"Who's your tutor, who's your dame?Where do you board, and what's your name?"
"Who's your tutor, who's your dame?Where do you board, and what's your name?"
"Who's your tutor, who's your dame?Where do you board, and what's your name?"
If your reply did not give satisfaction, you were promptly "bonneted," and, in Eton phraseology, your new "topper" telescoped over your nose.
I was at first made the victim of a great deal of unpleasant "ragging" by a bully, who on one occasion playing a game he called "Running Deer!" made me a target for needle darts, one of which lodged tightly in the bone just above my eye; but he was caught in the act by Tuck, who punished the offender by making him hold a pot of boiling tea at arm's length, and each time a drop was spilled, my champion took a running kick at him.
I learned a variety of useful things. Besides catching cockroaches, I became an adept in the art of cooking sausages without bursting their skins: if I forgot to prick them before cooking, I was severely reprimanded by my fag-master, and I considered his anger perfectly justifiable; my resentment only existing where unjustifiable bullying was concerned.
Windsor Fair was an attraction in those days, especially for the small boys, as it was "out of bounds," and therefore forbidden. I remember once being "told off" to go to the fair and bring as many musical and noisy toys as I could carry; which were to be instrumental in a plot against our "dame" ... (the Reverend Dr. Frewer) ... On the great occasion, the boys secreted themselves in their lock-up beds. The rest hid in the housemaid's cupboard, and we started a series of hideous discords upon thewhistles and mouth organs from the fair. Presently our "dame" appeared, roused by the concert, and at the door received the water from the "booby trap" all over his head, and then, drenched to the skin and looking like a drowned rat, he proceeded to rout us. We were all innocence with a carefully concocted excuse to the effect that the reception had been intended for Anderson, one of the boys in the house. Notwithstanding that expulsion was threatening us, we were all called to his room next morning, severely reprimanded, but ... forgiven.
Old Etonians will remember Jobie, who sold buns and jam; and Levy, who tried to cheat us over our "tuck," and was held under the college pump in consequence; and old Silly-Billy, who used to curse the Pope, and, considering himself the head of the Church, was always first in the Chapel at Eton. Then there was the very fat old lady who sold fruit under the archway, and had a face like an apple herself. She sold an apple called a lemon-pippin, that was quite unlike anything I have tasted since, and looked like a lemon.
At "Sixpenny" the mills took place, and there differences were settled. A "Shinning-match," which was only resorted to by small boys, was a most serious and carefully managed affair; we shook hands in real duel fashion, and then we proceeded to exchange kicks on one another's shins until one of us gave in.
I remember having a "shinning-match" to settle some dispute with one of my greatest friends, but we were discovered, taken into Hawtrey's during dinner, and there talked to in serious manner. Our wise lecturer ended his speech with the time-honoured, "'Tis dogs delight to bark and bite," etc.
In 1861 I recollect very well the Queen and Prince Consort reviewing the Eton College Volunteer Corps in the grounds immediately surrounding the Castle, while we boys were permitted to look on from the Terrace.
At the conclusion of the review the volunteers were given luncheon in the orangery, where they were right royally entertained.
Prince Albert, whom I had noticed coughing, retired after the review into the castle, while the Queen and Princess Alice walked together on the slopes.
This was the last time that Prince Albert appeared in public, for he was shortly after seized with an illness from which he never recovered.
From Eton I frequently had "leave" to visit some friends of my parents, the Evans, of Boveney Court, a delightful old country house opposite Surly Hall. Miss Evans married a Mr. Hall-Say, who built Oakley Court, and I was present when he laid the foundation stone.
Mr. Evans, who was a perfectly delightful old man, lent one of his meadows at Boveney (opposite Surly Hall) to the Eton boys for their Fourth of June celebrations. Long tables were spread for them, with every imaginable good thing, including champagne, some bottles of which those in the boats used to secrete for their fags; and in my day small boys would come reeling home, unable to evade the masters, and the next day the "block" was well occupied, and the "swish" busy.
There were certain unwritten laws in those days as regards flogging; a master was not supposed to give downward strokes, for thus I believe one deals a more powerful sweep of arm and the stroke becomes torture. In cricket, also, round arm bowling wasalways the rule; a ball was "no ball" unless bowled on a level with the shoulder, but lob-bowling was, of course, allowed. Nowadays, the bowling has changed. Perhaps the character of the "swishing" has also altered, but somehow I think the boys are just the same.
SIR WILLIAM BROADBENT,1902.He was very angry and wrote to a leading Medical Journal to say how greatly he disapproved of this indignity.
SIR THOMAS BARLOW.1903.
SIR JAMES PAGET, BART.1876.
On the occasion of my first holiday, I arrived home from Eton a different boy; imbued with the traditions of my school, I was full of an exaggerated partisanship for everything good or indifferent that existed there. I remember I discovered my sisters in all the glory of Leghorn hats from Paris; they were large with flopping brims as was then the fashion. But to my youthful vision they seemed outrageous, and I refused to go out with the girls in these hats, which I considered, with a small boy's pride in his school, were a disgrace to me ... and consequently to Eton!
My regard for the honour and glory of this time-honoured institution did not prevent me sallying forth on several occasions with a school friend to anticipate the Suffragettes by breaking windows; although I was not the proposer of this scheme, I was an accessory to the act, and my friend (who seemed to have an obsessive love of breaking for its own sake) and I successfully smashed several old (but worthless) windows, both of the Eton Parish Church and also Boveney Church. Although I have made this confession of guilt, I feel safe against the law both of the school and the London magistrates.
In most respects I was the average schoolboy, neither very good, or very bad. Running, jumping, and football I was pretty "nippy" at, until a severe strain prevented (under doctor's orders) the pursuance of any violent exercises for some time.
Previous to this I had won a special prize for my prowess in certain sports when I arrived second in every event. I won a telescope, which seemed a meaningless sort of thing until I went home for the holidays, when I gave an experimental quiz through it from my bedroom window and discovered the infinite possibilities of the girls' school next door. Finally I was noticed by a portly old mistress who complained of my telescopic attentions, never dreaming, from what I could gather, of my undivided interest in other quarters, and my prize was confiscated by my father.
During my enforced rest from all exercise of any importance, I spent my time in compiling a book of autographs and in sketching anything I fancied. My aptitude and love for drawing were not encouraged at school at the request of my father, but I was always caricaturing the masters, and having the result confiscated. It was inevitable, living as I did in an atmosphere of art, loving the profession, and sitting to my parents, that I should grow more and more interested and more determined to become a painter myself, although strangely enough I never had a lesson from either my father or mother.
The boy is indeed the father of the man, for just as I anticipated my future by becoming the school caricaturist, so Alban Doran, one of my schoolfellows (and the son of my father's friend, Dr. Doran), spent the time usually occupied by the average schoolboy in play or sport, in searching for animal-culæ or bottling strange insects, the result of his tedious discoveries. I believe he kept an aquarium even in his nursery, and was more interested in microscopes than cricket. The clever boy became a brilliant man, distinguishing himself at "Bart's,"was joint compiler with Sir James Paget and Dr. Goodhart of the current edition of the Catalogues of the Pathological series in the Museum of the College of Surgeons. His success as a surgeon and a woman's specialist was all the more wonderful, when we remember his nervous shaking hands, which might have been expected to render his touch uncertain; but when an operation demands his skill the nervousness vanishes, and his hand steadies. He is noted for a remarkable collection of the ear-bones from every type of living creature in this country, and especially for his literary contributions to the study of surgery.
When I was at home on my holidays I spent a great deal of my time in a temporary studio erected on the terrace of the House of Lords. Here I watched my father paint his frescoes for the Houses of Parliament. Fresco painting would not endure the humidity of our climate, and several of these historical paintings which hung in the corridor of the House of Commons began to mildew. Other important frescoes were completely destroyed by the damp; but my father restored his works, and they were placed under glass, which preserved them. With his last two or three frescoes he adopted a then new process called "water-glass," which was a decided success.
Another holiday was spent at Hastings, where my father occupied much of his time restoring frescoes which he discovered, half-obliterated, in the old Parish Church at Battle. He intended eventually to complete his task; but on his return to London he found that the great pressure of work and engagements rendered this impossible. The dean of the parish wrote in consequence to say thatthe restorations looked so patchy that it would be better to whitewash them over!
The Archæological Society met that year at Hastings, and my father, who intended to prepare me for an architectural career, thought it would encourage me if we attended their meetings, at which Planché, the President, presided. We visited all the places of interest near, and I heard many edifying discourses upon their histories, while I watched the members, who were rather antiquities themselves, and thoroughly enjoyed the many excellent luncheons spread for us at our various halting places.
À proposof restoration, my father visited Kew Church in 1865, and found in the churchyard Gainsborough's tomb, which was in a deplorable state of neglect. Near to Gainsborough are buried Zoffany,[1]R.A., Jeremiah Meyer, R.A., miniature painter and enamellist (the former's great friend), and Joshua Kirby, F.S.A., also a contemporary. My father at once took steps to have the tomb restored at his own expense, and as the result of his inquiries and efforts in that direction, received the following letter which is interesting in its quaint diction as well as in reference to the subject.
Petersham, Surrey,August 24th, 1865.My Dear Sir,It is with much pleasure that I learn that one great man is intending to do Honor to the Memory of another. In reply to your note, I beg that you will consider that my Rights, as the Holder of the Freehold, are to be subservient by all meansto the laudable object of paying our Honor to the Memory of the great Gainsborough.I am,My dear Sir,Yours very truly,R.B. Byam, Esq.Vicar of Kew.To J.Rigby, Esq., Kew.
Petersham, Surrey,
August 24th, 1865.
My Dear Sir,
It is with much pleasure that I learn that one great man is intending to do Honor to the Memory of another. In reply to your note, I beg that you will consider that my Rights, as the Holder of the Freehold, are to be subservient by all meansto the laudable object of paying our Honor to the Memory of the great Gainsborough.
I am,
My dear Sir,
Yours very truly,
R.B. Byam, Esq.
Vicar of Kew.
To J.Rigby, Esq., Kew.
To thiscapitalletter my father replied:—
Kent Villa.Dear and Reverend Sir,I cannot refrain from expressing to you my warm thanks for the very kind and disinterested manner in which you have been pleased to entertain my humble idea in regard to the restoration of Gainsborough's tomb, and the erection of a tablet to his memory in the church, the duties of which you so ably fulfil, nor can I but wholly appreciate your very kind but far too flattering reference to myself in your letter to our friend Mr. Rigby which coming from such a source is I assure you most truly valued.Your most obedient and obliged Servant,E. M.Ward.
Kent Villa.
Dear and Reverend Sir,
I cannot refrain from expressing to you my warm thanks for the very kind and disinterested manner in which you have been pleased to entertain my humble idea in regard to the restoration of Gainsborough's tomb, and the erection of a tablet to his memory in the church, the duties of which you so ably fulfil, nor can I but wholly appreciate your very kind but far too flattering reference to myself in your letter to our friend Mr. Rigby which coming from such a source is I assure you most truly valued.
Your most obedient and obliged Servant,
E. M.Ward.
The tomb was restored, a new railing placed around it, and a tablet to the artist's memory was also placed by my father inside the church.
GAINSBOROUGH'S TOMB AT KEW CHURCHYARD AND TABLET TO HIS MEMORY INSIDE CHURCH.
Some very pleasant memories are connected with enjoyable summers spent at Sevenoaks, where my father took a house for two years, close to the seven oaks from which the neighbourhood takes its name. Particularly I remember the amusing incident of the burglar. I was awakened from midnight slumbers by my sister knocking at the door andcalling in a melodramatic voice "Awake!... awake!... There is a burglar in our room." I promptly rushed to her bedroom, where I found my other sister crouching under the bedclothes in speechless terror. Having satisfied myself as to the utter absence of a burglar in that particular room, I started to search the house—but by this time the whole household was thoroughly roused; the various members appeared with candles, and together we ransacked the establishment from garret to cellar. In the excitement of the moment we had not had time to consider our appearances and the procession was ludicrous in the extreme. My grandfather (in the absence of my father) came first in dressing-gown, a candle in one hand and a stick in the other. My mother came next (in curl papers), and then my eldest sister. It was the day of chignons, when everybody, without exception, wore their hair in that particular style. On this occasion my sister's head was conspicuous by its quaint little hastily bundled up knot. I wore a night-shirt only; but my other sister, who was of a theatrical turn of mind (she who had awakened me), had taken the most trouble, for she wore stockings which, owing to some oversight in the way of garters, were coming down.
After satisfying ourselves about the burglar—who was conspicuous by his absence—we adjourned to our respective rooms, while I went back to see the sister upon whom fright had had such paralyzing effects. There I heard an ominous rattle in the chimney.
"Flora!" said my stage-struck sister, in trembling tones, with one hand raised (à laLady Macbeth)—and the poor girl under the clothes cowered deeper and deeper.
Two seconds later a large brick rattled down and subsided noisily into the fireplace.
"That is the end of the burglar," said I, and the terrified figure emerged from the bed, brave and reassured. Retiring to my room I recollected the procession, and having made a mental note of the affair went back to bed. Early the next morning I arose and made a complete caricature of the incident of the burglar, which set our family (and friends next day) roaring with laughter when they saw it.
MY BROTHER, WRIOTHESLEY RUSSELL. 1872.
MY SISTER, BEATRICE. 1874.
In those days we used to sketch at Knole House, then in the possession of Lord and Lady Delaware. My mother made some very beautiful little pictures of the interiors there, and several smaller studies. She copied a Teniers so perfectly that one could have mistaken it for the original. The painting was supposed to represent "Peter and the Angels in the Guard Room," and the guards were very conspicuous. On the other hand, as one only discovered a little angel with Peter in the distance, one could almost suppose Teniers had forgotten them until the last minute, and then had finally decided to relegate them to the background. This picture (the original) was sold at Christie's during a sale from Knole several years ago.
Of course the old house was the happy hunting ground of artists; the pictures were mostly fine although some of them were at one time in the hands of a cleaner, by whom they were very much over-restored. A clever artist (and a frequenter of Knole at that time for the purpose of making a series of studies) was Claude Calthrop (brother of Clayton Calthrop the actor and father of the present artist and writer Dion Clayton Calthrop). I was then justbeginning to be encouraged to make architectural drawings, and I was making a sketch of the exterior of Knole House when one of the under gardeners came ambling by wheeling a barrow. He paused ... put down the barrow, took off his cap ... scratched his head and said to me, "Er ... why waaste yer toime loike that ... why not taake and worrk loike Oi dew!"
Another time when I was sketching in that neighbourhood, in rather a lonely part, I fell in with a gipsy encampment. One of the tribe, a rough specimen, of whom I did not at all like the look, was most persistently attentive. He asked a multitude of questions, about my brushes, paints, and materials generally—and seemed anxious as to their monetary value. As he did not appear to be about to cut my throat—and I felt sure he harboured no murderous intentions towards my painting—I began to feel more at ease, and when no comments after the style of my critic, the gardener, were forthcoming, it struck me that perhaps I had a vagrant but fellow beauty-lover in my gipsy sentinel. I wish now that I had even suggested (in view of his evident love of colour) his changing his roving career for one in which he could indulge his love ofredto the utmost and more or less harmlessly.
When I was about sixteen I turned my attention to modelling, and in the vacation I started a bust of my young brother Russell. I spent all my mornings working hard and at length finished it. On the last day of my holiday I went to have a final glance at my work and found the whole thing had collapsed into a shapeless mass of clay. With the exception of watching sculptors work I had no technical knowledge to help me; but, not to be discouraged, Iwaited eagerly for the term to end, so that I might return to my modelling. When the time came, and my holidays began, I at once set to work again, taking the precaution to have the clay properly supported this time. Allowing no one to help me, I worked away strenuously, for I was determined it should be entirely my own. My bust was finished in time to send in to the Royal Academy, where it was accepted. I had favourable notices in theTimesand other papers, which astonished and encouraged me, and I went back to school tremendously elated at my success.
BUST OF MY BROTHER, WRIOTHESLEY RUSSELL.1867.Exhibited that year in the Royal Academy, modelled by myself.
MY DAUGHTER SYLVIA.Sketched 1906.
Tom Taylor, then art critic of theTimes, wrote to my mother, saying:—
Dear Mrs. Ward,... I must tell you how much Leslie's bust of Wrio was admired by our guests last night—particularly by Professor Owen....
Dear Mrs. Ward,
... I must tell you how much Leslie's bust of Wrio was admired by our guests last night—particularly by Professor Owen....
Later I started another bust of Kate Terry, but I was never pleased with it, as it did not do my distinguished sitter justice, and I resolved not to send it to an exhibition.
I did not follow up my first success in the paths of sculpture, for I still suffered slightly from my strain, and I came to the conclusion that it would prove too great a tax on my strength at that time if I took up this profession.
The stage claimed a great part of my attention about this time, and I became an inveterate "first-nighter" in my holidays. From the pit (for, except on rare occasions, I could not afford a more expensive seat), or when lucky enough to have places given me, I saw nearly all the popular plays of theday; and when Tom Taylor introduced my parents to the Terry family, I became more interested than ever, owing to the greater attraction of personal interest. I grew ambitious and acted myself, arranged the plays, painted the scenery, borrowing the beautiful costumes from my father's extensive historical wardrobe.
The first time I appeared before a large audience was at the Bijou Theatre, Bayswater, which was taken by a good amateur company called "The Shooting Stars," composed chiefly of Cambridge Undergraduates. We arranged two plays, and the acting of the present Judge Selfe was especially good, also that of Mr. F. M. Alleyne.
One night, when I came down from my dressing-room, made up in character to go on the impromptu stage, I complimented an old carpenter of ours, waiting in the wings, upon the clever way in which he had arranged the stage and the scenery.
"Oh yes, sir," he replied, very modestly, thinking I was a stranger, "Ididn't paint the scenery, Mr. Leslie did that!"
In some theatricals at the Friths' house, when John Hare coached us, I took the part of an old butler. On my way to Pembridge Villas, attired ready for the stage, I remembered I needed some sticking plaster to obliterate one of my teeth; so leaving the cab at a corner, I entered a chemist's shop, where I was amused, because the assistant put me on one side rather rudely for other customers who came later, and after attending to them, addressed me roughly with a, "Now, what doyouwant?" His rudeness was an unconscious tribute to my effective disguise, and his manners altered considerably when I disillusioned him.
At one time Miss Marion Terry, who was then about to go on the stage, after witnessing my acting in a play of Byron's, suggested in fun and raillery at my enthusiasm that we should make our début together. Owing to her excessive sensibility and highly strung temperament, rehearsals were very trying to her at first, and for this reason her eventual success was in doubt. When one has seen her perform her many successful parts with such exquisite talent and pathos, one feels glad to realize that she finally overcame her nervousness, and that her gift of acting was not lost to the public.
I knew the Terrys very well then, and I was in love with them all; in fact, I do not know with which of them I was most in love.
Ellen Terry sat to my father for his picture of "Juliet," and Kate Terry for "Beatrice" inMuch Ado. I remember too that when Ellen made her reappearance in the theatre, my mother lent our great actress a beautiful gold scarf, to wear in that part in which she fascinated us on the stage as fully as she did in private life. Among my cherished letters I find the following notes written to me at school, after her marriage to G. F. Watts.
1866.My Dear Leslie,I am extremely obliged to you for your sketch and I'm sorry Alice [my sister] should be "riled" that I wanted acharacterof her, as the people down here call caricatures. Please give my love to her and to her Mama and to all the rest at Kent Villa—when you write. Mrs. Carr and Mr. Carr (my kind hostess and host) think the caricature is a capital one ofme!Polly [Miss Marion Terry] sends her love, and is awfully jealous that I should have sketches done by you andshe not!! With kindest regards and best thanks, believe me, dear Leslie,Sincerely yours,Ellen Watts.
1866.
My Dear Leslie,
I am extremely obliged to you for your sketch and I'm sorry Alice [my sister] should be "riled" that I wanted acharacterof her, as the people down here call caricatures. Please give my love to her and to her Mama and to all the rest at Kent Villa—when you write. Mrs. Carr and Mr. Carr (my kind hostess and host) think the caricature is a capital one ofme!Polly [Miss Marion Terry] sends her love, and is awfully jealous that I should have sketches done by you andshe not!! With kindest regards and best thanks, believe me, dear Leslie,
Sincerely yours,
Ellen Watts.
Dear Leslie,I fulfil my promise by sending you the photo of my sister Kate, that you said you liked! Ithinkit's the same. I hope you'll excuse it being so soiled, but it's the only one I have—the fact is, the Baby [her brother Fred] seized it, as it lay upon the table waiting to be put into a cover, and has nearly bitten it to pieces. I came up from Bradford, in Yorkshire, on Monday last, where I had spent a week with Papa and Polly, and I can't tell you, Leslie, how cold it was. I intend going to Kent Villa, as soon as possible. I've promised Alice a song of Mrs. Tom Taylor's and have not sent it to her yet, "Better late than never," tho' I really have been busy.With my best regards,Sincerely yours,Nelly Watts.
Dear Leslie,
I fulfil my promise by sending you the photo of my sister Kate, that you said you liked! Ithinkit's the same. I hope you'll excuse it being so soiled, but it's the only one I have—the fact is, the Baby [her brother Fred] seized it, as it lay upon the table waiting to be put into a cover, and has nearly bitten it to pieces. I came up from Bradford, in Yorkshire, on Monday last, where I had spent a week with Papa and Polly, and I can't tell you, Leslie, how cold it was. I intend going to Kent Villa, as soon as possible. I've promised Alice a song of Mrs. Tom Taylor's and have not sent it to her yet, "Better late than never," tho' I really have been busy.
With my best regards,
Sincerely yours,
Nelly Watts.
Those were delightful days spent with delightful companions. Lewis Carroll was sometimes a member of the pleasant coterie which met at our house in those days. My sister Beatrice was one of his greatest child friends, and although he always sent his MSS. for her to read, he disliked any mention of his fame as an author, and would abruptly leave the presence of any one who spoke about his books.The public at that time were in complete ignorance of the real identity of Lewis Carroll. Later in life, when I wished to make a cartoon of Mr. Dodgson forVanity Fair, he implored me not to put him in any paper. Naturally, I was obliged to consent, butVanity Fairextorted some work from his pen as a compromise. He was a clever amateur photographer, and in my mother's albums there are photographs taken by him of several members of the Terry family, together with some of us.
Mrs. Cameron was famous in those days as an amateur photographer, and she took photographs of all the leading people of the day. Watts and Tennyson were among her intimates, and most celebrities of the day knew her by sight. She was a very little old lady—I remember being in a shop (where some of her photographs were on view) with my young brother, who was a beautiful boy, when Mrs. Cameron entered. She caught sight of Russell, and could not take her eyes from his face. At last she said, "I want to know who the little boy is with you," and seemed very interested. I told her who we were, whereupon she asked if I thought my parents would allow him to sit to her. Of course they were delighted.
In 1867 Kate Terry resolved at the height of her fame to marry Mr. Arthur Lewis (of whom I have more to say later), and to retire from the stage, apparently quite content to leave her glories. Then the most famous of the Terry sisters, Kate received an ovation worthy of her. TheTimes, in a long article, said: "It is seldom that the theatre chronicles have to describe a scene like that at the New Adelphi on Saturday, when Miss Kate Terrytook her farewell of the Stage as Juliet.... Again and again Miss Terry was recalled, and again she appeared to receive the long and continued plaudits of the crowd.... Let us close our last notice of Miss Terry with the hope that in her case the sacrifice of public triumph may be rewarded by a full measure of that private happiness which is but the just recompense of an exemplary, a laborious, conscientious and devoted life, on and off the stage, as the annals of the English theatre—not unfruitful in examples of wives—may show."
Punchwas just as enthusiastic and published a long eulogy in verse, two stanzas of which I quote below:—
She has passed from us just as the goal she had sighted,From the top of the ladder reached fairly at last;With her laurels still springing, no leaf of them blighted,And a fortune:—how bright!—may be gauged by her past.May this rhyme, kindly meant as it is, not offend her,All fragrant with flowers be the path of her life,May the joy she has given in blessings attend her,And her happiest part be the part of "The Wife."
She has passed from us just as the goal she had sighted,From the top of the ladder reached fairly at last;With her laurels still springing, no leaf of them blighted,And a fortune:—how bright!—may be gauged by her past.May this rhyme, kindly meant as it is, not offend her,All fragrant with flowers be the path of her life,May the joy she has given in blessings attend her,And her happiest part be the part of "The Wife."
She has passed from us just as the goal she had sighted,From the top of the ladder reached fairly at last;With her laurels still springing, no leaf of them blighted,And a fortune:—how bright!—may be gauged by her past.
May this rhyme, kindly meant as it is, not offend her,All fragrant with flowers be the path of her life,May the joy she has given in blessings attend her,And her happiest part be the part of "The Wife."
Although I was not intended to enter the theatrical profession, the stage never failed to attract me; and once, when I was still at school, I was presented with a seat in exactly the centre of the dress circle at a theatre where Miss Bateman (who became Mrs. Crowe) was taking the part of Leah. I remember this fine actress made a great sensation, especially in one scene where she uttered a rousing curse with great declamatory power; the house was hushed with excitement and admiration; and you could have heard the proverbial pin drop, when I ... who had been playing football that morning, was suddenly seized with the most excruciating cramp;I arose ... and could not help standing up to rub away the pain in my leg, the curse then for the moment echoing throughout the audience.
Another time, somewhat later, I was again to prove a disturbing element. I was at the old Strand Theatre, in the stage box, and my host was a personal friend of Miss Florence St. John, then singing one of her most successful songs. Now I am the unfortunate possessor of a loud voice and a still louder sneeze, which latter I have never succeeded in controlling. In the middle of the song, I was overcome with an overpowering and irresistible desire to sneeze ... which I suddenly did with terrific force. Miss St. John was so disconcerted, that she stopped her song, and thinking it was a deliberate attempt at annoyance from her friend—my host—called out, "You brute!" After that, I took a back seat.
Besides visiting the theatre in my holidays, I used to go sketching into the country; and one summer my parents took an old farmhouse at Arundel. This reminds me of another unfortunate propensity of mine, and that is, to tumble whenever I get an easy opportunity. When we were inspecting the house, we discovered a curious sort of uncovered coal hole under one of the front windows, and my father jokingly remarked, "What a trap for Leslie!" Three days later, when we were settled in the house, my parents were going for a drive ... and as I waved them a farewell, which precipitately ended by my disappearing into this hole, my father's jest became a prophecy.
At Arundel I made friends with a brewer named Constable, who was also a clever amateur artist. Sometimes he took me fishing, but more often I watched him sketch in the open. An interesting factabout Mr. Constable was that his father had been an intimate friend of the great Constable, although, curiously enough, no relation. My friend told me that whatever he had learned had been owing to his close observation of the great artist's methods. I remember his water colours showed little of the amateur in their strength and handling, for they were masterly and forcible in touch, and perhaps more effective because they were usually painted in the late afternoon, when the sun was getting low, and the long shadows were full of strength and depth of colour.
Vicat Cole, R.A., was also a friend of his, and he used frequently to paint at Arundel.
Although I worked hard in the holidays at my drawing, I managed to enjoy myself pretty considerably, and was the fortunate possessor of many delightful acquaintances.
One of the pleasantest memories of my later school days was of a dance given by Mr. and Mrs. J. M. Levy and the Misses Levy at Lancaster Gate. The cotillion was led by Sir Howard Vincent, and many of the smart and well-known men of that day were there; among them Sir Eyre Shaw, the "Captain Shaw" of "Gilbert and Sullivan" fame. Patti, who was a very intimate friend of theirs, was present, sitting in the middle of the room looking angelic and surrounded by a host of admiring men. We were each given a miniature bugle. Patti had one also, on which she sounded a note, and whoever repeated it exactly was to gain her as a partner in the dance. The men advanced in turn, some blew too high, and others too low, until one and all gave up in disgust. At last my turn came; I was trembling with eagerness and excitement, and determined to dance with Patti or die.... I hit the note!...and gained my waltz!—and the applause was great as I carried off my prize.
MR CHARLES COX (BANKER) 1881
In earlier days I went to a juvenile party at Lancaster Gate, and, going down to supper late, I found myself quite alone. I calmly devoted my attention to someméringues, while it seems that my people, amongst the last of the guests, were ready to go. The ladies were putting on their cloaks.... I heard the sounds of departure, but, still engrossed in the good things, I ate on. Hue and cry was raised for me; and finally I was found covered with cream and confusion amongst theméringues.
I remember,à proposof my being a "gourmand," that I was a great believer in the efficacy of prayer. My sister and I used to rise very early in the mornings after dinner-parties to rummage in and to ransack the cupboards for any dainty we fancied. After a good "tuck in," we would pray for the forgiveness of our sins, and then we would fall to breakfast with an easy conscience.
My father's friends.—The pre-Raphaelites.—Plum-box painting.—The Victorians.—The post.—Impressionists.—Maclise.—Sir Edwin Landseer.—Tom Landseer.—Mulready.—Daniel Roberts.—Edward Cooke.—Burgess and Long.—Frith.—Millais.—Stephens and Holman Hunt.—Stanfield.—C. R. Leslie.—Dr. John Doran.—Mr. and Mrs. S. C. Hall.—The Virtues, James and William.—Mr. and Mrs. Tom Taylor.—A story of Tennyson.—Sam Lover.—Moschelespère et fils.—Philip Calderon.—Sir Theodore and Lady Martin.—Garibaldi.—Lord Crewe.—Fechter.—Joachim and Lord Houghton.—Charles Dickens.—Lord Stanhope.—William Hepworth Dixon.—Sir Charles Dilke.
My father's friends.—The pre-Raphaelites.—Plum-box painting.—The Victorians.—The post.—Impressionists.—Maclise.—Sir Edwin Landseer.—Tom Landseer.—Mulready.—Daniel Roberts.—Edward Cooke.—Burgess and Long.—Frith.—Millais.—Stephens and Holman Hunt.—Stanfield.—C. R. Leslie.—Dr. John Doran.—Mr. and Mrs. S. C. Hall.—The Virtues, James and William.—Mr. and Mrs. Tom Taylor.—A story of Tennyson.—Sam Lover.—Moschelespère et fils.—Philip Calderon.—Sir Theodore and Lady Martin.—Garibaldi.—Lord Crewe.—Fechter.—Joachim and Lord Houghton.—Charles Dickens.—Lord Stanhope.—William Hepworth Dixon.—Sir Charles Dilke.
Before I proceed any further with the reminiscences of my school-days and after, I should like to recall a few memories of the men and women who visited the studios of my parents. Artists of course predominated, and amongst the latter were men who distinguished themselves in the world. Many of them, through no fault of their genius, have lost some of their shining reputation. Others, who were merely popular painters of the hour, are forgotten. Again, a few who were somewhat obscure in their lifetime, have gained a posthumous reputation, and still others have to await recognition in the future.
It is an age of reactions. Just as the pre-Raphaelite movement "revolted" against the academic art preceding it, so the photographic idealism of pre-Raphaelitism was superseded by a reaction in art resulting and undoubtedly profiting by its really fine example. I will not go as far as to say Whistler gained by the pre-Raphaelites;but his art assuredly became all the more conspicuous by contrast, and perhaps his school is indirectly responsible for the latest reaction in favour of raw colour. In the "back to the land" style of painting which we find in favour with a few modern artists, abnormal looking women are painted with surprising results, and these artists seem to delight in a sort of blatant realism that becomes nauseous. With passionate brutality they present their subjects to us, and their admirers call the result "life." Let us have truth by all means, and let us not, on the other hand, lapse into the merely pretty; but let the truth we portray be imaginative truth allied to beauty.
That reminds me of the "plum-box" artist, who used to go round to country houses when I was a boy, with a completed painted picture of what was then considered the ideal and fashionable face, which consisted mainly of big eyes, veiled by sweeping lashes, a perfect complexion, a rosebud mouth, and glossy curls. The artist (one feels more inclined to call him the "tradesman") then superimposed the features of his sitter upon this fancy background, and the result invariably gave great pleasure and satisfaction.
Nowadays it has become the fashion or the pose of the moment to decry the works of the Victorians as old-fashioned, and in many cases with undoubtedly good reason; but unfortunately the best work is often included in the same category. In the rage for modernity, culminating in "post-impressionism," "futurism," and other "isms," in art, literature, the stage, and, I believe, costume, the thorough and highly conscientious work of some of our greatest men has become obscured; they are like the classicwhich nobody reads, and they stand unchallenged, but unnoticed except by the very few. Perhaps their genius will survive to-day's reactionary rush into what is sometimes described as individualism, and the worship of personality before beauty, which, if carried to excess as it is to-day, seems to verge into mere charlatanism. We are a little too near the great ones to see them clearly, and perhaps they can only be judged by their peers. Sometimes I see the casual onlooker glance at, sum up, and condemn, pictures which I know represent the unfaltering patience of a lifetime, combined with a passionate idealism of motive. The abundance of art schools, the enormous reduction in prices, the overwhelming commercialism which sets its heel upon the true artist, to crush him out of existence unless he compromises with art, all combine to render the art and artist in general widely different from the men of my early days. True, the Victorian came at a great moment, and now more than ever, if I may misquote: "art is good ... with an inheritance."
Among the innumerable artists I knew during my later school-days, Maclise stands out a massive figure and a strong personality. He reminded me in a certain grand way of a great bull; his chin was especially bovine; it was not exactly a dewlap or a double chin, but a heavy gradation of flesh going down into his collar. In the National Portrait Gallery there is a portrait by my father of Maclise as a young man.
His work is to me typical of the man: he was a magnificent draughtsman, a cartoonist of fine ideas. In the National Collection at Kensington there are some beautiful pencil drawings by him of variouscelebrities of the day, and they are perfect in line and study of character. In the Royal Gallery of the House of Lords may be seen his "Battle of Waterloo" and "Death of Nelson," which are extremely masterly in drawing and composition. But in my opinion he lost his charm of line when he attempted paint, for his colouring is unsympathetic and the effect is hard. His crudity of colour is not so noticeable, however, in the frescoes as in his oil-paintings.
Sir Edwin Landseer was an artist who, like Maclise, received large sums for his pictures. He was considered one of the greatest painters of the day, but I am afraid it is no longer the fashion to admire him, although his best works must always hold the position they have deservedly won. I wonder how many people remember that the lions in Trafalgar Square were designed by our great animal painter.
"The Sleeping Bloodhound" stands out amongst Landseer's pictures as a masterpiece. It was painted in two hours from the dead body of a favourite hound.
It is curious that in many instances, especially of early work, his colour was very rich, and that in his later work his feeling for colour seems to have weakened.
Tom Landseer no doubt contributed largely to his brother's reputation by his masterly fine engravings of Sir Edwin's pictures, which were sometimes unsatisfactory in colour and gained in black and white.
Herbert, whose name was prominent through his fresco of "Moses breaking the Tablets," was quite a character in those days. I remember he always spoke with what appeared to be a strong French accent, although it has been said he hadnever been abroad in his life. The story went that, going to Boulogne he stepped from the boat ... slipped ... and broke his English. Later in life he worked himself "out," and his Academy pictures of religious subjects became very grotesque and quite a laughing-stock. I am afraid this type of work needs a watchful sense of humour and a powerful talent to preserve its gravity.
Mulready was an artist whose character showed in strong contrast to that of Herbert. He was the dearest of old men; I can see him now with his superb old head, benevolent and yet strong. He painted that indisputably fine picture, "Choosing the Wedding Gown," now in the National Collection at the Kensington Museum. Although the subject will not be viewed with sympathetic interest by many of the present generation, its worth is undoubted. His work is completely out of date, but I remember one curious fact in connection with his crayon drawings, which hung upon the walls of the Academy Schools; when Leighton visited there, he had these drawings covered over, because they were extremely antagonistic to his own teaching.
David Roberts, who was then considered the greatest painter of interiors, began life as a scene painter, as did Stanfield who was his contemporary and a very powerful sea painter. Both men were Royal Academicians, as was Edward Cooke, an artist of less power than Stanfield, but of not much less distinction, imbued with the spirit of the old Dutch painters of sea and ships. He lived to a ripe old age with his two sisters, but perhaps the youngest in appearance and manner of the four was his wonderful old mother, who died when she was close upon a hundred.
Then there were Burgess and Long who painted Spanish subjects. Long was best known, however, by his picture of the "Babylonian Marriage Mart," and Burgess as a young man sprang into fame with his picture called "Bravo Toro." Like almost every other artist, Long took to portrait painting, and his pictures became a great financial success; but his portraits were not for the most part successful from an artist's point of view.
Most of the well-known artists of the day visited my parents, and amongst them I remember Sydney Cooper, David Roberts, C. R. Leslie, Peter Graham, Stanfield, Edward Cooke, Frith, Millais, etc., etc. Stephens, the art critic of the "Athenæum," came with his intimate friend, Holman Hunt; he assisted the famous pre-Raphaelite in painting in the detail in some of his pictures, such as the Moorish temple in "The Saviour in the Temple." Later, he wrote the catalogue of "Prints and Drawings" at the British Museum. The last time I met Mr. Stephens, he told me the greatest pleasure he could possibly have was to go round London with my father, for there was not a place of interest of which he could not tell some anecdote of historical or topical information; and as an antiquary of some merit, the art critic was evidently in a position to give his appreciation with the authority of knowledge.
I think my father's closest friend was John Doran. To quote Mr. Edge:—" ... Doctor Doran, known as the 'Doctor,' having graduated in Germany as a 'Doctor of Philosophy.' He was a delightful raconteur, a brilliant conversationalist, a man to put the shyest at his ease. He, too, studied history and wrote some of the most delightful biographies in the English language. The painter(my father) and the Doctor took many an excursion together to old-world places celebrated for memories quaint, tragic or humorous, and their rambles were perpetuated in their pictures and books."
Doran began his literary career by producing a melodrama at the Surrey Theatre when he was only fifteen years of age, and continued up to his death to produce a series of interesting works, although he did not write for the stage after his early success. He was editor ofNotes and Queriesand the author of "Table Traits and Something on Them." Perhaps his best-known work was "Her Majesty's Servants." Among his later works, "Monarchs Retired from Business," and "The History of Court Fools" occur to my mind simultaneously.
The three following anecdotes from Dr. Doran's journal, will appeal on the strength of their own dry humour and at the same time give the reader a glimpse of the character of my father's Irish friend:—
October18th, 1833. In an antiquated edition of Burnet's "History of His Own Times" it was stated that an old Earl of Eglinton had behaved so scandalously that he was made to sit in the "Cutty Stool" (or stool of repentance at kirk) for three Sabbaths running. On the fourth Sunday he sat there again, so the minister called him down as his penance was over. "It may be so," said the Earl, "but I shall always sit here for the future ... it is the best seat in the kirk, and I do not see a better man to take it from me."
December9th, 1833. Colonel Boldero told us after dinner a good story of Luttrell that Rogers told him the other day. He was about to sit for his picture, and asked Luttrell's advice as to how he should be taken. "Oh," said Luttrell, "let it be as whenyou are entering a pew—with your face in your hat."