ADMIRAL SIR COMPTON DOMVILLE, 1906.
MISS CHRISTABEL PANKHURST, 1908.
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 Keen.—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.
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 Keen.—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 tactfultones, 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, hetried 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 grandfinaleof destruction, he strode hatless from the club, leaving devastation behind him.
Whistler once came searching forhisopera 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 ofVanity Fairhad depicted him." This I understood to be a tentative offering of the olivebranch. 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, Phené 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 inPunch. 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.
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 atonce 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 almostamounted 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 andintelligent 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 notone 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 thechefin 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 becominga 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 thepictures 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 inJermyn 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 ofThe Lancetsuggesting 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 attractiveactresses 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 wasabsent 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 a13pointer, and happened on aFridaynight 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 ofPunch(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 WilliamStreet, 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 FairOffices(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 toVanity Fairwhich, under therule 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 £250 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 inVanity 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!'"
"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 inVanity 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!'"
GEORGE GROSSMITH. "Gee Gee."(left) & CORNEY GRAIN. 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 £18 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—
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 affordTo 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 choiceFrom 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 at the door!But his boots would not come on—But on Saturday hedoesarrive—And—finds all the family gone!!REFRAIN as before.
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 affordTo 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 choiceFrom 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 at the door!But his boots would not come on—But on Saturday hedoesarrive—And—finds all the family gone!!REFRAIN as before.
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 affordTo 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 choiceFrom 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 at the door!But his boots would not come on—But on Saturday hedoesarrive—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 bedthere 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 ofVanity Fairwhich 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 hishut 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 ofVanity 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 storyrather 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 hedidtell 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 withoutwinning, 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 werevaried 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 roomsof 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 themuch 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.