Forty Years of 'Spy'

A host of amusing stories come to me with the mention of Brookfield, some of which he told me himself with an incomparable drollery that was entirely typical of the man, and others which are told of him by his friends.

When he contemplated going upon the stage as a young man, many of his friends remonstrated with him and endeavoured to persuade him to abandon his decision. A near relation also wrote begging him not to embark upon such a career, terminating his letter with a final appeal, "I beg of you," he wrote, "not to go upon the stage—in the name of Christ."

"I have no intention of acting under any other name but my own," wrote the irrepressible young man in return.

When he had been upon the stage some time, he met by chance one of the friends who had ranged himself on the side of the opposers.

"Hullo, Charlie," he said, rather condescendingly. "Still—er—on the stage?"

"Oh yes," replied our friend. "And you—still in the Commons?"

I am indebted to a mutual friend, Mr. William Elliot, for the following story of Brookfield in later years.

My friend met him one day with his wife in Jermyn Street; the next time he saw him Brookfield remarked—

"It was so lucky I met you the other day, for it enabled me to tell my wife something I have always been too shy to tell her before—that I have become a Catholic." (Mrs. Brookfield had always been a Papist.)

"What nonsense," replied my friend. "How could my meeting you and your wife start you on a confession of that nature?"

"Very simple," said "Brooks." "The moment you had gone I said to Ruth, 'What a pleasure it is to meet Willie Elliot—always the same—bright and agreeable. All these years that I have known him I have only one thing against him!'

"'What is that?' said Mrs. Brookfield.

"'He's a heretic!'" replied "Brooks."

A very typical story is told of how he wrote to the editor of The Lancet suggesting that they should publish a Christmas number, and offering to write a humorous story entitled "My first Post-Mortem!"

Mrs. C. H. E. Brookfield is the author of several interesting books, and I must not forget to mention Mrs. Brookfield, the mother of my friend, whose personality and exquisite charm of manner were so delightful. I had not the pleasure of her acquaintance in earlier days, but, judging from portraits, she must have been extremely beautiful, although it is strange that she should have been the original of heroines in Thackeray's novels, the meek and mild "Amelia" of "Vanity Fair" among them.

The Lotus Club was now a novelty, and I joined it, as did several of my friends; and many an amusing evening was spent there. The representatives of the Gaiety of that day, Nellie Farren, Kate Vaughan, Kate Munroe, and Amalia were among the attractive actresses who frequented the club. There were dances twice a week, and I well remember dancing with Nellie Farren, who was the best waltzer of them all. Kate Vaughan was delightful, but not such a good partner, although, of course, her stage dancing was the absolute "poetry of motion." Many were the pleasant hours I spent at that jolly club—and I was young.

In 1876 the Beefsteak Club was founded by Archibald Stuart Wortley. I was elected one of the original members. As a young man, I appreciated the Beefsteak Club for what it was then—a gay and jolly place, more or less Bohemian. In later bachelor days much of my time in the evenings was spent there, and my constant attendance brought me into contact with many of the most interesting and entertaining men of the day.

Being a one-room club and also restricted to three hundred members (the admittance of visitors being prohibited), it was always unique, the conversation varying according to the different groups sitting side by side at the dinner-table, and the members being selected pretty equally from sailors, soldiers, actors, diplomats, legislators, sporting men, artistic and literary men, and so on.

At one period, Friday nights were especially popular, and I think that was because a member named Craigie (a retired army man) made a point of never missing them. He was a great favourite with all, invariably occupied the same seat, and by report missed only one Friday evening during his membership. I remember that upon entering the Beefsteak Club one Saturday evening, I was shown the chair in which Craigie always sat. The seat was in ribbons.

It seems that on the only occasion that he was absent from his place on a Friday a large stag's head fell plump on to it, piercing it through and through.

What luck for our friend!

It was a 13 pointer, and happened on a Friday night too, so the tables were turned against the old superstition.

Craigie's cheery laugh has, I regret to say, long been missed. Now he is no more, so Friday nights have lost their special interest. The Beefsteak is no longer the same late "sitting up" club, although it still remains delightful, and while we regret the absence of the retired editor of Punch (Sir Francis Burnand), we hail the frequent appearance of his successor (Sir Owen Seaman).

Just before my marriage, I was very much gratified by the extremely kind way in which my friends "clubbed" together and presented me with a handsome canteen of silver (quite an unprecedented occurrence, by the way, in the Beefsteak Club). The presentation on that occasion was made by Comyns Carr, who made one of his very appropriate and humorous speeches. A friend writes to me, "Do you remember in your reply to Carr's speech you started on a quotation from Shakespeare, 'froze up,' and Biron got the book and read the passage? It was the end of 'Much Ado,' where Benedick says, 'a college of wit-crackers cannot flout me out of my humour. Dost thou think I care for a satire or an epigram?… in brief since I do purpose to marry I will think nothing to any purpose the world can say against it,'—a happy quotation. Wit-cracker for Joe Carr was admirably apt." I was also much indebted to my friend Frederick Post for his pains in helping to select the gift.

The premises previous to this were in King William Street, over Toole's Theatre, which was pulled down when the buildings of Charing Cross Hospital were extended. By an odd series of coincidences, all my addresses seem to be either in a King or a William Street, or the two combined. They were—

My Studio                       William Street, Lowndes Square.

Orleans Club                    King Street, St. James.

Fielding Club                   King Street, Covent Garden.

Beefsteak Club                  King William Street, Strand.

My Insurance Office             King Street, City.

Vanity Fair Offices

(at one time)                 King William Street.

One evening at the Beefsteak Club, I watched George Grossmith chaffing Corney Grain.

"Oh, Dick," he was saying, pointing a derisive finger at Dick's waistcoat, "you're putting it on!"

"You little whipper-snapper, how dare you!" said Corney Grain, smiling down at his friend.

When they had gone, it amused me to sit down at the writing table and make a quick caricature while they were fresh in my mind. A member, observing my preoccupation, jokingly asked me why I was so busy, and if I usually spent so long over my correspondence. Whereupon I showed him the drawing which represented the two humorists as I had watched them, a tall Corney Grain waving aside with a fat and expansive hand, a minute and impish Grossmith.

He handed it round to the members gathered by the fire, who, having seen the two men in a similar position shortly before, were much amused.

"If I were you I'd draw it larger and have it reproduced—it's bound to be popular," he remarked.

Taking his advice I went home and sat up all night making a more careful drawing from my sketch, which I elaborated with colour afterwards. I offered the drawing to Vanity Fair which, under the rule of a temporary editor (in the absence of Gibson Bowles) was refused. This gave me an opportunity of selling it privately to Rudolph Lehmann, who paid me twice as much as a previous bidder had offered for it. I had several reproductions made by the Autotype Company which I coloured myself, and eventually was £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 in Vanity Fair—it was nothing of the sort. It was a private enterprise of 'Spy.' The first issue was tinted by the artist, signed by him and by Corney Grain and myself. Those copies are now worth twenty or thirty times their original value. The origin of the picture was this. Dick Grain and I were most formidable rivals and most intimate friends. Hostesses during the London season secured one or the other of us. The following words are not absolutely verbatim, but as nearly as possible as I can get to the fact.

"Mrs. Jones: 'Are you coming to my party next Wednesday, Mrs. Smith, to hear Corney Grain?'

"Mrs. Smith: 'Indeed I am, and I sincerely hope you are coming to my party on Thursday to hear George Grossmith. Oh, Mrs. Robinson, how are you … etc.'

"Mrs. Robinson: 'Delighted to meet you both. Are you coming to my afternoon on Saturday?'

"Mrs. Smith and Mrs. Jones, together: 'Indeed we are, who have you got?'

"Mrs. Robinson: 'Oh, I have engaged Corney Grain and George Grossmith!'"

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—

LINES ON LESLIE

If ever he manages to catch a train,
It goes where he doesn't want to go.
It starts at three or—thereabouts,
But—really—he doesn't quite know.