Forty Years of 'Spy'

I loved to draw, and on Sundays the subject had to be Biblical, as to draw anything of an everyday nature on the Sabbath was in those days considered, even for a child, highly reprehensible (at all events, by my parents).

Even then I was determined to be an artist. I remember that one day my oldest friend, Edward Nash (whose parents were neighbours of ours) and I were watching the Seaforth Highlanders go by, and, roused perhaps by this inspiring sight, we fell to discussing our futures.

"I'm going to be an artist," I announced. "What are you?"

"I'm going to be a Scotchman," he replied gravely. In after life he distinguished himself as a great athlete, played football for Rugby in the school "twenty," and was one of the founders of the Hockey Club. He is now a successful solicitor and the father of athletic sons.

A very interesting personality crossed my path at this period in the shape of Sir William Ross, R.A., the last really great miniature painter of his time. He was a most courteous old gentleman, and there was nothing of the artist in his appearance—at least according to the accepted view of the appearance of an artist. In fact, he was more like a benevolent old doctor than anything else. When my sister Alice and I knew that we were to sit to him for our portraits, we rather liked, instead of resenting, the idea (as perhaps would have been natural), for he looked so kind. After our first sitting he told me to eat the strawberry I had held so patiently. I obediently did as he suggested, and after each sitting I was rewarded in this way. The miniature turned out to be a chef d'œuvre. It is so beautiful in its extreme delicacy and manipulation that it delights me always. My mother values it so much that in order to retain its freshness she keeps it locked up and shows it only to those who she knows will appreciate its exquisite qualities. Queen Victoria said when it was shown to her, "I have many fine miniatures by Ross, but none to equal that one."

We visited many artists' studios with our parents. I am told I was an observant child and consequently had to be warned against making too outspoken criticisms on the pictures and their painters. On one occasion a Mr. Bell was coming to dine; we were allowed in the drawing-room after dinner, and as his appearance was likely to excite our interest, we were warned by our governess against remarking on Mr. Bell's nose. This warning resulted in our anticipation rising to something like excitement, and the moment I entered the room, my gaze went straight to his nose and stayed there. I recollect searching my brain for a comparison, and coming to the conclusion that it resembled a bunch of grapes.

My father was a very keen student of archæology; and I think he must have known the history of every building in London inside and out! I remember that once he took us to Westminster Abbey, there, as usual, to make known to us, I have no doubt, many interesting facts. Afterwards we went to St. James' Park, where my father pointed out the ornamental lake where King Charles the Second fed his ducks, and told our governess that he thought it would be an excellent idea if when we returned we were to write a description of our adventures. The next day, accordingly, we sat down to write our compositions; and although my sister's proves to have been not so bad, mine, as will be seen, was shocking. The reader will observe that in speaking of St. James' Park, I have gone so far as to say "King Charles fed his duchess by the lake," which seems to imply a knowledge of that gay monarch beyond my years.

"Thhe other day you were so kinnd as to take us to Westminster Abbey we went in a cab and we got out of the cab at poets corner and then went in Westminster Abbey and we saw the tombe of queen Eleanor and then we saw the tomb of queen Elizabeth and Mary and the tomb of Henry VII and his wife lying by him and the tomb of Henry's mother, then we came to the tow little children of James II and in the middle the two little Princes that were smothered in the tower and there bones were found there and and bort to Westminster Abbey and berryd there. We saw the sword which was corrade in the procession after the battle of Cressy and we then saw the two coronation Chairs were the kings and queens were crowned and onder one of the Chairs a large stone under it that Edward brought with hin And we saw the tomb of Gorge II who was the last man who was berried there. Then we went to a bakers shop and we had some buns and wen we had done papa said to the woman three buns one barth bun and ane biscuit and papa forgot his gluves and i said they were in the shop and papa said silly boy why did you not tell me and then to the cloysters were three monks were berried then the senkuary were the duke of York was taken and then the jeruclam chamber and then to Marlborough house were Marlborough lived and then Westminster hall and then judge Gerfys house and the inclosid at S' james park were Charles II fed his duchess and then we came home and had our tee and then went to bed."

A visit to London, which made a far greater impression on me, was made later, when I went to Astley's Theatre. Originally a circus in the Westminster Bridge Road, started by Philip Astley, who had been a light horseman in the army, the theatre was celebrated for equestrian performances. "Astley's," as it was called, formed the subject of one of the "Sketches by Boz." "It was not a Royal Amphitheatre," wrote Dickens, "in those days, nor had Duncan arisen to shed the light of classic taste and portable gas over the sawdust of the circus; but the whole character of the place was the same, the clown's jokes were the same, the riding masters were equally grand … the tragedians equally hoarse.... Astley's has changed for the better … we have changed for the worse."

Thackeray mentions the theatre in "The Newcomes." "Who was it," he writes, "that took the children to Astley's but Uncle Newcome?"

Mr. Wilkie Collins and Mr. Pigott (afterwards Examiner of Plays) took us; we had a large box, and the play—Garibaldi—was most enthralling. I was overwhelmed with grief at Signora Garibaldi's death scene. There were horses, of course, in the great battle, and one of these was especially intelligent; limping from an imaginary wound, he took between his teeth from his helpless rider a handkerchief, dipped it in a pool of water, and returned—still limping—to lay the cool linen upon the heated brow of his dying master.

Thrilling with excitement and fear, it never occurred to me that the battle, the wounds, and the deaths following were anything but real; but all my grief did not prevent me from enjoying between the acts my never-to-be-forgotten first strawberry ice.

The Panopticon was another place of amusement, long forgotten, I suppose, except by the very few. The building, now changed and known as the Alhambra, was a place where music and dancing were features of attraction. It was opened in 1852 and bore the name of the Royal Panopticon of Science and Art. I believe it was financed by philanthropic people, but it failed. I remember it because in the centre, where the stalls are now, rose a great fountain with coloured lights playing upon it. There were savages, too, and I shook hands with a Red Indian, with all his war paint gleaming, the scalp locks to awe me, and the feathers standing fiercely erect. He impressed me enormously, and in consequence of my seeing the savages, I became nervously imaginative. I had heard of burglars, and often reviewed in my mind my possible behaviour if I discovered one under my bed, where I looked every night in a sort of fearsome expectation. Religion had been early instilled into me; and, knowing the ultimate fate of wicked sinners, I resolved to tell him he would have to go to hell if he harmed me, and was so consoled with the idea that I went to sleep quite contentedly. A burglar might have been rather astonished had he heard such sentiments from my young lips.

In that strange "chancy" way in which remembrances of odd bizarre happenings jostle irrelevantly one against another, I recall another experience. Once I was going to a very juvenile party; I forget where, but I was ready and waiting for the nurse to finish dressing my sisters. Resplendent in a perfectly new suit of brown velvet, and full of expectation of pleasures to come, I was rather excited and consequently restless. My nurse told me not to fidget. Casual reprimands had no effect. Growing angry, she commanded me loudly and suddenly to sit down, which I did … but in the bath!… falling backwards with a splash and with my feet waving in the air. My arrival at the party eventually in my old suit did not in any way interfere with my enjoyment.

About this time my mother visited Paris, and we looked forward to the letters she wrote to us. One letter mentions the interesting but afterwards ill-fated Prince Imperial.

"I again saw," she wrote, "the little baby Emperor; he is lovely and wore a large hat with blue feathers, I should like to paint him."

In 1857 the Thames was frozen over, and at Eton an ox was roasted upon the ice. I remember it well. Another time on the occasion of one of our many visits to Brighton, we saw the great comet, and a new brother arrived:—all three very wonderful events to me.

The brilliance of the "star with a tail" aroused my sister and me to leave our beds and open the window to gaze curiously upon this phenomenon. Simultaneously a carriage drove up to the door, and my mother (who had just arrived from Slough) alighted, and after her the nurse with a baby in her arms. We were reprimanded severely for our temerity in being out of bed, but we could not return until we had had a glimpse of the new baby, who became one of the most beautiful children imaginable.

In Brighton we visited some relations of my father's, the Misses Smith, daughters of Horace Smith, one of the authors of "The Rejected Addresses." Of the two sisters, Miss Tysie was considered the most interesting, and although Miss Rosie was beautiful, her sister was considered the principal object of attraction by the innumerable people they knew. Everybody worth knowing in the world of art and especially of literature came to see the "Recamier" of Brighton; Thackeray was counted amongst her intimates, and we may possibly know her again in a character in one of his books. I remember being impressed with these ladies as they were very kind to us. Miss Tysie died only comparatively recently.

Two years later, I met a real hero, a general of six feet four inches, who seemed to me like a brilliant personage from the pages of a romantic drama.

General Sir John Hearsey, then just returned from India, where he had taken a conspicuous part in quelling the Mutiny, came to stay with us at Upton Park with his wife, dazzling my wondering eyes with curiosities and strange toys, embroideries, and queer things such as I had never seen or heard of before. Their two children were in charge of a dark-eyed ayah, whose native dress and beringed ears and nose created no little stir in sleepy Upton.

I could never have dreamt of a finer soldier than the General, and I shall never forget the awe I felt when he showed me the wounds all about his neck, caused by sabre-cuts, and so deep I could put my fingers in them. My father painted a splendid portrait of him in native uniform and another of the beautiful Lady Hearsey in a gorgeous Indian dress of red and silver.

Another friend of my childhood was the late Mr. Birch, the sculptor; he was assisting my father at that time by modelling some of the groups for his pictures, and he used to encourage me to try and model, both in wax and clay. Some thirty years later, we met at a public dinner, and I realised the then famous sculptor and A.R.A. was none other than the Mr. Birch of my childhood.

When I was quite a small boy, we left Upton Park and came to Kent Villa. The house (which became afterwards the residence of Orchardson, the painter), was built for my father, who went to live at Kensington Park chiefly through Dr. Doran, a great friend of his (of whom I have more to say later on).

There were two big studios, one above the other, for my parents. The house, which was covered with creepers, was large and roomy. It was approached by a carriage drive, the iron gates to which were a special feature. There was a garden at the back where we used frequently to dine in a tent until the long-legged spiders grew too numerous; but we often received our friends there when the weather was summery.

There was a ladies' school next door, and I recollect in later years my father's consternation when the girls, getting to know by some means or other (I think by the back stairs), of the Prince of Wales' intended visit, formed a guard of honour at our gate to receive him, which caused annoyance to my father and natural surprise to His Royal Highness.

My parents were very regular in their habits, for no matter how late the hour of retiring, they always began to work by nine. At four my father would take a glass of sherry and a sandwich before he went his usual long walk with my mother to the West End, and from there they wandered into the neighbourhood of Drury Lane, and lingered at the old curiosity shops. They were connoisseurs of old furniture and bought with discretion. As great believers in exercise, this walk was a regular pastime; on their return they dined about seven and often read to one another afterwards. My father's insatiable love of history and of the past led him to seek with undying interest any new light upon old events.

J. H. Edge, K.C., in his novel, "The Quicksands of Life," writes of my father: "The artist was then and probably will be for all time the head of his school. He was a big, burly, genial man, with a large mind, a larger heart, and a large brain. He was a splendid historian, with an unfailing memory, untiring energy and industry, and at the same time, like all true artists, men who appreciate shades of colour and shades of character—highly strung and morbidly sensitive, but not to true criticism which he never feared." Highly religious and intensely conscientious in every way and yet so very forgetful that his friends sometimes dubbed him the "Casual Ward." Brilliant conversational powers combined with a strong sense of humour, made him a delightful companion. His love of children was extraordinary. He never failed to visit our nursery twice a day, when we were tiny, and I have often seen him in later years, when bending was not easy, on his knees playing games with the youngest children. His voice was very penetrating, and they used to say at Windsor that one might hear him from the beginning of the Long Walk to the Statue. In church he frequently disturbed other worshippers by loudly repeating (to himself, as he thought) the service from beginning to end. I remember that on Sundays when the weather did not permit of our venturing to church, my father would read the service at home out of a very old Prayer-book, and when he came to the prayer for the safety of George IV., we children used to laugh before the time came, in expectation of his customary mistake. His powers of mimicry were extraordinary; I have seen him keeping a party of friends helpless with laughter over his imitations of old-fashioned ballet-dancers. His burlesque of Taglioni was side-splitting, especially as he grew stouter. Although a painter of historical subjects, he was extraordinarily fond of landscape, and among those of other places of interest there are some charming sketches of Rome, which he made while studying there in the company of his friend George Richmond, R.A. Among his drawings in the library at Windsor Castle, which were purchased after his death, are some remarkably interesting studies of many of the important people who sat to him for the pictures of Royal ceremonies. For the studies of the Peeresses' robes in "The Investiture of Napoleon III. with the Order of the Garter," my father was indebted to Lady Waterford (then Mistress of the Robes), whose detailed sketches were extraordinarily clever and very useful. This lady was a remarkable artist, her colour and execution being brilliant, so much so that when she was complaining of her lack of training in art, Watts told her no one who was an artist ever wished to see any of her work different from what it was … and he meant it. My father had an equally high opinion of her gift.

Perhaps the "South Sea Bubble" is one of the most widely known of my father's pictures. Removed from the National Gallery to the Tate not very long ago, this splendid example of a painter-historian's talent remains as fresh as the day it was painted, and its undoubted worth, although unrecognised by a section of intolerant modernists, will, I think, stand the test of time.

I recollect many well-known people who came to our house in those days; some, of course, I knew intimately, and amongst those, Marcus Stone and Vicat Cole, who calling together one evening, were announced by the servant as "The Marquis Stone and Viscount Cole."

Gambert, the great art dealer, afterwards consul at Nice, is always connected in my mind with the Crystal Palace, where he invited my parents to a dinner-party in the saloon, and we were told to wait outside. My sister and I walked about, quite engrossed with sight-seeing. The evening drew on and the people left, the stall-holders packed up their goods and departed, while we sat on one of the seats and huddled ourselves in a corner. As the dusk grew deeper we thought of the tragic fate of the "Babes in the Wood." Up above, the great roof loomed mysteriously, and as fear grew into terror, we resolved as a last resort to pray. Our prayer ended, a stall-keeper, interested, no doubt, came to the rescue, and on hearing our story, stayed with us until our parents came.

We loved the Crystal Palace none the less for our misadventure, and the happiest day of the year, to me at least, was my mother's birthday, on the first of June, when we annually hired a private omnibus, packed a delicious lunch, and drove to the Palace, where we visited our favourite amusements, or rambled in the spacious grounds. Sims Reeves, Carlotta Patti, Grisi, Adelina Patti, sang there to distinguished audiences. Blondin astonished us with remarkable feats, and Stead, the "Perfect Cure," aroused our laughter with his eccentric dancing. A great source of attraction to me were the life-like models of fierce-looking African tribes, standing spear and shield in hand, in the doorways of their kralls. A pictorial description of how the Victoria Cross was won was another fascination, for in those days I had all the small boy's love of battle. When we were at home I loved to go to Regent's Park to see the panorama of the earthquake at Lisbon, and I would gaze enthralled at the scene, which was as actual to me as the "Battle of Prague," a piece played by our governess upon the piano, a descriptive affair full of musical fireworks, the thundering of cavalry and the rattle of shots.

On Sundays we were accustomed to walk to St. Mark's, St. John's Wood, to hear the Rev. J. M. Bellew, whose sermons to children were famous. We had to walk, I remember, a considerable distance to the church. I can't recall ever being bored by him. He was a very remarkable man, and his manner took enormously with children; he had a magnificent head and silvery curls, which made a picturesque frame to his face, and offered an effective contrast to his grey eyes. This, combined with a very powerful sweep of chin, an expressive mouth, wide as orators' mouths usually are, and an attractive voice, made him a very fascinating personality. He taught elocution to Fechter, the great actor, and afterwards—when he had retired from the Protestant Church and become a Roman Catholic—he gave superb readings of Shakespeare. At all these readings, as at his sermons, an old lady, whose infatuation for Bellew was well known, was always a conspicuous member of the audience; for no matter what part of the country he was to be heard, she would appear in a front seat with a wreath of white roses upon her head. Bellew never became acquainted with her beyond acknowledging her presence by raising his hat.

I used to take Latin lessons with Evelyn and Harold Bellew (afterwards known as Kyrle Bellew, the actor). Sometimes I stayed with them at Riverside House at Maidenhead where their father, being very fond of children, frequently gave parties, and I remember his entertaining us. Here Mr. Bellew nearly blew off his arm in letting off fireworks from the island. In those days there were few trees on this island, and it was an ideal place for a display, though this affair nearly ended disastrously.

The advantage of "archæological research" was very early impressed upon me by my father, and I was taken to see all that was interesting and instructive. We used to go for walks together, and as we went he would tell me histories of the buildings we passed, and on my return journey I was supposed to remember and repeat all he had said.

"Come now," he would say, pausing in Whitehall. "What happened there?"

"Oh—er–" I would reply nervously. "Oliver Cromwell had his head cut off—and said, 'Remember'!"

I used to dread these walks together, much as I loved him, and I was so nervous I never ceased to answer unsatisfactorily; so my father, over-looking the possibility of my lack of interest in his observations, and the fact that life was a spectacle to me, for what I saw interested me far more than what I heard, decided I needed the rousing influence of school life, and after a little preparation, sent me to Chase's School at Salt Hill.

Salt Hill was so called from the ceremony of collecting salt in very ancient days by monks as a toll; and in later times by the Eton boys, who collected not "salt"—but money, to form a purse for the captain of the school on commencing his University studies at King's College, Cambridge. Soon after sunrise on the morning of "Montem," as it was called, the Eton boys, dressed in a variety of quaint or amusing costumes, started from the college to extort contributions from all they came across. "They roved as far as Staines Bridge, Hounslow, and Maidenhead, and when 'salt' or money had been collected, the contributors would be presented with a ticket inscribed with the words, 'Nos pro lege,' which he would fix in his hat, or in some conspicuous part of his dress, and thus secure exemption from all future calls upon his good nature and his purse."

"Montem" is now a matter of history, and was discontinued in 1846, when the Queen turned a deaf ear to her "faithful subjects'" petition for its survival.

Amongst my school friends at Salt Hill, Wentworth Hope-Johnstone stands out as an attractive figure, as does that of Mark Wood (now Colonel Lockwood, M.P.). The former became in later life one of the first gentlemen riders of the day. At school he was always upon a horse if he could get one, and he would arrange plays and battle pieces in which we, his schoolfellows, were relegated to the inferior position of the army, while he was aide-de-camp, or figured as the equestrian hero performing marvellous feats of horsemanship. He became a steeple-chase rider, and coming to my studio many years after, I remember him telling me with the greatest satisfaction that he had never yet had an accident—ominously enough, for within the week he fell from his horse and sustained severe injuries.

I did not stay long at my school at Salt Hill, for the school was broken up owing to the ill-health of the principal. My preparation thus coming to an end rather too soon, I was sent to Eton much earlier than I otherwise should have been, and my pleasant childhood days began to merge into the wider sphere of a big school and all its unknown possibilities.

CHAPTER II

ETON AND AFTER

Eton days.—Windsor Fair.—My Dame.—Fights and Fun.—Boveney Court.—Mr. Hall Say.—Boveney.—Professor and Mrs. Attwell.—I win a useful prize.—Alban Doran.—My father's frescoes.—Battle Abbey.—Gainsborough's Tomb.—Knole.—Our burglar.—Claude Calthrop.—Clayton Calthrop.—The Gardener as Critic.—The Gipsy with an eye for colour.—I attempt sculpture.—The Terry family.—Private Theatricals.—Sir John Hare.—Miss Marion Terry.—Miss Ellen Terry.—Miss Kate Terry.—Miss Bateman.—Miss Florence St. John.—Constable.—Sir Howard Vincent.—I dance with Patti.—Lancaster Gate and Meringues.—Prayers and Pantries.

I have the liveliest recollection of my first day at Eton, when I was accompanied by my mother, who wished to see me safely installed. In her anxiety to make my room comfortable (it was afterwards, by the way, Lord Randolph Churchill's room), she bought small framed and coloured prints of sacred subjects to hang upon the walls, to give it, as she thought, a more homely aspect. These were very soon replaced, on the advice of Tuck, my fag-master (and wicket-keeper in the eleven), by racehorses and bulldogs by Herring.

Next I remember my youthful digestion being put to test by a big boy who "stood me," against my will, "bumpers" of shandy-gaff; and for my first smoke a cheroot of no choice blend, the inevitable results succeeding.

Shortly afterwards I was initiated into the mysteries of school life; I had to collect cockroaches to let loose during prayers; and of course the usual fate of a new boy befell me. I was asked the old formula: or something to this effect—

"Who's your tutor, who's your dame?
Where do you board, and what's your name?"

If your reply did not give satisfaction, you were promptly "bonneted," and, in Eton phraseology, your new "topper" telescoped over your nose.