MUSICIANS--AUTHORS--ACTORS AND ARTISTS
Wagner.--Richter.--Dan Godfrey.--Arthur Cecil.--Sir Frederick
Bridge and bombs.--W. S. Penley.--Sir Herbert Tree.--Max
Beerbohm.--Mr. and Mrs. Kendal.--Henry Kemble.--Sir Edgar
Boehm.--George Du Maurier.--Rudyard Kipling.--Alfred Austin.
--William Black.--Thomas Hardy.--W. E. Henley.--Egerton Castle.
--Samuel Smiles.--Farren.--Sir Squire and Lady Bancroft.--Dion
Boucicault and his wife.--Sir Charles Wyndham.--Leo Trevor.--
Cyril Maude.--William Gillette.--The late Dion Boucicault.--
Arthur Bourchier.--Allan Aynesworth.--Charlie Hawtrey.--The
Grossmiths.--H. B. Irving.--W. L. Courtney.--Willie Elliot.--
"Beau Little."--Henry Arthur Jones.--Gustave Dore.--J. MacNeil
Whistler.--Walter Crane.--F. C. G.--Lady Ashburton and her
forgetfulness.
I was a privileged member of a select audience at a rehearsal in 1877
at the Albert Hall with the intention of studying Wagner and his
eccentricities, while he was conducting one of his own operas,
therefore, I was not as surprised as I might have been when I observed
him waving his baton and growing more and more excited, dancing on and
off his stool, until finally losing his head he grew very angry with
everything and everybody, and gave up evidently in fear of one of
those nervous attacks to which he was subject. Richter then took the
baton and conducted magnificently.
Under very different circumstances I studied Dan Godfrey the
bandmaster, a very different type of musician, when he had just been
promoted to the rank of lieutenant. An officer on guard invited me to
breakfast after I had watched him conduct the band in the quadrangle
of St. James' Palace, to enable me to examine his features more
clearly.
Arthur Cecil, the actor, loved music and was a born musician in
addition to his interest in the stage, and was for some time in
co-partnership with Mrs. John Wood at the Court Theatre. He was the
first Baron Stein in _Diplomacy_. During his fatal illness at Brighton
I visited him in the nursing home, and his first words to me were
uttered in complaint of his food, for he dearly loved his food.
"What do you think they gave me to-day?" he said. "A boiled mutton
chop." When he was convalescent he gained permission from his doctor
to go, with his nurse, to reside at the Brighton Orleans Club, and
whenever the menu was put before him, he selected the choice dishes
dear to his heart (or his palate) that had been forbidden him a very
short time previously. His greatest pleasure, however, was to be able
to play the piano again, and that he did before me in the private
hospital, his first selection being some music from his favourite
opera of "Hansel und Gretel." Owing to his indiscretion during
convalescence, he caught cold which caused his death prematurely, for
he was under sixty.
After many times acting as an amateur he joined German Reed's company
at St. George's Hall, and from there went to the Haymarket Theatre,
after which he had a distinguished career as an actor in comedy. He
was very popular both at the Garrick and Beefsteak Clubs. Of course
Sir Frederick Bridge was an acquaintance of his, for Arthur was
devoted to sacred music. Although it is quite ten years since I
portrayed Sir Frederick he appeared just the same when I saw him
recently at lunch at our mutual friend, C. S. Cockburn's house. He
has, I think, officiated at innumerable historical ceremonies,
including the Jubilees of '87 and '97, as well as the Coronations of
King Edward and King George. He told me the following story, in the
terse and witty manner which is so characteristic of him.
[Illustration: RICHARD WAGNER. 1877.]
[Illustration: THE ABBE LISZT. 1886.]
"In '87, just before the Queen's Jubilee, a good deal of alarm was
experienced in consequence of the Fenian outrages, and the very
frequent discoveries of clockwork bombs in black bags. Previous to the
Royal visit, the Abbey was closed to the public and the utmost
precautions were taken by the officials to ensure the Royal safety, by
the order of Colonel Majendie (another of my victims) the Chief
Inspector of Explosives. Every portion of the choir stand was
examined, and even the organ pipes and every corner of the Abbey was
subjected to vigorous inspection. The day before the Royal ceremony, I
called a rehearsal of the band, and after their departure I remained
in the organ loft to look over my music for the next day, in the
company of a young pupil, who interrupted me when I was engrossed in
my music, by calling my attention to a strange noise.
"'Listen, Doctor,' he said, 'don't you hear a ticking?'
"'Ticking!' I shouted. 'Where?'
"Jumping out of my seat, I listened intently, and sure enough, I heard
a faint sound that was strangely ominous, and in the corner of the
loft I saw that fateful sight--_a little black bag_.
"I confess I behaved very badly, for instead of waiting to be blown to
pieces for my country, I left the loft as quickly as possible and
hastened into the Cloister, where I met an old servant. He was a
comfortable looking old creature with a glass eye.
"'Graves,' I said, 'go up into the organ loft and fetch a little
black bag that you will find in the corner.'
"'Yes, sir,' he replied, and ambled off unsuspectingly. Then I waited.
I do not know what I expected to see--a headless Graves returning in
some gruesome but faithful remnant trying to perform this last
request--but I breathed again when he reappeared safe and sound--with
the bag--which contained an alarm clock, ticking away very merrily. I
discovered upon inquiry that a cornet in the band had bought the clock
for his wife on the way to the rehearsal, and how he had escaped
detection, with the bag, and run the gauntlet of the fifty policemen
who were guarding the Abbey I never quite knew. If a rumour of my
discovery had got into the papers, I do not think the Queen would have
come to the Abbey; as it was, I might have made my fortune by giving a
nice little account of it to the Press.
"That is my only experience of dynamite. Graves died safely in bed a
short time ago, and when I sent a wreath to his funeral, I thought of
the episode of the bag, for to the day of his death, he used to say,
'You very nearly blew me up that time, sir!'"
Quite recently Sir Frederick has married again for the third time.
[Illustration: KUBELIK. 1903.]
[Illustration: SIR FREDERICK BRIDGE. 1904.]
[Illustration: PADEREWSKI. 1899.]
Most people are unaware that the late W. S. Penley was a clever
musician, and had a remarkably fine organ in his house which he
delighted in playing; also that he was a choir boy. I saw him in his
inimitable and famous part in "Charley's Aunt" several times, and one
could hardly realize he could have worn a serious look or had a quiet
side to his character. When he stood to me in my studio, I was
attempting to catch a certain expression that I knew was very
characteristic of him. I ran backwards and forwards, to quickly seize
the look and convey it to my paper, and staggering backwards once too
often in my forgetfulness and interest, I went head over heels over my
rug. Penley did not stop laughing for some minutes and said when I had
recovered (and he had!), "I shall not forget _that_, it was too
funny--and when I play the part of an artist, I shall put your little
accident and incidental business in."
But not very long afterwards he retired from the stage and death
claimed him before the opportunity came.
I have always been treated with the greatest possible kindness by
members of the theatrical profession, and I cannot speak too highly of
the aid they have given me when occasion called for it.
It only seems the other day since I caricatured Sir Herbert Tree in
1890, when he looked a slim young man with a remarkably sleek figure.
I think it was in the _Red Lamp_ that a lady who had seen Tree's first
performance in the part prophesied his enormous future, and told me
she considered he would win a position on the stage that would rival
Irving's, but no doubt the same idea entered other heads.
Quite recently Sir Herbert presented me with his book, which is quite
unique amongst the literary efforts written by the members of his
profession, and is well worth study, as he jokingly impressed upon me
at the time, adding that no man should consider his life completed
unless he read it before he died. Which reminded me of Bulwer Lytton
who told me that no young man's education was complete who had not
read Scott through and through.
I first met Max Beerbohm quite a long time ago when I was at the
"Mitre" (Oxford), when Julius Beerbohm happened to be staying there
also and he invited me to dine with him, adding:--
"I want you to meet Max Beerbohm, my half-brother, because I should
particularly like you to see some most amusing caricatures that he has
drawn, and which I think you will appreciate," and I did. "Max" has
now a world-wide reputation in caricature and in letters; then he was
an undergraduate and invited me to lunch in his rooms, when he showed
me many of his humorous sketches.
The Kendals I have known since I was a boy, and I was first introduced
to them at the house of the late Mr. Augustus Dubourg, then an
official in the House of Lords, and joint author, with Tom Taylor, of
_New Men and Old Acres_, in which they played. Their retirement from
the stage, which was not advertised in any way or accompanied by the
usual "benefit," was one of the greatest losses, in my opinion, that
the stage has known, for Mrs. Kendal (Madge Robertson), who was a
sister of Robertson the author of _School_, etc., is one of the most
beautiful and consummate artistes England has ever produced. William
Kendal himself, would even now, almost fill the part of a young man on
the stage, for with him years do not tell us a tale of age.
If I were to relate all the anecdotes that I have heard of Henry
Kemble (or the "beetle" as he was known) I might yarn for ever. For
instance, on one occasion the tax collector called on Kemble for the
Queen's taxes, "Quite an unusual tax," said Kemble; but after much
discussion he found he had to pay. "Very well," he said to the
collector, "I will pay just this once but pray inform Her Majesty
from me that she must not look upon me as a permanent source of
income."
Some of Charlie Brookfield's stories were very funny. He also drew a
series of caricatures of Kemble as a special constable, in which
capacity he was enlisted in a time of riots. There is a story "Brooks"
used to tell of Kemble. He and Kemble were returning from a theatre
one evening when they observed a large crowd gathered round the
Mansion House. Dismissing their cab, they prepared to join in the fun,
if there was to be any, and on approaching, found Sir Charles Dilke
was speaking from a window. As they had arrived somewhat late and the
speech was nearly over, their interest was not excited, nor did they
comprehend the gist of the matter. Here and there rough-looking men
commented aloud with decided emphasis, sometimes for and sometimes
against the speaker, when Brookfield, in a mischievous mood, thought
he would add his comment to the next remark.
"What abart the dockers!" he roared, choosing his words quite at
random, with his hand to his mouth, in loud imitation of his audience.
"Yus--what abart the dockers," shouted a navvy next to him, and
immediately pandemonium followed, Brookfield's hat being squashed in,
his coat ripped up, and a few minutes later, two very dishevelled
actors emerged from the _melee_, wondering vaguely why "the dockers"
had proved such a sore point!
When I made my drawing of Sir Edgar Boehm, the famous sculptor, I
depicted him working in a characteristic attitude upon his bust of
Ruskin, which was in the rough clay and half finished. He was engaged
also at the time upon a bust of Queen Victoria, to whom he was
"Sculptor in Ordinary." Imagine my surprise when I received the
following letter from Sir Edgar:--
"Feb. 2nd, 1881.
"DEAR MR. WARD,
"... Did you hear that the Queen when she saw your excellent
portrait of me was under the impression that Ruskin's bust was
meant for one of herself! till some time after the mistake was
pointed out to H.M. I have heard it now from three different
people who know, else I should not have believed that we could be
for one instant suspected of being disloyal....
"Yours sincerely,
"J. E. Boehm."
Very shortly after the deaths of Boehm, Millais, and Leighton (who
died within a very short time of one another) it interested me to
visit their tombs in St. Paul's, and I was almost staggered when I
beheld on Sir Edgar Boehm's tomb a crude reproduction in brass of my
_Vanity Fair_ cartoon! Some time after I met Linley Sambourne (who was
a particular friend of his), and when I asked him if he knew who was
the designer, he replied, "His son--I thought you were aware of that.
Have you never heard that Sir Edgar said that he should never give any
friend his photograph in future, but always send the Vanity Fair
representation of himself instead."
The sketch of George du Maurier I made for him while he was busily
engaged at his drawing-table illustrating _Trilby_.
[Illustration: SIR EDGAR BOEHM, BART., R.A. 1881.]
[Illustration: _From the brass on Sir Edgar Boehm's tomb in St. Paul's
Cathedral. The idea evidently was suggested, though without my
knowledge, by the cartoon here reproduced._]
I also made a caricature of his son, Gerald du Maurier, for _Vanity
Fair_, who told me that Dana Gibson in his early days had such a great
admiration for his father's work that he had founded his own largely
from its study. When the two artists met many years after in London,
du Maurier, who was not only a great artist but a man of singularly
sweet and generous disposition, paid Dana Gibson the compliment of
telling him that if, as a student, he had used him as a guide the
follower had certainly outstripped the leader. The story reflects the
modesty and generosity of George du Maurier, but, of course, it does
not follow that this view is taken by the public.
Rudyard Kipling, being thoroughly accustomed to studios, was at once
at home in mine, and was so engrossing in his conversation with Oliver
Fry (the then editor of _Vanity Fair_) that it was all that I could do
to stick to my sketch, and not give myself up entirely to listening to
his interesting and amusing stories. I watched him, however, and took
him in his most humorous mood.
In the case of the late Poet Laureate, Mr. Alfred Austin, I required
but a tiny scrap of paper to take my notes. It was at his charming
house, Swinford Old Manor, which is surrounded by the garden that he
loved and in which we strolled. His dress was that of a country squire
and not that of a long-haired poet. He stood but a few feet high.
William Black, the novelist (who was also small in stature), was very
modest and cheerful. I represented him in waders with a large salmon
rod, for being a Scot he was an expert with it. His deep-red
complexion and dark eyes surrounded by thick-rimmed spectacles
conduced to the making of an effective cartoon.
Mr. Thomas Hardy was not talkative as a sitter, but he was pleasant.
In appearance he did not present the idea of the typical literary
man: his clothes had a sporting touch about them.
I believe that one of my most popular character-portraits was that of
W. E. Henley, the poet who looked more like an Australian bush-ranger
than a follower of the winged Muse. He was brought to my studio by Mr.
Charles Whibley, the well-known writer. In consequence of his lameness
he sat, and he told capital stories of Whistler and other interesting
characters.
Mr. Egerton Castle posed splendidly in his rich brown velvet fencing
costume with foil in hand, and looked so self-confident and certain of
victory that one might have thought that he was concocting a plot for
a new story of romance.
I must not close this note on authors without a word of tribute to the
old-fashioned charm and courtesy of Samuel Smiles, who presented me
with a copy of his famous book, "Self-Help."
I find that my earliest recollections of the stage are also the
keenest, and the acting I saw in my youth seems to have made the most
lasting impression. The stage world was, of course, much more limited
in its dimensions in those days, and the few representatives of genius
were nearer and, perhaps in consequence, seemingly greater than in
later years, when of all the ministers of delight it must be
acknowledged that the actor gives most pleasure to the greatest number
of people.
As a youth I was fond of attending first nights, and continued to be
present at them whenever I had the chance, until by degrees I came to
the conclusion that although a first night was amusing in many ways I
preferred not to risk a failure, but to wait for the play that I knew
was worth seeing.
[Illustration: 1909. SIR HENRY LUCY.]
[Illustration: W. E. HENLEY. 1892.]
[Illustration: 1881. W. S. GILBERT.]
[Illustration: RUDYARD KIPLING. 1894.]
The Sir Peter Teazle of old William Farren will always last in my
memory, and I recollect it from my youth.
Of course I used to enjoy, of all things, the old Prince of Wales's
Theatre under the management of Bancroft and Mrs. Bancroft, whose
truly great acting, especially in the Robertson plays, was indeed a
delight. Earlier than that, too, I remember how deeply I was impressed
with the acting of the elder Boucicault and his wife in those vivid
dramatic representations of Irish life, _The Colleen Bawn_ and _The
Shaughran_. In private life the feelings of this old and distinguished
actor on the subject of Home Rule were identical with that of Redmond
at the present time, and he did not hesitate to express them.
Sir Charles Wyndham, our veteran actor, of whom we are most justly
proud, seems to have one leg in the past and the other in the present,
so unconscious of the passing years and full of life and power does he
still seem on those occasions on which the public have the opportunity
of watching this favourite of several generations of playgoers. The
peculiarly low-pitch of the voice with its pleasing upward gradation,
the finished manner, the sympathetic attraction, all these qualities
have ever belonged to Wyndham. Of course, I saw him many times in
David Garrick, the play through which he is best known, but there are
many parts in modern comedy wherein he stands alone, for instance, in
_Mrs. Dane's Defence_, the play in which Miss Lena Ashwell won her
first laurels.
I consider myself particularly fortunate in being able to count Mr.
Leo Trevor among my friends. I caricatured him for _Vanity Fair_ in a
straw hat and the Zingari colours. He is the cheeriest of good
fellows--his bright and happy smile is particularly characteristic of
the nature of the man, who, in spite of the fact that he is so much
sought after, always remains unspoilt. The public probably knows him
best through his most popular play, _The Flag Lieutenant_, which,
coming as it did just after the Boer War, appealed to the sympathy and
patriotism of all. The author was particularly fortunate in being able
to portray his creation of the Major through the genius of Mr. Cyril
Maude. Under the mirth and mirth-provoking art of this gifted actor
there always runs that magic touch which has been defined as "serious
without being earnest!" In character parts, especially those
associated with the typical old gentleman, he is of course,
incomparable, but whether he is cast for an old or a young or a
middle-aged part he can always draw the smiles and the tears of his
audience. Of course, when sketching him I was most anxious to catch
his characteristic expression which can only be caught through his
smile.
When Mr. William Gillette sat for me in dressing-gown and pipe, I did
not have to request him to smile, for a serious and contemplative gaze
was quite in keeping with his _role_ of Sherlock Holmes. During our
conversation he asked me if I could recommend a good tobacco, because
the brand he smoked on the stage burnt his tongue. I suggested "Log
Cabin," and at our next meeting asked if he had acted on my
recommendation, and if he found the result satisfactory; but "Log
Cabin," in spite of its merits and mildness, was not suitable for
dramatic service as it took too long to light.
Like another successful actor of modern times, Arthur Bourchier began
acting when at Oxford. After he left the University he used to play
as a member of the company known as the "Old Stagers" at Canterbury
during the cricket week. When he talked of taking his hobby seriously
and becoming a professional actor he was considerably chaffed by his
friends; but he got the best of the laugh, as from his first
appearance on the legitimate stage he did well, and was not long in
proving himself one of the most powerful actors of the day.
My old friend, Allan Aynesworth, was another amateur who went on the
stage with full confidence, although he had less experience than
Arthur Bourchier. However, he made a great success, and won for
himself a foremost place in the esteem of the public. He is a beau
ideal of "an officer and a gentleman" with a touch of the hero thrown
in. I understand that besides being a popular actor he is an excellent
producer of plays.
When I started to sketch Charlie Hawtrey he looked almost glum, and
the only thing to help me out in conveying a humorous impression
seemed to be his characteristic habit of stroking his head with his
hand. I asked him to think of something funny, and the result seemed
to work so well that I begged him to share the joke, but he left it
secret under the pretext that it was too silly to tell.
With the Grossmiths talent seems hereditary; the younger George
Grossmith, son of the original G. G., is already a fountain of fun for
modern playgoers, and my old friend, Weedon Grossmith, is an actor who,
whenever he has had a part to suit him, has proved himself to be an
inimitable and a thorough artist which, by the way, he is in more senses
than one. One of his best parts is the _Duke of Killiecrankie_, in
which his witty and delightful personality gets full play.
H. B. Irving, through his very strong resemblance to his distinguished
father, seems almost to be a link with the past. He has inherited Sir
Henry's charm of manner and the sunny sudden smile which one remembers
so well, also his immense power of concentration. He is a keen student
of facial expression, and like the late W. S. Gilbert seeks his types
in the criminal law courts. One whom experience has convinced of the
truth of the phrase, "New times, new manners," may be permitted to
make the comment, "New times, new plays." Outside the shadow of his
great father's great, but somewhat gruesome plays, it is difficult to
say what his son may not accomplish.
Writing of H. B. Irving reminds one that W. L. Courtney was a don at
Oxford when H. B. was an undergraduate there, and that the
distinguished writer and critic had a great opinion of the young
actor's talent. Courtney has a particularly dry sense of humour, and
he is so engrossing in conversation that when he does go to the
Garrick or Beefsteak Clubs late at night, few other members who happen
to be there will leave before him.
Another excellent fellow, who for a time was an amusing and clever
actor, is Willie Elliot. He has a natural gift for story-telling and
his Scotch stories are inimitable. As an actor, he was for some time
quite a success, and created the part of "Deedes, the gifted author,"
in _A Pantomime Rehearsal_, afterwards played by "Charlie" Little, and
he was also strikingly good in the _Little Minister_. The late C. P.
Little was a most delightful creature who is best described as
Society's Impressario. When Little left the stage he started to
chronicle the doings of Society, and was so much in it that he became
a part of it. His entire attention was concentrated on the
constitution, influence, and the events of Society, and he knew every
detail relating to its proceedings, manners, and whims. In his unique
part he was a complete success, and always an acquisition.
FROM NURSERY RHYME SKETCHES, 1867.
[Illustration: "_The father gone a-hunting._"]
[Illustration: "_The mother gone to buy a skin To wrap the Baby
Bunting in._"]
[Illustration: RT. HON. "BOBBY" LOW _amused by seeing himself with
others in the Ministry represented on the stage at the Court Theatre
in a burlesque called the "Happy Land." I sat next him._]
[Illustration: MR JUSTICE A. T. LAWRENCE (_A study_).]
[Illustration: DANCKWERTS, K.C. (_Study_).]
[Illustration: THE LATE LORD CHIEF JUSTICE COCKBURN. (_Sketched in
Court during Tichbourne Trial._)]
[Illustration: A smile from Nature. (Study.)]
[Illustration: HENRY IRVING _as "Shylock._"]
Mr. Henry Arthur Jones usually rode to the theatre, and as I found him
conducting a rehearsal of the _Bauble Shop_ in riding-kit I sketched
him in it with a hunting-crop in one hand and a book of the play in
the other, which reminds me of another subject who wished to be
painted in "boots and breeches," and turned up at my studio in a pair
of the latter that had evidently been worn in earlier days, for they
appeared to irk him somewhat round the knees. After he had been
standing for a considerable length of time, I asked him to rest, as I
always prefer to give my sitters as little trouble and fatigue as
possible. But he did not move, and finally when I asked him again he
remarked rather ruefully:--
"Either I shall have to go on standing for ever or I shall fall over,
for I'm paralysed by these breeches." So I had to treat him like a lay
figure and liberate each limb and rub it until the circulation was
restored.
Another sitter was an undergraduate in training for the 'Varsity
boat-race. I have found men of this rowing calibre usually wonderful
sitters, being perfectly fit; this particular young man was in
excellent form, so much so that he completely outstood me and said
when I, at last, begged him to have a rest:--
"Why I can go on standing all day without fatigue!"
The following is an amusing but somewhat embarrassing contretemps
which befell me at an afternoon party. I was greeted on arrival by my
hostess's young and effusive daughter whose father I had just
cartooned in _Vanity Fair_ and who introduced me to an old lady,
exclaiming:--
"This is Mr. Leslie Ward.... I should say the great Mr. Leslie Ward!"
whereupon the old lady raised her lorgnettes and gazed severely
through them at me, and then turning to the young lady remarked
somewhat ironically, "I think perhaps in future you'd better label
your guests." I felt inclined to sink into the floor, especially when
I viewed the embarrassment of my young hostess, and then the cold gaze
of the lady.... I have often wondered since whether I had caricatured
her husband.
Artists have not been entirely ignored in _Vanity Fair_; Gustave Dore
was a willing victim, and gave me good opportunities of watching him
in a studio in London while at work, but eventually I represented him
as I first saw him, in dress clothes. I nearly fell over his sketches
on the floor, for they were so thickly spread about everywhere.
Somewhere about the same period I did Whistler, who was an excellent
subject, but his unlimited peculiarities lay more in his gesture and
speech and habits. I never went to a social function at which he was
present without hearing his caustic, nasal little laugh,
"Ha-ha-ho-ho-he-he" raised at the wrong moment. For instance, when a
song was being sung in a drawing-room, or when a speech was being made
at a public dinner. At the same time there was something quite
irresistible about the fascination of the man. He lived in a house in
Tite Street on the Chelsea Embankment where there was a charming
garden, and every one who had the opportunity breakfasted with him
when invited, although the menu usually consisted of a sardine and a
cup of coffee. His wife, who was the widow of Godwin, the architect,
was a charming woman, and he simply adored her; in fact he so much
felt her death that he was never the same high-spirited man after.
[Illustration: handwritten note]
_A propos_ of public dinners, I am reminded of Walter Crane, whose
name I always shall hold in grateful memory, because he saved me from
that most detestable task, at least to me, a public speech. We were
invited as representatives of art to the Company of Patten Makers, the
Lord Mayor being present, and I was suddenly told in the middle of a
pheasant course, that I should be expected to speak, a piece of
information that agitated me considerably, but was much relieved when
Crane, who sat next to me, took the burden off my shoulders, and
saved the situation very cleverly indeed.
F. Carruthers Gould, with his bushy eyebrows, I frequently came in
contact with in the precincts of the House of Commons where we were
both engrossed in making mental notes of our subjects. I have a great
admiration for his work in which he has expressed the views of his
party with admirable spirit in some of the finest cartoons of the age.
Many people are unaware he was originally a member of the Stock
Exchange, but he was not born for that business, although in it he saw
ample opportunity for caricature. It was there that he made a
startling cartoon in which he represented the Members of the Stock
Exchange as the animals coming out of the Ark two by two, in a truly
humorous manner, and this made his reputation. I have always admired
the way in which he introduced birds into his caricatures, and on one
occasion remarked to him how beautifully, and with what thorough
knowledge, he drew them; and he then informed me that he was the
nephew of the great ornithologist, Gould, and had been brought up
among birds from his earliest youth. His political cartoons are most
humorously conceived and carried out, although we know which side he
favours in politics.
A stray anecdote occurs to me, as I write, of the very artistic but
eccentric Louisa Lady Ashburton, a gifted lady who knew most of the
really great literary and artistic people of her age, and counted many
others, such as Watts and Carlyle, her intimates. My mother, who knew
her very well, painted several interiors of her residence, Kent House,
Knightsbridge, in one of which a striking portrait of her figured. But
my story is chiefly concerned with the exacting old lady from whom I
received a letter through her secretary (previous to my introduction
to her), saying, "She had taken a fancy to a pencil-sketch of mine, of
a child that she had seen, and that if I would lunch with her, at a
day and hour mentioned, we could discuss the possibility of my making
a portrait of her little grandson." The day arrived and with it a
thick fog--for it was in November--I called upon the lady at the time
stated in her letter, and was informed that she was out. After waiting
some little time, I took myself off for a short while; had lunch
elsewhere and returned about three o'clock, and was more fortunate
this time, for I was announced into the dining-room, where I found
Lady Ashburton and her lady secretary at lunch, to which they had just
sat down. I was much astonished, after being requested to take a seat
at the table, to receive rather a strong glare from my hostess, with
the query, "Who is he?" to her secretary.
"This is Mr. Leslie Ward; don't you remember the letter I wrote at
your request asking him to lunch to-day?"
Whereupon the forgetful lady remembered, and asked me promptly to have
a glass of port. Afterwards we went to the drawing-room, where the
little boy was sent for and I was requested to begin the drawing there
and then, and upon my remarking that the light was too bad owing to
the fog, and that I should be very pleased to make a mental study of
the child before I began my portrait upon a brighter day, she observed
that she quite understood from me that I had come to make the drawing,
and said it was perfectly easy to draw by lamp-light, so I wasn't
allowed out of the house before I had started. Then I found her
ladyship, although considerably advanced in years, was still a student
of drawing, for she produced the cast of a head and was getting ready
to copy it. I was straining my eyes in attempting to draw the little
boy, while she was endeavouring to place the cast in position and
soliciting my attention to her work at frequent intervals.
When finally the pencil sketch of her small grandson was completed, as
it was after a second sitting by daylight, I received the most
delightful letter of appreciation and thanks from her ladyship, which
I have kept to this day. Soon after my mother urged me to attend a
special exhibition at the School of Art Needlework in which she was
interested, and the first person I saw on entering was old Lady
Ashburton. I went up to her and began to thank her for her welcome
appreciation of my small drawing, and again she looked at me with
astonishment and wonder. "Who are you?... I don't know you," she said.
This time I did not hesitate to enlighten her. "Oh," she smiled in
remembrance, "Go and find Miss Phillimore; I want to speak to her."