In the year of grace 1890, and in the beautiful autumn of that year, I was a freshman at Oxford. I remember how my tutor asked me what lectures I wished to attend, and how he laughed when I said that I wished to attend the lectures of Mr. Walter Pater. Also I remember how, one morning soon after, I went into Ryman's to order some foolish engraving for my room, and there saw, peering into a portfolio, a small, thick, rock-faced man, whose top-hat and gloves of bright dog-skin struck one of the many discords in that little city of learning or laughter. The serried bristles of his moustachio made for him a false-military air. I think I nearly went down when they told me that this was Pater.
Not that even in those more decadent days of my childhood did I admire the man as a stylist. Even then I was angry that he should treat English as a dead language, bored by that sedulous ritual wherewith he laid out every sentence as in a shroud—hanging, like a widower, long over its marmoreal beauty or ever he could lay it at length in his book, its sepulchre. From that laden air, the so cadaverous murmur of that sanctuary, I would hook it at the beck of any jade. The writing of Pater had never, indeed, appealed to me, all' aiei, having regard to the couth solemnity of his mind, to his philosophy, his rare erudition, tina phôta megan kai kalon edegmen [I received some great and beautiful light]. And I suppose it was when at length I saw him that I first knew him to be fallible.
At school I had read Marius the Epicurean in bed and with a dark lantern. Indeed, I regarded it mainly as a tale of adventure, quite as fascinating as Midshipman Easy, and far less hard to understand, because there were no nautical terms in it. Marryat, moreover, never made me wish to run away to sea, whilst certainly Pater did make me wish for more 'colour' in the curriculum, for a renaissance of the Farrar period, when there was always 'a sullen spirit of revolt against the authorities'; when lockers were always being broken into and marks falsified, and small boys prevented from saying their prayers, insomuch that they vowed they would no longer buy brandy for their seniors. In some schools, I am told, the pretty old custom of roasting a fourth-form boy, whole, upon Founder's Day still survives. But in my school there was less sentiment. I ended by acquiescing in the slow revolution of its wheel of work and play. I felt that at Oxford, when I should be of age to matriculate, a 'variegated dramatic lifé was waiting for me. I was not a little too sanguine, alas!
How sad was my coming to the university! Where were those sweet conditions I had pictured in my boyhood? Those antique contrasts? Did I ride, one sunset, through fens on a palfrey, watching the gold reflections on Magdalen Tower? Did I ride over Magdalen Bridge and hear the consonance of evening-bells and cries from the river below? Did I rein in to wonder at the raised gates of Queen's, the twisted pillars of St. Mary's, the little shops, lighted with tapers? Did bull-pups snarl at me, or dons, with bent backs, acknowledge my salute? Any one who knows the place as it is, must see that such questions are purely rhetorical. To him I need not explain the disappointment that beset me when, after being whirled in a cab from the station to a big hotel, I wandered out into the streets. On aurait dit a bit of Manchester through which Apollo had once passed; for here, among the hideous trains and the brand-new bricks—here, glared at by the electric-lights that hung from poles, screamed at by boys with the Echo and the Star—here, in a riot of vulgarity, were remnants of beauty, as I discerned. There were only remnants.
Soon also I found that the life of the place, like the place, had lost its charm and its tradition. Gone were the contrasts that made it wonderful. That feud between undergraduates and dons—latent, in the old days, only at times when it behoved the two academic grades to unite against the townspeople—was one of the absurdities of the past. The townspeople now looked just like undergraduates and the dons just like townspeople. So splendid was the train-service between Oxford and London that, with hundreds of passengers daily, the one had become little better than a suburb of the other. What more could extensionists demand? As for me, I was disheartened. Bitter were the comparisons I drew between my coming to Oxford and the coming of Marius to Rome. Could it be that there was at length no beautiful environment wherein a man might sound the harmonies of his soul? Had civilisation made beauty, besides adventure, so rare? I wondered what counsel Pater, insistent always upon contact with comely things, would offer to one who could nowhere find them. I had been wondering that very day when I went into Ryman's and saw him there.
When the tumult of my disillusioning was past, my mind grew clearer. I discerned that the scope of my quest for emotion must be narrowed. That abandonment of one's self to life, that merging of one's soul in bright waters, so often suggested in Pater's writing, were a counsel impossible for to-day. The quest of emotions must be no less keen, certainly, but the manner of it must be changed forthwith. To unswitch myself from my surroundings, to guard my soul from contact with the unlovely things that compassed it about, therein lay my hope. I must approach the Benign Mother with great caution. And so, while most of the freshmen 'were doing her honour with wine and song and wreaths of smoke, I stood aside, pondered. In such seclusion I passed my first term—ah, how often did I wonder whether I was not wasting my days, and, wondering, abandon my meditations upon the right ordering of the future! Thanks be to Athene, who threw her shadow over me in those moments of weak folly!
At the end of term I came to London. Around me seethed swirls, eddies, torrents, violent cross-currents of human activity. What uproar! Surely I could have no part in modern life. Yet, yet for a while it was fascinating to watch the ways of its children. The prodigious life of the Prince of Wales fascinated me above all; indeed, it still fascinates me. What experience has been withheld from His Royal High-ness? Was ever so supernal a type, as he, of mere Pleasure? How often he has watched, at Newmarket, the scud-a-run of quivering homuncules over the vert on horses, or, from some night-boat, the holocaust of great wharves by the side of the Thames; raced through the blue Solent; threaded les coulisses! He has danced in every palace of every capital, played in every club. He has hunted eleplants through the jungles of India, boar through the forests of Austria, pigs over the plains of Massachusetts. From the Castle of Abergeldie he has led his Princess into the frosty night, Highlanders lighting with torches the path to the deer-larder, where lay the wild things that had fallen to him on the crags. He has marched the Grenadiers to chapel through the white streets of Windsor. He has ridden through Moscow, in strange apparel, to kiss the catafalque of more than one Tzar. For him the Rajahs of India have spoiled their temples, and Blondin has crossed Niagara along the tight-rope, and the Giant Guard done drill beneath the chandeliers of the Neue Schloss. Incline he to scandal, lawyers are proud to whisper their secrets in his ear. Be he gallant, the ladies are at his feet. Ennuyé, all the wits from Bernal Osborne to Arthur Roberts have jested for him. He has been 'present always at the focus where the greatest number of forces unite in their purest energy,' for it is his presence that makes those forces unite.
'Ennuyé?' I asked. Indeed he never is. How could he be when Pleasure hangs constantly upon his arm! It is those others, overtaking her only after arduous chase, breathless and footsore, who quickly sicken of her company, and fall fainting at her feet. And for me, shod neither with rank nor riches, what folly to join the chase! I began to see how small a thing it were to sacrifice those external 'experiences,' so dear to the heart of Pater, by a rigid, complex civilisation made so hard to gain. They gave nothing but lassitude to those who had gained them through suffering. Even to the kings and princes, who so easily gained them, what did they yield besides themselves? I do not suppose that, if we were invited to give authenticated instances of intelligence on the part of our royal pets, we could fill half a column of the Spectator. In fact, their lives are so full they have no time for thought, the highest energy of man. Now, it was to thought that my life should be dedicated. Action, apart from its absorption of time, would war otherwise against the pleasures of intellect, which, for me, meant mainly the pleasures of imagination. It is only (this is a platitude) the things one has not done, the faces or places one has not seen, or seen but darkly, that have charm. It is only mystery—such mystery as besets the eyes of children—that makes things superb. I thought of the voluptuaries I had known—they seemed so sad, so ascetic almost, like poor pilgrims, raising their eyes never or ever gazing at the moon of tarnished endeavour. I thought of the round, insouciant faces of the monks at whose monastery I once broke bread, and how their eyes sparkled when they asked me of the France that lay around their walls. I thought, pardie, of the lurid verses written by young men who, in real life, know no haunt more lurid than a literary public-house. It was, for me, merely a problem how I could best avoid 'sensations,' 'pulsations,' and 'exquisite moments' that were not purely intellectual. I would not attempt to combine both kinds, as Pater seemed to fancy a man might. I would make myself master of some small area of physical life, a life of quiet, monotonous simplicity, exempt from all outer disturbance. I would shield my body from the world that my mind might range over it, not hurt nor fettered. As yet, however, I was in my first year at Oxford. There were many reasons that I should stay there and take my degree, reasons that I did not combat. Indeed, I was content to wait for my life.
And now that I have made my adieux to the Benign Mother, I need wait no longer. I have been casting my eye over the suburbs of London. I have taken a most pleasant little villa in ——ham, and here I shall make my home. Here there is no traffic, no harvest. Those of the inhabitants who do anything go away each morning and do it elsewhere. Here no vital forces unite. Nothing happens here. The days and the months will pass by me, bringing their sure recurrence of quiet events. In the spring-time I shall look out from my window and see the laburnum flowering in the little front garden. In summer cool syrups will come for me from the grocer's shop. Autumn will make the boughs of my mountain-ash scarlet, and, later, the asbestos in my grate will put forth its blossoms of flame. The infrequent cart of Buszard or Mudie will pass my window at all seasons. Nor will this be all. I shall have friends. Next door, there is a retired military man who has offered, in a most neighbourly way, to lend me his copy of the Times. On the other side of my house lives a charming family, who perhaps will call on me, now and again. I have seen them sally forth, at sundown, to catch the theatre-train; among them walked a young lady, the charm of whose figure was ill concealed by the neat waterproof that overspread her evening dress. Some day it may be...but I anticipate. These things will be but the cosy accompaniment of my days. For I shall contemplate the world.
I shall look forth from my window, the laburnum and the mountain-ash becoming mere silhouettes in the foreground of my vision. I shall look forth and, in nay remoteness, appreciate the distant pageant of the world. Humanity will range itself in the columns of my morning paper. No pulse of life will escape me. The strife of politics, the intriguing of courts, the wreck of great vessels, wars, dramas, earthquakes, national griefs or joys; the strange sequels to divorces, even, and the mysterious suicides of land-agents at Ipswich—in all such phenomena I shall steep my exhaurient mind. Delicias quoque bibliothecae experiar. Tragedy, comedy, chivalry, philosophy will be mine. I shall listen to their music perpetually and their colours will dance before my eyes. I shall soar from terraces of stone upon dragons with shining wings and make war upon Olympus. From the peaks of hills I shall swoop into recondite valleys and drive the pigmies, shrieking little curses, to their caverns. It may be my whim to wander through infinite parks where the deer lie under the clustering shadow of their antlers and flee lightly over the grass; to whisper with white prophets under the elms or bind a child with a daisy-chain or, with a lady, thread my way through the acacias. I shall swim down rivers into the sea and outstrip all ships. Unhindered I shall penetrate all sanctuaries and snatch the secrets of every dim confessional.
Yes! among books that charm, and give wings to the mind, will my days be spent. I shall be ever absorbing the things great men have written; with such experience I will charge my mind to the full. Nor will I try to give anything in return. Once, in the delusion that Art, loving the recluse, would make his life happy, I wrote a little for a yellow quarterly and had that succès de fiasco which is always given to a young writer of talent. But the stress of creation soon overwhelmed me. Only Art with a capital H gives any consolations to her henchmen. And I, who crave no knighthood, shall write no more. I shall write no more. Already I feel myself to be a trifle outmoded. I belong to the Beardsley period. Younger men, with months of activity before them, with fresher schemes and notions, with newer enthusiasm, have pressed forward since then. Cedo junioribus. Indeed, I stand aside with no regret. For to be outmoded is to be a classic, if one has written well. I have acceded to the hierarchy of good scribes and rather like my niche.
Chicago, 1895.
After some considerable experience in the field of bibliography I cannot plead as palliation for any imperfections that may be discovered in this, that it is the work of a 'prentice hand. Difficult as I found my self-imposed task in the case of the Meredith and Hardy bibliographies, here my labour has been still more herculean.
It is impossible for one to compile a bibliography of a great man's works without making it in some sense a biography—and indeed, in the minds of not a few people, I have found a delusion that the one is identical with the other.
Mr. Beerbohm, as will be seen from the page headed Personalia, was born in London, August 24, 1872. In searching the files of the Times I naturally looked for other remarkable occurrences on that date. There was only one worth recording. On the day upon which Mr. Beerbohm was born, there appeared in the first column of the Times, this announcement:
'On [Wednesday], the 21st August, at Brighton, the wife of V.P. Beardsley, Esq., of a son.'
That the same week should have seen the advent in this world of two such notable reformers as Aubrey Beardsley and Max Beerbohm is a coincidence to which no antiquary has previously drawn attention. Is it possible to over-estimate the influence of these two men in the art and literature of the century?
Like two other great essayists, Addison and Steele, Mr. Beerbohm was educated at Charterhouse, and, like the latter, at Merton College, Oxford. At Charterhouse he is still remembered for his Latin verses, and for the superb gallery of portraits of the masters that he completed during his five years' sojourn there. There are still extant a few copies of his satire, in Latin elegiacs, called Beccerius, privately printed at the suggestion of Mr. A. H. Tod, his form-master. The writer has said 'Let it lie,' however, and in such a matter the author's wish should surely be regarded. I have myself been unable to obtain a sight of a copy, but a more fortunate friend has furnished me with a careful description of the opusculum, which I print in its place in the bibliography.
He matriculated at Merton in 1890, and immediately applied himself to the task he had set before him, namely, a gallery of portraits of the Dons.
I am aware that he contributed to The Clown and other undergraduate journals: also that he was a member of the Myrmidons' Club. It was during his residence at Oxford that his famous treatise on Cosmetics appeared in the pages of an important London Quarterly, sets of which are still occasionally to be found in booksellers' catalogues at a high price, though the American millionaire collector has made it one of the rarest of finds. These were the days of his youth, the golden age of 'decadence.' For is not decadence merely a fin de siècle literary term synonymous with the 'sowing his wild oats' of our grandfathers? a phrase still surviving in agricultural districts, according to Mr. Andrew Lang, Mr. Edward Clodd, and other Folk-Lorists.
Mr. Beerbohm, of course, was not the only writer of his period who appeared as the champion of artifice. A contemporary, one Richard Le Gallienne, an eminent Pose Fancier, has committed himself somewhere to the statement that 'The bravest men that ever trod this planet have worn corsets.'
But what is so far away as yester-year? In 1894, Mr. Beerbohm, in virtue of his 'Defence of Cosmetics,' was but a pamphleteer. In 1895 he was the famous historian, for in that year appeared the two earliest of his profound historical studies, The History of the Year 1880, and his work on King George the Fourth. During the growth of these masterpieces, his was a familiar figure in the British Museum and the Record Office, and tradition asserts that the enlargement of the latter building, which took place some time shortly afterwards, was mainly owing to his exertions.
Attended by his half-brother, Mr. Tree, Mrs. Tree and a numerous theatrical suite, he sailed on the 16th of January 1895, for America, with a view, it is said, to establishing a monarchy in that land. Mr. Beerbohm does not appear to have succeeded in this project, though he was interviewed in many of the newspapers of the States. He returned, re infecta, to the land of his birth, three months later.
After that he devoted himself to the completion of his life-work, here set forth.
The materials for this collection were drawn, with the courteous acquiescence of various publishers, from The Pageant, The Savoy, The Chap Book, and The Yellow Book. Internal evidence shows that Mr. Beerbohm took fragments of his writings from Vanity (of New York) and The Unicorn, that he might inlay them in the First Essay, of whose scheme they are really a part. The Third Essay he re-wrote. The rest he carefully revised, and to some he gave new names.
Although it was my privilege on one occasion to meet Mr. Beerbohm—at five-o'clock tea—when advancing years, powerless to rob him of one shade of his wonderful urbanity, had nevertheless imprinted evidence of their flight in the pathetic stoop, and the low melancholy voice of one who, though resigned, yet yearns for the happier past, I feel that too precise a description of his personal appearance would savour of impertinence. The curious, on this point, I must refer to Mr. Sickert's and Mr. Rothenstein's portraits, which I hear that Mr. Lionel Cust is desirous of acquiring for the National Portrait Gallery.
It is needless to say that this bibliography has been a labour of love, and that any further information readers may care to send me will be gladly incorporated in future editions.
I must here express my indebtedness to Dr. Garnett, C.B., Mr. Bernard Quaritch, Mr. Clement K. Shorter, Mr. L. F. Austin, Mr. J. M. Bullock, Mr. Lewis Hind, Mr. and Mrs. H. Beerbohm Tree, Mrs. Leverson, and Miss Grace Conover, without whose assistance my work would have been far more arduous.
J.L. THE ALBANY, May 1896.
A Letter to the Editor. The Carthusian, Dec. 1886, signed Diogenes. A bitter cry of complaint against the dulness of the school paper. [Not reprinted.]
[1890.]
Beccerius | a Latin fragment | with explanatory notes by M.B. [N.D. About twelve couplets printed on rough yellow paper, pp. 1 to 4, cr. 8vo, notes in double columns at foot of page. No publisher's or printer's name.
1894.
A Defence of Cosmetics. The Yellow Book, Vol. I., April 1894, pp. 65-82. Reprinted in 'The Works' under the title of 'The Pervasion of Rouge.'
Lines suggested by Miss Cissy Loftus. The Sketch, May 9, 1894, p. 71. A Caricature. [Not reprinted.
Mr. Phil May and Mr. Aubrey Beardsley. The Pall Mall Budget, June 7, 1894. Two Caricatures. [Not reprinted.
Two Eminent Statesmen (the Rt. Hon. A. J. Balfour and the Rt. Hon. Sir Wm. Harcourt). Pall Mall Budget, July 5, 1894. Two Caricatures. [Not reprinted.
Two Eminent Actors (Mr. Beerbohm Tree and Mr. Edward Terry). Pall Mall Budget, July 26, 1894. Two Caricatures. [Not reprinted.
A Letter to the Editor. The Yellow Book, Vol. II., July 1894, pp. 281-284. [Not reprinted.
Personal Remarks: Gus Elen (Caricature). Pick-Me-Up, Sept. 15, 1894. [Not reprinted.
Personal Remarks: Oscar Wilde (Caricature). Pick-Me-Up, Sept. 22, 1894. [Not reprinted.
Personal Remarks: R. G. Knowles, 'There's a picture for you!' (Caricature). Pick-Me-Up, Sept. 29, 1894. [Not reprinted.
M. Henri Rochefort and Mr. Arthur Roberts. Pall Mall Budget, Oct. 4, 1894. Two Caricatures. [Not reprinted.
Personal Remarks: Henry Arthur Jones (Caricature). Pick-Me-Up, Oct. 6, 1894. [Not reprinted.
Personal Remarks: Harry Furniss (Caricature). Pick-Me-Up, Oct. 13, 1894. [Not reprinted.
A Caricature of George the Fourth. The Yellow Book, Vol. III., Oct. 1894. [Not reprinted.
A Note on George the Fourth. The Yellow Book, Vol. III., Oct. 1894, pp. 247-269. Reprinted in 'The Works' under the title of 'King George the Fourth.' A parody of this appeared under the title of 'A Phalse Note on George the Fourth,' in Punch, October 27, 1894, p. 204.
Personal Remarks: Lord Lonsdale (Caricature). Pick-Me-Up, Oct 20, 1894. [Not reprinted.
Personal Remarks: W. S. Gilbert (Caricature). Pick-Me-Up, Oct. 27, 1894. [Not reprinted.
Personal Remarks: L. Raven Hill (Caricature). Pick- Me-Up, Nov. 3, 1894. [Not reprinted.
Personal Remarks: The Marquis of Queensberry (Caricature). Pick-Me-Up, Nov. 17, 1894. [Not reprinted.
Personal Remarks: Ada Reeve (Caricature). Pick-Me-Up, Nov. 24, 1894. [Not reprinted.
Personal Remarks: Seymour Hicks (Caricature). Pick-Me-Up, Dec. 1, 1894. [Not reprinted.
Personal Remarks: Corney Grain (Caricature). Pick-Me-Up, Dec. 8, 1894. [Not reprinted.
Personal Remarks: Lord Randolph Churchill (Caricature). Pick-Me-Up, Dec. 22, 1894. [Not reprinted.
Personal Remarks: Dutch Daly (Caricature). Pick-Me-Up, Dec. 29, 1894. [Not reprinted.
1895.
Character Sketches of 'The Chieftain' at the Savoy. I. Mr. Courtice Pounds. II. Mr. Scott Fishe. III. Mr. Walter Passmore. Pick-Me-Up, Jan. 5, 1895. [Not reprinted.
Personal Remarks: Henry Irving (Caricature). Pick-Me-Up, Jan. 5, 1895.
'1880.' The Yellow Book, Vol. IV., Jan. 1895, pp. 275-283. Reprinted in 'The Works.' A parody of this appeared, under the title of '1894,' by Max Mereboom, in Punch, February 2, 1895, p. 58.
Character Sketches of 'An Ideal Husband' at the Haymarket. I. Mr. Bishop. II. Mr. Charles Hawtrey. III. Miss Julia Neilson. Pick-Me-Up, Jan. 19, 1895. [Not reprinted.
Personal Remarks: Harry Marks (Caricature). Pick-Me-Up, Jan. 19, 1895. [Not reprinted.
Personal Remarks: F. C. Burnand (Caricature). Pick-Me-Up, Jan. 26, 1895. [Not reprinted.
Dandies and Dandies. Vanity (New York). Feb. 7, 1895. The above has been reprinted with additions and alterations in 'The Works.'
Personal Remarks: Arthur Pinero (Caricature). Pick-Me-Up, Feb. 9, 1895. [Not reprinted.
Dandies and Dandies. Vanity (New York). Feb. 14, 1895.
Dandies and Dandies. Vanity (New York). Feb. 21, 1895. The above have been reprinted with additions and alterations in 'The Works.'
Personal Remarks: The Rt. Hon. Sir William Vernon Harcourt (Caricature). Pick-Me-Up, Feb. 23, 1895. [Not reprinted.
Dandies and Dandies. Vanity (New York). Feb. 28, 1895. The above has been reprinted with additions and alterations in 'The Works.'
Personal Remarks: Earl Spencer (Caricature). Pick-Me-Up, March 9, 1895. [Not reprinted.
Personal Remarks: Arthur Balfour (Caricature). Pick-Me-Up, March 16, 1895. [Not reprinted.
Personal Remarks: S. B. Bancroft (Caricature). Pick-Me-Up, March 23, 1895. [Not reprinted.
Personal Remarks: Paderewski (Caricature). Pick-Me-Up, March 30, 1895. . [Not reprinted.
Personal Remarks: Colonel North (Caricature). Pick-Me-Up, April 6, 1895. [Not reprinted.
Personal Remarks: Alfred de Rothschild. Pick-Me-Up, April 20, 189;. [Not reprinted.
Merton. (The Warden of Merton.) The Octopus, May 25, 1895. A Caricature. [Not reprinted.
Seen on the Towpath. The Octopus, May 29, 1895. A Caricature. [Not reprinted.
An Evening of Peculiar Delirium. The Sketch, July 24, 1895. [Not reprinted.
Notes in Foppery. The Unicorn, Sept. 18, 1895.
Notes in Foppery. The Unicorn, Sept. 25, 1895. The above have been reprinted with additions and alterations in 'The Works,' under the title of 'Dandies and Dandies.'
Press Notices on 'Punch and Judy,' selected by Max Beerbohm. The Sketch, Oct. 16, 1895 (p. 644). [Not reprinted.
Be it Cosiness. The Pageant, Christmas, 1895, pp. 230-235. Reprinted in 'The Works' under the title of 'Diminuendo.' A parody of this appeared, under the title of 'Be it Cosiness,' by Max Mereboom, in Punch, Dec. 21, 1895, p. 297.
1896.
A Caricature of Mr. Beerbohm Tree, a wood engraving after the drawing by Max Beerbohm. The Savoy, No. 1, Jan. 1896, p. 125. [Not reprinted.
A Good Prince. The Savoy, No. 1, Jan. 1896, pp. 45-7. [Reprinted in 'The Works.'
De Natura Barbatulorum. The Chap-Book, Feb. 15, 1896, pp. 305-312. The above has been reprinted with additions and alterations in 'The Works,' under the title of 'Dandies and Dandies.'
Poor Romeo! The Yellow Book, Vol. IX., April '96, pp. 169-181. [Reprinted in 'The Works.'
A Caricature of Aubrey Beardsley. A wood engraving after the drawing by Max Beerbohm. The Savoy, No. 2, April 1896, p. 161.
PERSONALIA.
On the 24th instant, at 57 Palace Gardens Terrace, Kensington, the wife of J. E. Beerbohm, Esq., of a son. The Times, Aug. 26, 1872.
A few words with Mr. Max Beerbohm. (An interview by Ada Leverson.) The Sketch, Jan. 2, 1895, p. 439.
Max Beerbohm: an interview by Isabel Brooke Alder. Woman, April 29, 1896, pp. 8 & 9.
On Mr. Beerbohm leaving Oxford in July 1895, he took up his residence at 19 Hyde Park Place, formerly the residence of another well-known historian—W. C. Kinglake. Woman, April 29, 1896, p. 8.
PORTRAITS OF MR. MAX BEERBOHM.
Max Beerbohm in 'Boyhood.' The Sketch, Jan. 2, 189;, p. 439.
Max Beerbohm. Oxford Characters. Lithographs by Will Rothenstein. Part 6. It is believed this artist did several pastels of Mr. Beerbohm.
Portrait of Mr. Beerbohm standing before a picture of George the Fourth, by Walter Sickert.
Mr. Max Beerbohm. Woman, April 29, 1896, p. 8.