Forty Years of 'Spy'

"No," he replied; "the Doctor started a long time ago, but he went out by the other door this morning."

I felt rather sold, but determined to keep my vigil at an earlier hour the next morning. Accordingly I watched again, and this time saw him come out in all the glory of his beautiful white collar and cravat (which had earned him the nickname of "The Shirt"), and a red handkerchief, as usual, hanging from the pocket of his coat tail. I "stalked" him discreetly, and with success. After a final glimpse of him, walking down one of the paths of the gardens of Oxford, I hurried home to make a note of my observations.

During my frequent visits there, I usually stayed at "The Mitre," for I liked the old place. The staircase was crooked with age and the bedroom floors extremely uneven. On the occasion of one of my sojourns in that charming town, I recollected with considerable pleasure a standing invitation from Sir John Stainer, who had invited me, in the event of my coming to Oxford, to dine with him and taste some exceptionally fine old port that had been bequeathed him. I dined with Sir John and tasted the port, and enjoyed a very pleasant evening. Returning to "The Mitre" I went into the coffee-room before retiring, and as I was feeling very fit and in excellent spirits, I entered into conversation with other occupants of the room, one of whom dared me to place a very ripe cheese that was standing on the table in the crown of somebody's silk hat. Being under the impression that it was the hat of my quondam acquaintance, I promptly plunged the cheese into it. After some joking repartee, I retired to bed but could not help noticing how much more crooked the staircase seemed than usual and how the ceiling appeared to be falling. In my bedroom the floor was like the waves of the sea, and I experienced considerable difficulty in reaching land, but after the utmost perseverance I arrived at the bed, where, holding on to the post to ensure my safety, I fell into a perfect sleep. Imagine my surprise when the next morning I found myself lying on the floor fully dressed, with one arm firmly encircling the bed-post. Pulling myself together I realized that it was eleven o'clock, and that I felt in excellent form and ready to face anything the day might bring, since the effects of the old port had worn off. At breakfast the excellence of my appetite was somewhat marred by a paper with which the waiter presented me, which, on opening, I found to be a bill from Foster's for a new silk hat. My acquaintance of the night before had disappeared, and a total stranger to me proved to be the owner of the damaged hat.

The same day I had the good fortune to meet one of my favourite subjects, namely, Canon Ainger, at Dr. Warren's (the President of Magdalen), where I was invited to lunch. I had depicted the famous preacher in the pulpit after paying many visits to the Temple Church, where I had divided my attention between his fine sermons and his interesting personality. He quite entered into the spirit of my caricature and congratulated me upon it.

About the period when a number of distinguished professors and schoolmasters had appeared in Vanity Fair, I happened to be on a visit to my people at Windsor, when I met Lord Torrington (a very courtly old gentleman of the old school), who was calling on them. Formerly he had been Lord of the Bedchamber to William IV. and Governor of Ceylon, also a Lord in Waiting to the Queen, and had been selected to escort the Prince Consort to England.

In the course of conversation my caricatures were referred to, and Lord Torrington remarked to me, in fun, "You've had such a lot of schoolmasters and professors in your paper. I do not think they're particularly interesting. How should I do for a change?"

I privately decided that the suggestion was an excellent one, and as it had not yet occurred to me in those days to ask my subject to sit to me, I lost no time in observing him as he talked and made a mental note of every trait and peculiarity. After his departure I immediately made a caricature and sent it off to Vanity Fair.

The next time Lord Torrington came to Windsor he failed to make his customary call upon my mother, who met him some time afterwards in the neighbourhood.

"How is it, Lord Torrington," she asked after the usual polite formalities, "that you have not been to see me?"

"Because, Mrs. Ward," he replied in deeply offended tones, "I shouldn't be responsible for my actions if your son were in the house."

"Then," said my mother, reassuringly, "I'll take good care if he is there next time, that he shall be locked in his room!"

To which he replied, "Even that assurance does not satisfy me!" And true to his word, he never called again.

I have always considered one of my best early caricatures to be that of the Rev. Dr. Goodford, Provost of Eton, whom I stalked in the High Street. I had remembered him, of course, when a small boy at Eton as Headmaster. When he saw the caricature he protested rather indignantly against my having depicted him with his umbrella over his shoulder—on the grounds that it was not his habit to walk in this way. A short time after the publication of the cartoon he was passing down the High Street with his wife when his reflection caught his eye in Ingleton Drake's shop-window, and he stopped suddenly to gaze in astonishment at what he saw therein. Running after Mrs. Goodford, who had walked on oblivious of his distraction, he exclaimed, "My dear … 'Spy' was quite right after all—I do walk with my umbrella over my shoulder."

In later days when caricatures made way for characteristic portraiture I frequently met, for the first time, men whom I had "stalked" in earlier days. On one occasion I called upon a dignitary of the Church who had arranged to give me sittings. As I commenced to work he gave his opinions upon artists of the day, and he referred to a caricature of himself that had appeared in Vanity Fair.

"I can't think who did it," he said distastefully, "but it was a horrid thing. I'll show it to you."

Calling his secretary, he asked that the offending drawing should be found. The search, however, proved unsuccessful, at which fact I need not say that I was greatly relieved. I suggested to the reverend gentleman that I would rather he did not discover it at all! "But why?" said he. "It is the best I ever saw." It had been intended for a caricature, and the Bishop's friends had been unanimous in proclaiming it to be in every way typical, and not over-caricatured.

Some of my subjects had fixed ideas as to their own characteristics. I remember I was bent on doing Dr. Welldon, then Headmaster of Harrow, in profile, but he suddenly wheeled round on his heel and remarked, as if in explanation, "I always look my boys straight in the face." I endeavoured to persuade him to return to his former position. "You must imagine your boys over there," I explained, pointing to a distant spot on a far horizon, and the plan worked well.

I took the opportunity of informing him that I sketched him in 1874, whilst studying the game of football at "the wall" at Eton, for a full-page drawing which the Graphic had commissioned me to execute. Mr. Frank Tarver refreshed my memory on all the points to enable me to be accurate, and afterwards at his request the team posed and Welldon was one of the group. Mr. Frank Tarver also wrote the letterpress which accompanied the picture.

While Dr. Walker, Headmaster of St. Paul's, was posing to me in cap and gown, he puffed a huge cigar, and I asked him if he smoked when he was interviewing his boys.

"Oh yes," he replied, "not in class of course, but always in my study, even when the boys are there. I smoke when the boys happen to come in; as you see, a good big one, too!"

For many years, most of my time was employed either in making portraits, stalking a possible caricature, or travelling to the most likely or unlikely places to pursue a "wanted" subject for Vanity Fair. My work greatly extended my list of acquaintances, and often I found business and pleasure strangely bound together in one's daily life and occupation, and sometimes a little incongruously.

On one occasion I was due to stay with my old friends Mr. and Mrs. George Fox (now Mrs. Dashwood) in order to study the Bishop of Lichfield with a view to making a drawing of him. The night before I was the guest at the never-to-be-forgotten supper given in honour of Jan Van Beers, the Belgian artist, an exhibition of whose remarkable work at one of the Bond Street galleries was just then arousing great interest. Van Beers was a delightful man and a clever artist, but although he could originate and portray the most extraordinary ideas, it is not by the weird and eccentric creations, but by his light and humorous work, that he is still remembered. When I was talking of him with Sir Alma Tadema, he remarked that it was a pity such unusual talent should be thrown away on such frivolous and unworthy subjects.

The suggestion of the supper came in the first place, from Sir John Aird, a patron of Van Beers'; and, as Sir John wished it to be a unique entertainment, he felt he could not do better than leave its arrangement to the originality of Van Beers himself.

Van Beers called on me some little time before the date, and asked me if I could collect a number of both my own and Pellegrini's caricatures, including those of several of the expected guests, so that slides might be made from them to throw upon a sheet with the aid of a lantern; and, after some difficulty, I found the right people to do the work.

The supper from beginning to end was proved to be a gigantic surprise. As the midnight hour struck, the very representative gathering, very hungry and expectant, sat down at the long and charming decorated tables. Everywhere the eye rested on the most dazzling arrangements. Exquisite lights illuminated the room, charmingly assorted glass-flowers diffusing the electricity, which at that period was a decided novelty and only just becoming popular. Our sense of expectancy was titillated to the uttermost by the alternating lights thrown upon the scene from different angles, and the soup, which seemed somewhat tardy in making its appearance, was welcomed. For a moment all was in darkness, until suddenly a lurid glow arose in the weirdest manner from the table, which was discovered to be made entirely of glass covered with a very transparent table cloth. The bright light coming up from beneath gave the assembled guests a ghastly and weird appearance, accentuated no doubt by our increasing hunger. When the general illumination appeared once more and normalities were, so to speak, resumed, an excellent menu began to make things go. Between each course there was a fresh surprise in the form of a novelty entertainment—principally musical. From one corner of the room came an angelic voice singing a selection from an opera, which led to a discussion as to the identity of the singer who proved to be Melba. Then came Hollman, the 'cellist, followed by Florence St. John, who gave us a cheerful song from a comic opera. One bright particular star followed another until by degrees everything glowed. In the midst of the repast a monster pie was brought in and placed opposite Alma Tadema (who was in the chair). He cut it, and to our delighted astonishment countless little birds flew out in all directions alighting here there and everywhere, as though to complete the delightful scheme of decoration, whilst with one accord they seemed to burst into exquisite song. Toasts followed and suitable speeches, the artists joined the general company and were individually thanked for the pleasure they had given. It had been arranged that the caricatures should appear earlier in the evening, but owing to a mistake on the part of the operator they arrived as the last item of the evening's entertainment, and after such an excellent supper, in which the wines were truly worthy of the perfect quality of the fare, the assembly could hardly be expected to crane their necks very far back in search of the caricatures of familiar faces thrown by the lantern-slides upon the ceiling. And in any case, to my mind, the effect was spoiled by the exaggerated angle at which they were reflected.

After the coffee the party broke up about three o'clock. I had arranged to leave London by the five o'clock train for Lichfield, so had engaged a bedroom at the Euston Hotel in order to lose no time in changing. I went to bed and slept soundly for over an hour, was duly aroused, caught my train and arrived at Elmhurst, the residence of Mr. and Mrs. George Fox, in time for early breakfast.

The Lichfield festival was being held at the time of my visit, and there was a great gathering of the clergy and their wives. I attended a very fine service in the Cathedral, after which Mrs. Maclagan (the Bishop's wife) gave a big luncheon party to which I had been invited. My main object was to make a cartoon of the Bishop of Lichfield for Mrs. Maclagan, who was determined that a cartoon of her husband should appear in Vanity Fair. She did her utmost to persuade him to give me sittings, but he was very reluctant and not to be cajoled, so she gave me this opportunity to observe him, and placed me near him at the luncheon table. There were scarcely any laymen present, indeed I believe that Mr. Fox and I were the only men present not "of the cloth"; and nearly all the clergymen had come to the festival from a distance. My name got mixed up with that of a decidedly important parson who was announced as Mr. Leslie Ward—not altogether to his satisfaction I fear.

Mrs. Maclagan being a perfect hostess, had chosen me an admirable companion, a lady who started the conversation by asking me which plays I had seen in London. I gathered she had been intending to go on the stage, previous to her marriage, but she had become a Dean's wife and devoted her talents to charity performances and "drew in the shekels" for the Church. I had a very enjoyable lunch, a charming vis à vis, and an excellent subject in view.

I prolonged my visit to await the return of the Dean of Lichfield, Dr. Bickersteth, who was absent. As he did not return at the expected date I gave up the idea and hope of seeing him for the time being, but on my return journey, to my great delight, the Dean was on the platform and en route for some local station. I got into the same carriage, and was able to take a good look at him. He was a very good subject, and made an excellent caricature.

When I decided to give my attention to the Rev. R. J. Campbell I studied him closely at the City Temple. On my return I drew him in every sort of way but could not satisfy myself, for he had so many gestures and different attitudes, and when he works himself up and droops over the pulpit "fearless but intemperate" he looks rather like a gargoyle. Not long after I had succeeded in caricaturing him to my satisfaction, I met him at one of Sir Henry Lucy's delightful luncheon parties, where, after the ladies had left the dining-room, I sat next him, and in the course of conversation, gathered that he thought I had hit him rather hard.

"Well, Mr. Campbell, the caricature was done before I met you," I said, jestingly. "Had I known you I couldn't have done such a cruel thing." On parting he said, "If you ever caricature me again I shall expect you to be kind, so I needn't feel frightened of you in future."

When I sketched the Very Rev. Hermann Adler (the Chief Rabbi) I visited him at his house. While I was engrossed in my subject, his daughters came to see how the caricature was progressing.

"Oh, father!" they exclaimed, "it's just like you."

"How dare you! I'll cut you both out of my will," threatened the Rabbi, in mock anger.

Cardinal Vaughan I "stalked" and made many a note of before he sat to me. He usually wore an Inverness cape, and his finely cut features I found both attractive and impressive, but I could always see the making of a caricature in them.

I had stalked and sketched Dr. Benson, Archbishop of Canterbury, before he sat to me at Lambeth Palace. When I was drawing his son, Mr. A. C. Benson (then a Master at Eton), I showed him a little portrait sketch of his father, which pleased him so much that I gave it to him, but I have always regretted that I did not make an equestrian picture as he seems most familiar to me on horseback.

On many occasions my subjects have been particularly friendly and delightful in aiding me in my work, and sometimes extending their kindness across the boundary of professional moments. I remember a very delightful hour spent with Dr. Armitage Robinson—a subject in a thousand—when Dean of Westminster. He was astonishingly well up in Abbey lore, and together we visited chapels and crypts and strange hidden places which I feel sure must be practically unknown to the majority of visitors. When I heard he was leaving Westminster for Wells I felt an artist's regret that anything less imperative than death should have been permitted to disturb the impression of this picturesque Abbot in the peculiarly appropriate setting of old Westminster.

The finest and handsomest young athlete I ever drew as an undergraduate was R. B. Etherington-Smith, known to his intimates as "Ethel." He was rapidly making his mark as a surgeon, and his sad and untimely death was deplored by every one who knew him.

Among the cricketers I first caricatured F. R. Spofforth—the demon bowler—followed by W. G. Grace and C. B. Fry, whom I portrayed as a runner. John Loraine Baldwin, the veteran cricketer, I introduced into the series in his self-propelling invalid chair; he was a very fine old man, and the founder of the "Zingari," and also of the Baldwin Club.

Philipson, the distinguished wicket-keeper, I induced to stand in his rooms at the Temple as though keeping wicket; and Ranjitsinhji I closely observed playing cricket at Brighton, after finding it very difficult to keep him up to the mark with his appointments.

If I were to mention all my subjects in their various professions, I should fill more space than I am permitted, but among other well-known cricketers whom I have portrayed and caricatured are G. L. Jessop, Lord Harris, Ivo Bligh (Lord Darnley), George Hirst, F. S. Jackson, and Lord Hawke.

But amongst my pleasantest recollections are those of the university-rowing men with whom I came in close contact, for in every way possible they extended their hospitality to me, and I shall always remember with pleasure my visits to Oxford and Cambridge especially during the rowing season.

When studying Muttlebury, known as "Muttle," while instructing his eight on horseback from the bank, he provided me with a mount at the same time, to enable me to watch him in the capacity of a coach. I had a final glimpse of him, however, practising rowing on the floor of his room. My visits were usually referred to in the Granta, and a considerable amount of chaff was indulged in at my expense. On this particular visit when I went down to draw Mr. Muttlebury the following appeared under the heading of "Motty Notes!"

"Mr. Leslie Ward ('Spy' of Vanity Fair) came up on Monday to take Mr. Muttlebury's portrait, which is to appear in Vanity Fair just before the Boat Race. The question how to make it most characteristic will be a difficult one to settle. Certainly if our mighty President is sketched in a rowing attitude, it would scarcely be a case of all skittles and straight lines. Mr. Ward rode down with the crew, and is said to have been much impressed with the romantic beauty of our broad and rapid river, which he thought it would be quite impossible to caricature adequately.

"He was also struck with the colleges, and catching sight of the new buildings of Jesus from the common, said it was a fine house, and inquired who lived there.(!)

"On Tuesday morning, Mr. Muttlebury submitted to the torture. Left sitting."

I very frequently travelled to Cambridge with Mr. "Rudy" Lehmann, whose reputation as a rowing coach—both for his own University, as well as Oxford and Harvard—is so widely known as to make further comment superfluous. He was the originator of the Granta and is on the staff of Punch, for which journal one of his best known and most amusing contributions was a skit purporting to be from the Emperor William to Queen Victoria. As a man of letters he has made his mark. He is the father of a very fine little boy who should make a reputation as an oar, and follow in the footsteps of his distinguished father.

When I arrived in Cambridge on one of many occasions after a visit at Oxford where I had gone with the object of producing C. M. Pitman for Vanity Fair, I discovered the contemporary number of the Granta had again been on my track and chaffed me more than ever; as I was on excellent terms with the authors of that publication, I took their friendly "digs" in the spirit they were intended. Here is a further specimen of their humorous prose:

"Mr. Leslie Ward has turned up again to gather his usual crop of caricatures for Vanity Fair. Mr. Pitman[6 - C. M. Pitman, always known as "Cherry" Pitman.] is to suffer first, I understand. Last year I think I informed you how Mr. Ward borrowed a cap and gown in order to attend the lectures of Professor Robinson Ellis[7 - I had followed the Professor continually in order to get his manner of walking.] whom he was commissioned to draw; and I have no doubt he will go through adventures just as surprising on his present visit.

"On arriving in Oxford last Monday, Mr. Ward remembered that some years ago he had breakfasted in certain rooms in King Edward Street, with a friend whose name he had forgotten. He therefore concluded that these must be the lodgings of the President of the O.U.B.O. Imagine his astonishment after he had driven there, when he was informed that Mr. Pitman had never occupied the rooms. Eventually, however, he ran his victim down at 155, High Street.