Forty Years of 'Spy'

I followed the hounds upon a powerful weight carrier called the "Count," and became a very good acrobat when I was riding him. The horse over-jumped a good deal, but, growing accustomed to seeing me come over his ears, would wait until I got on to his back again. I jumped over everything, and because I had very little experience, I did not profit by the example of some of the finest riders when I saw them avoiding unnecessary obstacles.

One day I was riding the "Count" and when jumping a hedge, I lighted on my head. If you can think you have broken your neck, I did at that moment. Another rider following nearly landed on top of me.

"Are you hurt?" he called.

"Give me some brandy," I replied, stirring from what I had previously imagined to be my last sleep. Instead, he cantered on. It was enough: I could speak.

This callous behaviour roused me to such resentment that I tried to rise—at the crucial moment the "Count" stepped heavily upon my foot. I swore violently, and, anger impelling me to action, I mounted him and rode away.

Riding one evening as the twilight was falling and the surrounding country growing faint in the failing light, I rode my horse into a bog. We soon found ourselves up to the knees and in an apparently inextricable position. The situation was growing unpleasant when the horse, instinctively recognising the danger, made a supreme struggle for liberty, and, after some exertion, we emerged and reached home safely.

I used to follow Mr. Brocklehurst, the then Master of the Cheshire Harriers, and old Mr. Cobbett (the son of the great William Cobbett) who dressed so exactly in the same fashion as his famous father, one could almost imagine he had left Madame Tussaud's, with his snuff-box, to take a day's hunting in Cheshire. Sir William Cobbett (the grandson) still adheres as nearly as possible to that old tradition of dress.

It was in Cheshire, at Alderley, that I met Edmund Ashton, an old Etonian and a jolly fellow, who became engaged to Fox's sister. The village was gay with decorations on the day of the wedding; on one triumphal arch the local poet had evidently exerted his muse, for in big letters shone the following couplet:—

On this day with joy and pride
Edmund weds his youthful bride.

Under the hospitable roof of Mr. Fox, a trio of us (Will Jaffray, now Sir William, Harry Fox and I) formed a bond of friendship maintained to this day, and which has always been one of the pleasantest facts of my life.

About this time I settled to work in earnest and entered the R.A. schools as probationer in Architecture, with drawings of a monument to a naval victory, after which I became a full student for a study made from the antique.

Old Charles Landseer (brother of Sir Edwin and "Tom" Landseer the engraver) was then keeper. He was a quaint old gentleman, but I fear his teaching didn't carry much weight. What I do remember about him was that as he stooped to look over one's work the evident dye that had once been sprinkled on the back of his head had remained there until it became solidified and resembled old varnish.

There was an old student too who bore somewhat the same appearance, and seemed privileged to remain for ever a student. In his case the rust seemed to have spread to his clothes, so that I can remember the peg on which he hung his coat was left severely alone, in fact, no other student would permit of his hat or coat being near it.

It is a shame to mention old George Cruikshank in the same breath, but while on the subject of hair dye he also toned his grey hair, but in a perfectly harmless manner. What was comic in him was that up to the last he wore a lock which, being suspended by a broad and very visible piece of elastic, was evidently in his mind quite a success.

Among the students whose names come into my head as being prominent students at the time were Ouless, Alfred Gilbert, Miss Starr, Swan, Cope, Waterlow, Hamo Thornycroft, Percy Macquoid, and Forbes Robertson.

I can remember the latter coming up to me one day in the antique school, and evidently elated by the fact, saying—

"Ward, to whom do you think I have been introduced to-day?" And while I was waiting to consider an answer, he said—

"The Great Man … and this day is the happiest of my life."

I congratulated him.... I knew at once to whom he referred and what pleasure the meeting must have been to him, knowing the enthusiastic admiration in which he held Irving. He became a friend of Sir Henry's, and finally, fascinated by the stage and finding his dramatic talent stronger than his artistic aptitude, clever as he was as an artist, he abandoned painting as a profession, and went on the stage. The Garrick Club, of which Sir Johnston is a member, possesses a portrait by him of Phelps as Cardinal Wolsey. The only regret is that so great an actor should be retiring from the stage, although he has indeed won his laurels. It is to be hoped that his clever brother Norman Forbes will carry on the family tradition for some time to come.

Fred Walker, then one of the visiting artists at the R.A. schools, was a man who possessed great individuality, a highly strung and excessively nervous temperament, and, unfortunately, very bad health. It was the custom of the students, with whom he was very popular, to give an annual dinner, and about this time the toast of the evening was "Fred Walker." When his health was drunk, I remember he got up to reply, and found himself from sheer nervousness quite speechless, whereupon he murmured a scarcely audible "Thank you," and collapsed into his seat again. Du Maurier drew the character of "Little Billee" from this artist. He died young, and after his death his pictures fetched very high prices, especially some delicate and beautiful water colours. "The Haven of Rest," now in the Tate Gallery, is a poem on canvas, and it is also one of his most popular works, which will certainly live. Sir Hubert Herkomer was undoubtedly influenced by him in his earlier days.

Marks and Fred Walker were the first two Academicians who lent their names to poster designs, and they were very much "called over the coals" for it. Millais came in for a like share of condemnation when he sold his "Bubbles" to Pears' Soap. In these days of advertisement, when the hoardings are covered with every type of art, and really great artists apply their talent to the demands of commercialism, the censure levelled at Millais, Walker, and Marks appears rather more like fiction than fact.

Another novelty of that period was the musical play which Arthur Sullivan pioneered so successfully. My first experience of that delightful form of entertainment was at the Bennett Benefit, given by the staff of Punch to raise funds for the family of one of their then deceased contributors.

The musical version of Box and Cox which was produced for the first time, was entitled Cox and Box and attracted a good deal of attention. Sullivan, who had composed the music, conducted it himself; Sir Francis Burnand wrote the libretto, and Sir Henry de Bathe acted the part of the "Bouncer," with George du Maurier and Sir Spencer Ponsonby as the lodgers.

Another musical play, Les Deux Aveugles, followed, in which Sir Henry de Bathe and Du Maurier acted again with Arthur Cecil.

The Punch staff performed in a play by Tom Taylor, entitled The Wolf in Sheep's Clothing, and the cast included the author, Mark Lemon, Tenniel, Shirley Brooks, Kate Terry, and Florence Terry (who took the child's part).

The production was a most artistic one, and attracted a very distinguished audience: everybody of any consequence in the world of art, literature, and the stage, flocked to see Punch behind the footlights.

CHAPTER V

'SPY'

My coming of age.—The letter.—The Doctor's verdict.—The Doctor's pretty daughter.—Arthur Sullivan.—"Dolly" Story.—Lord Leven's garden party.—Professor Owen.—Gibson Bowles.—Arthur Lewis.—Carlo Pellegrini.—Paolo Tosti.—Pagani's.—J. J. Tissot.—Vanity Fair.—Some of the Contributors.—Anthony Trollope.—John Stuart Mill.—The World.—Edmund Yates.—Death of Lord Lytton.—Mr. Macquoid.—Luke Fildes.—Small.—Gregory.—Herkomer.—The Graphic.—Gladstone.—Disraeli, etc.

On my coming of age, Doctor Doran sent me the following advice, which at the first attempt I had some difficulty in deciphering. Later on, however, I soon discovered that it was intended, to complete the joke, that it should be begun at the end and from there read.

Doran John.

    Yours truly ever,

Yourself find will you which in condition the see to surprised be will you, anything yourself deny never and advice my follow you if, fact in. Everything in consideration first the yourself make. Thing bad a always is which, behind be never then will you as others all before yourself put. Difference the all makes which, it like you unless, lamb the with down lie or, lark the with rise don't. By done be to like would you as you to do others till wait. Own your as good as be cannot course of which, others of opinion the considering by distracted be not will you then as own your but advice nobody's take. To-morrow till off put can you what to-day do never. Life through guidance your for advice of words few a you give me let now. Him cut to happened I although him for regard great a have and years for him known have I. Morning very this himself shaving saw I man a of photo the you send I herewith.

    Leslie dear My.

On the morning of my birthday, which was to be celebrated by a dance, I felt so ill and consequently became so depressed, I was obliged eventually to pay a visit to the family doctor, who impressed me with the seriousness of my condition and prophesied all sorts of calamities after sounding my heart and feeling my pulse.

"You must be very—very careful," he said, shaking his head. "My dear boy, I'm sorry to say it; but you must not dance to-night."

I was overwhelmed.

"But," I expostulated, "I came to ask you to make me fit so that I might dance."

"You must give up dancing for a time," he said, with great firmness.

I sank into the deepest dejection; life seemed bereft of half its interest. When the evening drew on and the guests began to arrive, I saw my favourite partners carried off, and as I watched the crowd of dancers enjoying themselves my dejection grew deeper. Heaven knows what would have become of me had not my doctor's daughter arrived late, being a very pretty girl, and, I knew, one of the best dancers there, I threw discretion to the four winds, and went up to her.

"Don't tell your father," I said. "But will you have the next with me?"

She laughed and accepted. I danced every dance after that.

At the end of the evening, Arthur Sullivan played a "Sir Roger," with Chappell's man at the piano; I realized none of the dire effects I had expected, and the next day felt better than I had done for months.

The capriciousness of one's memory is extraordinary (at least in the light—or darkness—of one's usual forgetfulness). I remember my first dinner-party perfectly; and my kind host and hostess had on this occasion invited a particularly attractive girl for me to take down. Most of the guests were elderly people, and some of them were hungry people also. I had received an invitation from my hostess for almost a fortnight previously, but on that occasion the dinner had been postponed, and their usual hour altered for the convenience of a guest. I, who had not been notified to that effect, arrived in consequence half an hour late, to find the guests still waiting; my inward embarrassment was great when I faced the pairs of hungry and expectant eyes. There was one awfully fat parson who looked as though food came before Church matters. I remember even now his expression of intense relief. I hope he was satisfied. We had a most perfect dinner, and I took down my partner. I felt my hostess's eye upon me; I do not think the lady realized that the fault lay with herself and not with me.

My first dinner-party at home was spoiled for me by an accident. I sat next to Mrs. Edmund Yates, who was a beautiful woman, resplendent that evening in a gorgeous gown. Everything had up till now gone smoothly, and I felt that I was getting along nicely when my sleeve caught my glass and swept it over—as Fate would have it—Mrs. Yates' dress. I was terribly upset—so was she, and so was the liqueur.

Commissioned portraits were occupying most of my time in those days, and I exhibited (at the Royal Academy) one drawing of my brother Russell, and one of my sister Beatrice. The latter work was much admired by Mr. "Dolly" Storey,[2 - "Dolly" Storey, G. A. Storey, A.R.A.] who paid me the compliment of offering to buy it from me; but on hearing my parents wished to keep it in the family, he offered me a very good price for any other drawing of similar character.

Although I made a considerable number of portraits, I was always caricaturing the various personalities—interesting, extraordinary or amusing—who crossed my path.

At a garden party at Lord Leven's, in Roehampton Lane, I saw Professor Owen or "Old Bones" (as he was irreverently nicknamed), and, struck with his antediluvian incongruity amidst the beautiful surroundings of the garden, and the children there, I resolved to caricature him. Impressing his strange and whimsical face upon my memory, I returned home and at once conveyed my impressions to paper. I "caught" him in his best clothes, with the tall white hat, which made a contrast to his florid face; it is hardly one's idea of a garden party "get up" as will be seen by the boots. I suppose some eccentricity must be forgiven in the light of his genius, for "Old Bones" was a man, and a scientist, of prodigious activity. There was no end to his works—especially their titles, of which, for instance, "On the Archetype and Homologies of the Vertebrate Animals," is a fair example; while "Memoir on a Gigantic Sloth," has possibilities. He belonged to innumerable societies, geological, zoological, chirurgical, and so forth; and he was, as Vanity Fair described him, "a simple-minded creature, although a bit of a dandy."

A little before this, Mr. Gibson Bowles, then editor of Vanity Fair, had become dissatisfied with the artists who were working for him in the absence of Pellegrini, and, owing to a disagreement, was looking for a new cartoonist. Millais, remembering my ambitions in that direction (for when I saw the first numbers of Vanity Fair I was greatly taken with Pellegrini's caricatures, and, having a book of drawings of a similar character, had thought that if only I could get one drawing in Vanity Fair I should die happy), called to see my book of caricatures. This book contained drawings made at various times, from my early youth up to that period; and when Millais saw the sketch of "Old Bones," he was very taken with it.