at poker; but
as he cared nothing whether he won or lost, he finally ceased to play,
finding he had gained so much from his friends.
The club continued to be quite delightful until a number of the
"crutch and toothpick" element joined to watch the well-known "actor
chaps," as they called them, and with their entrance the club lost all
its charm and pleasant Bohemianism. Irving, among others, became aware
of the observing eye of these inquisitive youths, and discontinued
going to the club; others followed by degrees, and gradually the club
lost its popularity.
The idea of the Lyric Club, of which I was elected an honorary member,
was suggested by a small and defunct Bohemian club of that name. It
was opened on far more ambitious lines, however, having for its
chairman the distinguished sportsman and patron of the drama, Lord
Londesborough, who was well supported by a representative committee.
All went well for some time, and the entertainments, for which a
spacious theatre had been erected, were splendidly managed by Luther
Munday.
On the opening night there was a reception that went with a flourish
of trumpets, and shortly after Lord Londesborough gave a dinner at
which I sat next to Irving. Irving naturally gave life to the affair,
and I can remember a cigar that he gave me--I think the largest and
best I ever smoked.
These occasions were followed up by regular receptions when theatrical
performances frequently attracted the members. "The divine Sarah,"
Marie Tempest, Hollmann, and such geniuses brought large audiences,
and frequently these evenings were varied with the Guards' Band.
Everything was done, in fact, to make the club a success.
Now there was another idea, which, I conclude, emanated from the more
sporting members of the committee. It was, to take a branch club at
Barnes, where there was a handsome and suitable house and grounds well
adapted for the purpose. The place at last decided upon was not only
well adapted for cricket, lawn tennis, and other out-of-door games,
but, being so near London, was of easy access. The terrace facing the
river was also a capital place from which to see the Oxford and
Cambridge Boat Race, and a steamer from Westminster was hired to take
the members down. Naturally, perhaps, the most crowded meeting held
there was on the occasion of a final in the Army and Navy football
match, when many distinguished visitors were present.
As with the Orleans Club, Twickenham, this club was but a flash in the
pan. There came a day when it could no longer be kept up, and so it
was with that in Coventry Street (or Piccadilly East, as it was
called). Both branches of the Lyric Club, in fact, came suddenly to
grief, owing to a great misfortune which it is better not to recall.
First of all held on Sunday nights at the Grosvenor Galleries, the
Gallery Club was quite a place to belong to, and for some time was
decidedly select in its members. It was also at the time quite a
novelty, the best of music being heard and the best of musicians
giving their services. The same may be said of the entertainers, and
their entertainments. Smoke and talk prevailed during the intervals,
and so the evenings passed off cheerily.
When these Galleries of the "Greenery Yallery" period closed their
doors, we removed to the rooms of the Institute of Painters in Water
Colours where the receptions were held. I forgot here to mention that
occasional Sunday nights were graced by the presence of lady guests.
Paderewski played on one of these occasions to a crowded and very
appreciative audience.
Later on we found our home at the Grafton Galleries, in which suppers
were also given, and many a pleasant Sunday evening was spent there.
Like every club of the kind, however, it had its day. Perhaps it may
have been the difficulty of finding variety among the entertainers or
a want of funds to procure the best; but, whatever the reason, there
was obviously a falling off of the original members, and the Gallery
Club came to an end. Even so, it had been responsible for many
evenings that are well worth remembering.
I shall never forget one night at the Grosvenor Gallery when Corney
Grain and George Grossmith sat down at the piano together and sang and
played the fool. They were then at their very best, and I think that
was the night that Weedon and his brother gave their humorous skit on
the extraction of teeth. The title I cannot recall; but the
performance was so clever that the title doesn't matter.
In later days I joined the Punch Bowl Club, which was organized by a
very good fellow named Mr. Percy Wood. He was a man of education and a
thorough Bohemian: he had received a partial, but very incomplete,
training as a sculptor; but he disliked work, and in the summer time
led an idler's life. He would dress himself in old clothes, and go
round the country hawking, like a common pedlar. He seemed to consider
life under such conditions perfection; and yet he was always a
gentleman (if one may use the much misused term), and everybody
liked him. He was at one time engaged on a statue of the Prince of
Wales, who arranged to call at Mr. Wood's studio. Whether his Royal
Highness expected a distinguished company to meet him, or whether Mr.
Wood intended to receive his Royal Highness in such a way, I am unable
to say, but the Prince arrived to find a "gentleman in possession" at
the studio, and Mr. Wood's visitors' book that day must have shown
quite unprecedented signatures.
[Illustration: C. BIRCH CRISP.
_Published in "Mayfair."_
1911.]
[Illustration: OLIVER LOCKER LAMPSON, M.P.
_Published in "Mayfair."_
1911.]
[Illustration: WEEDON GROSSMITH.
1905.]
Our friend started the Punch Bowl Club (he had always been inspired
with the great idea of a real Bohemian Club) in Regent Street, and one
met a variety of good fellows and plenty of clever entertainers. One
of the foremost members was Mostyn Piggott, who was quite a leading
light. Raven Hill was very popular also. Our club room was situated on
the uppermost storey of a house of which the foundation must have been
rather "dicky," for one evening it descended into another, and when we
arrived, we found our room wrecked beyond recall. After this
avalanche, he started new premises over a motor establishment leading
out of Oxford Street. Here we had very spacious and very originally
decorated rooms, which were hung with a great number of Indian
trophies, for Wood was an Indian chief, and rejoiced in the title of
_Rah--Rih--Wah--Casda of the Six Nations Indians_--an honour bestowed,
I believe, only on two or three other Europeans, the Prince of Wales
(King Edward VII.) and the Duke of Connaught being the foremost
chiefs.
Sometimes he appeared dressed in his war paint, as an Indian chief, at
the large meetings which he delighted in organizing, when he brewed
the punch, while other members, dressed in the character, gave their
services as cook and waiters.
The club was run on somewhat similar lines to the Savage Club, and we
addressed each other as "Brother So-and-So."
These dinners were very successful until Wood's health gave way, for
they ended at a very late hour, and he never went home, preferring to
sit up all night. After his death the club's popularity waned; the
organizing personality that had previously supported it being absent,
amusements fell through, but before the end we had some very pleasant
evenings entertaining distinguished guests.
I was once persuaded to take the chair on the occasion of the visit of
the Lord Chief Justice, and when, with every good intention, I rose to
propose the usual toasts, to thank the Lord Chief Justice for his
presence that evening, and to extol his good qualities, I almost
forgot whether he was Lord Chief Justice or the Archbishop of
Canterbury. However, I managed to struggle through, and with admirable
promptitude the guest of the evening replied with real humour and
relieved me of some part of my duty. At the end of the evening, Percy
Wood came up to me and thanked me for so ably taking the chair, and
when I apologized for what I considered my inability adequately to
fill the post, he congratulated me, whereupon an artist who was
standing by, said, "What! That a good speech! It was awful rot!"
It was a singular coincidence that on this and the following occasions
when our guest was the Bishop of London, both men were total
abstainers, while we indulged in our toasts from the punch bowl. I
made a silhouette beforehand of the Bishop leaning forward as though
to make a speech, which appeared on the menu.
[Illustration: W. S. GILBERT AND MSLLE. ROSA.]
[Illustration: TOM KNOX HOLMES.]
[Illustration: _Played first at the Gaiety Theatre where the profits,
L600, were handed over by the Amateur Company to the Central
Theatrical Fund._]
[Illustration: CAPTAIN GOOCH. QUENTIN TWISS. ELEANOR BUFTON. LYDIA
THOMPSON.]
[Illustration: MYSELF. A. STUART WORTLEY. J. MACLEAN.]
Of the many well-known clubs I remember, I went to the Anglo-American
Club, where I was invited to meet Oliver Wendell Holmes. At the time I
was particularly requested to make a drawing of him for _Vanity Fair_.
I was introduced to him, amongst others, and was particularly
impressed by his kindly features; the first peculiarity my eye lit
upon was the prominent eyebrows. Crowds of listening people surrounded
him while he talked, and the opportunity of watching my subject
unnoticed at such close quarters, was a splendid one, and from my
observations I made one of the best caricatures that I have ever done
from memory.
When I look back it gives me great pleasure to think of the jolly days
and nights when, in March, 1878, many old friends met together for the
purpose of rehearsing for the unique _Amateur Pantomime_ given at the
Gaiety Theatre and afterwards at Brighton. Edward Terry, Kate Vaughan,
Nellie Farren, Amalia and Royce were then in their zenith, and John
Hollingshead was manager of the Gaiety; and it was after this
performance that we gathered for the night rehearsal.
The idea was originated by Archibald Stuart Wortley and William
Yardley, and nothing could exceed their energy in promoting it. I
won't say that such a thing had never been thought of before; as a
similar entertainment by amateurs had taken place many years
previously, in which Mr. Tom Knox Holmes had played the same part of
pantaloon. I believe, however, that that performance was not carried
out on the same scale.
Looking down the list of our theatrical company, I am reminded sadly
of the few members of it that remain, although, of the four authors
who contributed to its success, it is gratifying to know that Sir
Francis Burnand is hale and hearty.
It is interesting to recollect how conscientiously W. S. Gilbert
learnt his steps as the harlequin, how marvellously old Knox Holmes
(who was well over seventy) played the pantaloon, and what a perfect
clown Yardley made. "Odger" Colvile (afterwards the unfortunate
General Sir Henry Colvile) was marvellous in his leaps and bounds. All
this was the result of real hard work, and these men in the
harlequinade gave the whole of their mind to it as though it were a
matter of life and death. I mustn't forget either in this act that
Fred McCalmont, Lord de Clifford, and Algy Bastard equally
distinguished themselves.
Perhaps it is because the harlequinade required more rehearsing than
the pantomime burlesque itself (written by Reece, F. C. Burnand, H. J.
Byron, and W. S. Gilbert) that I mention it first; but, of course,
Captain Gooch, Quintin Twiss, Archie Stuart Wortley, I. Maclean, and
those who took prominent parts, were as good in their different ways;
in fact, some of them were already distinguished amateur actors. The
dancing of Ashby Sterry and Johnny Giffard I shall never forget: it
was too funny to be described.
I delighted in the various characters selected for me to play, and
when, as the "lightning artist," I drew Dizzy and Gladstone, I was
overwhelmed with applause and boos that resounded in every part of the
house from partisans of the two political leaders. So successful; in
fact, was this item of the programme, that I received on the following
day a genuine offer from a well-known manageress to take a similar
part professionally at her theatre (a fact that amused me greatly).
POKER PLAYERS AT THE FIELDING CLUB.
[Illustration: _A bluff._ "JOHNNY" GIFFARD.]
[Illustration: ALFRED THOMPSON.]
[Illustration: 3 a.m. "This game bores me." CORNEY GRAIN.]
[Illustration: "TOM" BIRD. _A bird with a "full" hand is worth two
with a flush._]
[Illustration: CORNEY GRAIN AT DATCHET.]
[Illustration: PELLEGRINI. "Can't play billiard to-night, my boy, I
'av lumbago. What you recommend to make the ''air grow?'"]
Much of my time was occupied before the curtain was raised in "making
up" some of the "Forty Thieves" as prominent people of the day. For
instance, Frank Parker's features adapted themselves to Gladstone's in
a strikingly useful manner, and in consequence the "make up" was at
once recognizable. "Willie" Higgins was Benson the convict, and so on.
At the end of the rehearsals many of us, being members of the
Beefsteak Club, adjourned there, and it was not until the early
morning that our party sought our respective beds. When I come to
think of it, the majority of us were fairly young in those days, so we
were all well able to stand the strain.
At one dress rehearsal, a scene representing a soldiers' encampment,
where we were seated at mess, and a group of us dressed as officers
ate a sham meal, I remember our enthusiasm was added to by the
hospitality of an officer in the company who produced real champagne.
Whether the effect lasted until another scene I could never quite
remember, but "Odger" Colvile (our young Guardsman, who was very fond
of theatricals, and had, I believe, a private theatre at his father's
place) displayed wonderful agility in the harlequinade, where, as the
policeman, he attacked the proverbial dummy, which at the rehearsal,
owing to an oversight, was missing. Looking round in all the
excitement of his enthusiasm in the part, he grew exasperated by the
delay.
"Where the devil is the dummy?" he cried, and looking round
desperately, his eye caught mine; without any warning he was on me,
caught me up, and for the next few minutes I saw every imaginable star
out of the heavens, he belabouring me with all the ardour which he
would have bestowed upon the dummy. He at last let me go, while roars
of laughter went up from the others--I would have laughed if I had
been able, but I never had such a time in my life, and was obliged to
reserve my laughter until I could get my breath, when I laughed as
heartily as the others.
The occasion of the Brighton performance was not the less amusing to
us, as after it was all over the company met together at supper at the
"Old Ship," which included several ladies from the Alhambra ballet,
who came down to add to the stage effect.
The following morning (Sunday) "Hughie" Drummond, one of the "Forty
Thieves" and a champion practical joker, got on to the balcony of the
Queen's Hotel, from which he was able to reach the hands of the clock
and deliberately altered the time from five minutes to eleven to a
quarter past. This, of course scared the people going to church, and
resulted in a general stampede.
While sitting next to Lord Houghton at dinner one evening at the
Beefsteak Club, I watched him make a lengthy scrutiny of the menu,
which made me anticipate a wonderful selection to come. He ordered a
herring! When the fish came, he regarded it stealthily for some time
and then suddenly picking it up by the tail shook it violently
(ostensibly to remove the flesh) and while I carefully picked off the
bits of herring that covered me, the absent-minded poet ate the
fragments that had accidentally lodged upon his plate.
He used to take out his teeth at meal times, and, growing accustomed
to remove them, he became occasionally rather mixed in his discretion
as to their removal. One day, on meeting a lady of his acquaintance,
instead of taking off his hat, as he intended to do, he plucked out
his teeth and waved them enthusiastically.
I remember the eccentric lord coming into the club one evening looking
tired and hungry. Over the mantelpiece a white paper gleamed. It was a
list of the Derby Lottery. Something stirred in his mind which was far
away on other subjects bent, and reminded him that he was hungry. He
scanned the Lottery list, anxiously rubbing his head as though he were
apparently shampooing it. At last he was heard to murmur in
dissatisfied tones, "Waiter, I don't see anything to eat there."
One couldn't help laughing at his funny ways, but he was a
distinguished man after all and very kind.