Forty Years of 'Spy'

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 afford
To 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 choice
From 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 he does arrive—
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 bed there 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 of Vanity Fair which 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 his hut 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 of Vanity 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 story rather 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 he did tell 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 without winning, 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 were varied 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 rooms of 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 the much 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.

Our friend started the Punch Bowl Club (he had always been inspired with the great idea of a real Bohemian Club) in Regent Street, and one met a variety of good fellows and plenty of clever entertainers. One of the foremost members was Mostyn Piggott, who was quite a leading light. Raven Hill was very popular also. Our club room was situated on the uppermost storey of a house of which the foundation must have been rather "dicky," for one evening it descended into another, and when we arrived, we found our room wrecked beyond recall. After this avalanche, he started new premises over a motor establishment leading out of Oxford Street. Here we had very spacious and very originally decorated rooms, which were hung with a great number of Indian trophies, for Wood was an Indian chief, and rejoiced in the title of Rah—Rih—Wah—Casda of the Six Nations Indians—an honour bestowed, I believe, only on two or three other Europeans, the Prince of Wales (King Edward VII.) and the Duke of Connaught being the foremost chiefs.

Sometimes he appeared dressed in his war paint, as an Indian chief, at the large meetings which he delighted in organizing, when he brewed the punch, while other members, dressed in the character, gave their services as cook and waiters.