Front matter (continued 2)

Poynter

Edward Poynter succeeded to the President's chair, which had only been occupied by Millais briefly. It was during his reign that I had the honour at the Royal Academy Banquet to respond for the Drama: the toast had only once been proposed before, when Irving replied. It was a difficult task, and the greatness of the audience impressed me with my own littleness. Wisely, I am sure, I limited myself to five minutes only, and venture to give an extract from what I said:

"I was not unmindful that the proposal of this toast at that great banquet was a mark of respect to the stage which could only make the stage the more respect itself. I could not speak in that room—surrounded as I was by the rulers in that fairyland—without some attempt, however faint, to say that my admiration of the beautiful art, so splendidly illustrated year by year upon those walls, was as true as my love for the living pictures we players tried to paint. Our pictures, alas! died early, for the greatest actor's work must be a passing triumph; it was not cut in marble, nor did it live on canvas, but could only owe its fame to written records and traditions. Vast wealth might keep for us, and for the ages yet to come, the undying splendour of a Reynolds or a Millais, but no sum could buy one single echo of the voice of Sarah Siddons. The drama was the most winning, fascinating, alluring thing that ever was conceived for the recreation of mankind. As England could claim to be the parent of the drama in Europe, so could she claim to be the mother of the greatest dramatist the world had owned, whose mighty genius left all art in debt that never could be paid, and whose works alone would make the stage eternal."

The pictures by Poynter which live clearest in my memory are his Catapult and Visit to Æsculapius. Concerning the latter work a story "went the rounds"—possibly as untrue as many another—that two beautiful sisters were as flattered by the eminent painter's wish to make drawings of their heads as they were horrified to find them reproduced upon bodies of well-known models in the nude.

Poynter painted a portrait of himself for the Uffizi Gallery as Millais did. There is an admirable copy of this portrait in his beloved Garrick.

I was never really intimate with Alma Tadema, although I knew him for many years, beginning with the time when he lived in Regent's Park. Owing to an explosion of gunpowder on the canal there, if my memory is accurate, his house was wrecked and he went to live in the Grove End Road, in a house formerly occupied by Tissot, a French artist, who had quite a vogue for a time. Tadema translated the house into "a thing of beauty and a joy for ever," where he entertained a great artistic company, worthy to be surrounded by the Roses of Heliogabalus.

I owe the following painful and remarkable story to my friend Aston Webb, lately President of the Royal Academy; it was told to him and others by Tadema. A young woman, an American, the daughter of parents of wealth and position, was the cause of great anxiety to her father and mother, to her intimate friends, and to her doctor, on the score of health, which puzzled all concerned, and became a mystery which no one seemed able to unravel. At last the doctor was driven to advise a year's absence from home and its surroundings by a trip to Europe, to be spent where and how the girl might wish, in the companionship of a female friend—she had no sisters, and the parents could not leave their own country at the time.

Sargent

The patient went first to London and enjoyed her stay there. During it, she conceived a strong wish to be painted by her eminent fellow-countryman, Sargent, the magician who reveals unknowingly what have been hidden mysteries. The portrait when finished was highly thought of and presently despatched to the parents of the sitter, while she went her way to Switzerland and Italy. The great artist's work delighted the father and mother. An "at home" was arranged that their many friends might share their admiration. All of this took place; among the invited guests being the friendly doctor who had been so puzzled by the condition of his patient. I will come briefly to the sad sequel. The doctor gazed at the portrait long and earnestly: he left the house perturbed and saddened. On the following day he sought an interview with the father, told him that Sargent had revealed to him, beyond doubt, what he had failed to discover himself. Put briefly, the poor girl afterwards died in a madhouse. When Tadema had finished his story, Abbey, who was also present, quietly remarked: "All too true. I could tell you the names of those concerned."

The painter who ran dear Millais close in my appreciation, and who has given me, if I bare my heart and tell the naked truth, greater pleasure than any other painter, was Orchardson; the fact that his work is so dramatic being, I suppose, the reason. His two phases of the Mariage de Convenance were gems. I don't know whether Act I surpassed Act II, or if the verdict was the other way. The glorious Queen of the Swords, The Challenge, Hard Hit, The Young Duke, Napoleon in the Bellerophon, The First Cloud, with their exquisite colourings, the secret of which never seems to have been divulged; and still one other, so delicate in conception, so perfect in its pathos, Her Mother's Voice. What a story! How simply told!

Edwin Abbey was also a painter who appealed strongly to me; again, because he was dramatic. His Richard, Duke of Gloucester, and the Lady Anne, I always looked upon with admiration. The splendour of its colouring is lost to me, for I see it now only en gravure. Nor can his Hamlet and King Lear be forgotten, while his decorative work was magnificent and will preserve his fame. He had great charm as host and guest.

I travel back to the far-off days when W. P. Frith, an old friend, was the popular Academician of his time; his pictures of the Derby Day and Ramsgate Sands having to be "railed in" at the Annual Exhibition, which was then held in the National Gallery, to protect them from the crowd.

Frith, I remember, was struck with the beauty of our production of the School for Scandal, which he highly praised. In its acting and historical accuracy he said it was like the last edition of a grand book, the handsomest and the best. He fell in love with the minuet, and said it took him back to the days of his great-grandmother. The minuet, which was introduced at Lady Sneerwell's "rout," was the brilliant idea of my wife: it was danced by two couples in a crowded room of guests. I have since seen it danced by a crowd to an otherwise empty stage.

I look back with interest to pleasant times spent in the company of Hubert Herkomer, that "jack-of-all-trades and master of many." His versatility was bewildering. Tools of every kind and shape seemed to be playthings in his hands; he grasped them with firmness and used them with skill; painting, engraving, etching, and all sorts of metal work alike came easily to him; he played the piano and the zither, composed and wrote, and was, in a way, a pioneer of film work. His shoals of portraits were amazing, and his fame might rest enduringly upon his painting of The Last Muster.

Briton Rivière was for many years our friend. We met first in the Engadine. He was, in my opinion, a great artist, and has crowded my memory with his works. I think often of those speaking dogs in The Vacant Chair, Sympathy and Charity, as I do of Circe with the amorous pigs, and the majestic Daniel facing the lions in their den.

I have always understood that Rivière was within an ace of being elected President when Millais died.

In early Bohemian days, Henry Stacey Marks, long before he had blossomed into a Royal Academician, was an amusing and pleasant friend. Years afterwards I bought, at Christie's, the attractive panels of the Seven Ages of Man which he had painted for Birket Foster. They were well-beloved companions until a changed life came to me; they now adorn the walls of the Green Room Club.

Val and Marcus

Another R.A. and old friend was Val Prinsep, whose burly form looms from distant days, which his name recalls. It is easy to believe that he was the original "Taffy" in George du Maurier's Trilby. I have a remembrance of him in the sketch he made for his painting The Minuet, which was inspired by our introduction of the dance into The School for Scandal, again in its turn reproduced in our act-drop at the Haymarket Theatre. On his return to England after painting the Great Durbar, when Queen Victoria was proclaimed Empress of India, he gave my wife a handsome native bracelet, which, as a souvenir of her, I passed on a little while ago to Marie Löhr, who married Val's son, Anthony.

"Val" left many dear friends behind him, with happy recollections of his worth.

Recently another friend of long standing, Marcus Stone, left us. He once told me an interesting incident of his childhood, a link with the past, when he was kissed by a very old and well-known man named Pickersgill, the engraver, who begged him, impressively, always to remember that he had been kissed by a man who once was kissed by Dr. Johnson. It is odd to remember, in these days of petrol, that Johnson said there were few keener pleasures in life than being whirled along in a post-chaise, in the company of a pretty lady, at the average speed of ten miles an hour.

Stone owed much to his early, almost boyish, friendship with Dickens, who engaged him to illustrate the book he was then writing, thereby made him known to eminent men, and altogether helped his career greatly. He was a good talker, and he read more books in a week than I do in a year: he also had what are called good looks and a distinguished bearing. Was it not written of him:

Sculpture

In the hope that I have not been tiresome, I will close my remembrances of Academicians with the names of two sculptors: one, whom we knew with some intimacy, was Edgar Boehm. He chanced to be our guest on the evening when his baronetcy was "in his pocket," to be announced to his large circle of friends on the following morning.

There was a beautiful work of his on the staircase landing of the house Millais built for himself in Kensington. His fame rests chiefly, I suppose, on the statue of Carlyle, near to his Chelsea home; on the tomb of Dean Stanley; and the statue of Wellington at Hyde Park Corner, which replaced the old one, now at Aldershot, that I was taken as a child to see when it was erected—an earlier remembrance than that I retain of the Iron Duke's funeral.

I always remember an evening as Boehm's guest, when a lady whom I had taken down to dinner, in answer to an opinion I timidly expressed that it was just possible she might be on the verge of "spoiling" her two boys, who chanced to be at Eton with my son, turned upon me with the amazing question: "Do you think I can ever sufficiently apologise to them for my share in bringing them into this world?"

Boehm and Onslow Ford

Boehm's end was distressing. He was a great Court favourite, and one afternoon, in his studio, told his man that he expected a visit from the Princess Louise, and that Her Royal Highness, with her lady, was to be conducted to the studio at once. When taken there, on the door being opened, they found Boehm, who had sunk upon the floor from a sudden heart attack, unconscious and just breathing; he passed away in a few minutes.

Onslow Ford, another friend of ours, was as well known for his personal charm as for the refinement of his work. He was beloved by his brother Academicians, the features of several of whom he has immortalised in marble, and by a large circle of friends. One of his best achievements is the seated figure of Henry Irving, now in the Guildhall Picture Gallery; while the Christopher Marlowe memorial at Canterbury, the Shelley memorial in University College, Oxford, and the great statue of Gordon, mounted on a camel, at Chatham, will make his fame secure.

Another sculptor whose friendship we enjoyed was the late Count Gleichen, who regarded his art as far more than a recreation; and his statue of King Alfred at Wantage is the work of no mere amateur. We found it an interesting experience to sit to him for the two portrait busts which are now in the Garrick Club. The sittings in his studio at St. James's Palace were often enlivened by visits from well-known people of many kinds, which I hope did not detract from the merit of the sculptor's work.

I dare not try the patience of my readers by attempting at any length to write of that rebellious, capricious, tempestuous, and captivating genius "Jimmy" Whistler.

After welcoming him as our amusing and interesting guest, my wife and I were bidden to one of his historic luncheons at the White House, which then stood quite alone in Chelsea by the river. We had excellent company and ate buckwheat cakes, cooked by himself.

His despotic value of himself was exalted and could not be excelled: nothing shook it. The rapier and the bludgeon were alike his weapons of either attack or defence.

I believe his portrait of Irving as King Philip has varied in different markets from bids of a few pounds to some thousands.

"Punch"

Sir John Tenniel was an old friend and guest. His remarkable connection with Punch extended over fifty years. During this marvellous record he contributed between two and three thousand cartoons to its pages. The most famous of this vast collection was, perhaps, Dropping the Pilot, which showed Bismarck leaving the Ship of State, while his new chief, who was to wreck Europe, looked superciliously down on him.

I was present at a banquet given in his honour upon his retirement. The company gathered was exceptional and was presided over by Mr. Balfour, as he then was. When Tenniel rose to return his thanks, the demonstration was too much for the old man; he was unable to speak, and resumed his seat in tears. As the chairman said at once, no expression of thanks could have been more eloquent.

We knew George du Maurier for many years: I wish it had been more intimately. After his early days in Paris and his familiarity with the Quartier Latin, his connection with Punch began, ten years later than Tenniel's. Soon afterwards he succeeded to Leach's prominent position and earned his world-wide fame, which was not lessened by his novels, Peter Ibbetson and Trilby.

I should have loved to hear him say at one of the weekly Punch dinners, as the man who told me did: "Fellows will write to me as de Maurier; I wish they'd give the devil his du."

Painting

One of du Maurier's closest friends was that fascinating man Canon Ainger, Master of the Temple, with whom I had only a slight acquaintance. They met constantly, almost daily, in their beloved Hampstead, and indeed haunted its Heath: du Maurier was at home in Bohemia; Ainger had never stood upon its soil; while their widely separated religious views never hurt their friendship. "A strange world, my masters."

He loved the stage. Would he had lived to see the position of its leader in England, to-day, achieved by his son Gerald!

"Sammy," as Linley Sambourne was affectionately called by his intimates, will complete my trio of Punch draughtsmen.

He was an amusing little creature, always very horsey in get up. I have his gift of the first drawing from his pencil which appeared in Punch, so long ago as 1867, when he was but twenty-two; it is a droll little sketch of George Honey as Eccles, John Hare as Sam Gerridge, and myself as Captain Hawtree in Caste. He told me that it was drawn from memory, after visits to the pit when Robertson's comedy was at the height of its first success.

I recall an amusing incident which occurred at a fancy-dress ball, largely attended by the artistic and "Bohemian" world. "Sammy" appeared, admirably appointed and dressed, as a little fat Dutchman. He was cheerily greeted by Gilbert, who ran against him with the words: "One Dutch of Sambourne makes the whole world grin."

Pellegrini

I must write a few lines in memory of the prince of caricaturists, Carlo Pellegrini. We knew him throughout his career and always enjoyed his company. On one evening when he gave it to us, on being announced, he kissed my wife's hand and uttered some compliment in Italian; she immediately, in a spirit of fun, rapidly recited an old and rather long "proverb" in his language, which she had learned by heart, as a child—it being her sole acquaintance with Italian—the little man's expression of amazement was a study.

She played the same trick, with still greater effect, on the stage of the Scala Theatre at Milan which we went over with a party of friends, when Arthur Cecil asked her to address an imaginary audience.

Music

I sat to Pellegrini once, when he began to paint portraits seriously—the idea was soon abandoned.—With regard to mine he wrote: "I have sent your fac simile to the Grosvenor: I hope you will be well hanged."

I saw the "Pelican"—as Pellegrini was called by his friends—in his last illness at his rooms in Mortimer Street. Shortly before the peaceful end he said pathetically to his faithful servant: "Wil-li-am, put me on clean shirt—I die clean."

I hardly regarded my old friend Leslie Ward as a caricaturist; his clever drawings were, to my mind, portraits—humorously, but gently, exaggerated. They were mainly the result of sittings. Pellegrini's work was produced from memory.

Leslie Ward was the son of distinguished painters; his sister Beatrice shared their art, as I can testify by a valued possession, a very charming drawing of my wife.

Arthur Sullivan

The brilliant composer and musician, Arthur Sullivan, was our much-loved friend for thirty years. We first knew him about the time he and W. S. Gilbert were made known to each other by Frederic Clay. His great career began, like many others, very simply, for he was one of the "Children of the Chapel Royal," as they are still called, before his more serious studies began at the Royal Academy of Music and at Leipzig. He returned with his music to The Tempest, to be followed by The Light of the World.

His wonderful partnership with Gilbert has given joy to every land. It is said that the success of H.M.S. Pinafore was so amazing in America that 100,000 barrel-organs were specially constructed to play nothing else.

I recall a happy gathering of friends at Pontresina. Sullivan was one of them, and his old mother was with him: his devotion to her revealed a beautiful side of his affectionate nature.

A different meeting was when my wife and I met him one morning in the rooms at Monte Carlo. It was settled that we should have lunch together at the Café de Paris, which they went away to order, leaving me, unfortunately, at my own request, to join them in a few minutes. When I did so, my face must have told the sad story of those few minutes, as Arthur called out, cheerily: "Come along, B; this way to the cemetery."

He had a peculiarly entrancing personality: he lived a happy but not a long life, laden with honours.

When I had the sad privilege of being one of the pall-bearers at his funeral I was as impressed as I was pleased to see the blinds of the Athenæum drawn as we passed on our way to St. Paul's Cathedral, where, I have always understood, he was laid to rest by the wish of Queen Victoria.

Music had to bear three heavy blows, dealt within a few days, when Charles Stanford, with his keen sense of humour, Walter Parratt, with his winning personality, and Frederick Bridge, with his ever-ready stories of killing fish, left us. I knew them all, but Parratt was never my guest. He had no London home. We met pleasantly sometimes at the Athenæum, and my nearest link with him was that of having been born in the same year. Bridge and I received our knighthoods together. I have happy recollections of a stay at Harrogate when Stanford was also there. Although he lived so many years in London, he seemed to me to have left Dublin only recently; but what lingers most firmly in my mind in regard to him, is the majestic march he composed for Irving when Tennyson's play Becket was produced at the Lyceum. The last time I listened to its strains was at his own funeral service in the Abbey.

Frederic Clay

The name of another old musical friend, Frederic Clay, must be remembered, for it was in his company that I met Gounod. I dined with Clay when he lived with his father, who was the friend of Lord Beaconsfield, and known as the finest whist-player in London. I once saw the old gentleman in the cardroom of the Garrick, where he distinguished himself by revoking.

Frederic Clay's career was checked by a long and distressing illness. His fame will live in the remembrance of his melodies: "She wandered down the Mountain Side," "The Sands of Dee," and, above all, by the ever-enduring "I'll sing thee songs of Araby."

VI LITERATURE

"Think of the achievements of a great writer—a great poet—their works embrace the past, the present, and the future: their fame is for ever growing through the gifts they have made to the dead: the pleasure they have still the power to bestow upon the living: and the delight of bequeathing their wealth to unknown ages while their language lives."

Browning

The most prominent man of letters known to my wife and to me was Robert Browning, who looked as unlike the conventional idea of a poet as I resemble a sweep; his appearance seemed to me a better "make-up" for a family physician or legal adviser.

Many years ago my wife and I were present at the wedding of an old friend's daughter and afterwards at the reception. On entering the drawing-room, which had heavy blinds and was rather sombre, my wife mistook an elderly and bearded guest for the host, went behind him, turned his head round, and, as she thought, kissed her congratulations to the bride's father. The recipient of the mistaken salute proved to be Browning, who avowed that whenever and wherever he met my wife he was to be treated in the same way. The ceremony was afterwards always gone through, and more than once in the open street.

When he first dined with us he was made happy in finding a bottle of port by his hand, that he might help himself and not be offered other wines. I remember a story he told us of Longfellow when he visited England. The two poets were driving in a hansom, and a heavy shower suddenly came on. Longfellow insisted upon thrusting his umbrella through the trap in the roof of the cab that the driver might protect himself from the rain, which he did.

At a dinner given at the old Star and Garter, Richmond, Browning met my wife on the terrace with an impromptu, hurriedly scrawled on a menu, which I may give imperfectly:

In the last letter my wife received from him he wrote: "I heartily wish I had been privileged to begin feeling twenty years ago what I feel now, and I shall make what amends are in my power, by feeling so as long as I live."

I was in the Abbey on the cheerless, foggy, December day, when Browning joined the "Poets" in their "Corner."

I had the honour of enjoying the friendship of that distinguished man of letters, Monckton Milnes, afterwards Lord Houghton. He once told me a story worth repeating. He was in search of a piece of furniture. On entering a dealer's shop in Wardour Street, he caught sight of the portrait of an admiral, apparently of the last century, and of this he asked the price. "Ten pounds," was the answer. Lord Houghton offered five; the dealer was obdurate. The article wanted was sought for, found and bargained for. On going away Lord Houghton returned to the price of the admiral's portrait. At last the dealer said: "Well, my lord, and to your lordship only, seven pound ten"; but his customer would not go beyond his offer of a fiver, and there was an end of the matter.

Soon afterwards, visiting a neighbour in Yorkshire, Lord Houghton recognised the portrait of the admiral hanging in the dining-room, and said: "Hallo! who's that? What have you got there? Something new?" "Yes," replied the friend; "he was a well-known admiral in his day—fought with Nelson—good bit of work too—recently bequeathed to us— an ancestor of my wife's." "Ah, was he?" said Lord Houghton. "Six weeks ago he was within two pound ten of becoming one of mine!"

Henry James

Once, at a dinner party we gave, a scrupulously clean-shaven guest was announced, whose name neither host nor hostess had caught. He shook hands gaily with us both, and as he moved away to another couple, whom he evidently knew, I gathered from the expression of my wife's face that she, like myself, had no idea of his identity. A bachelor friend who was next announced, after speaking familiarly with the puzzling stranger, came back to me and said, happily in the hearing of my wife: "Do you like Henry James's appearance better with or without his beard?" The mystery was solved. That sort of transformation seems hardly fair.

I beg to be forgiven if I quote a few words from Henry James, written in The Middle Years: "How can I think of the 'run' of the more successful of Mr. Robertson's comedies at the 'dear little old' Prince of Wales's Theatre, by Tottenham Court Road, as anything less than one of the wonders of our age?"

Some ten years ago, James became a British subject—many people, I dare say, have thought him to have always been one—and in return England rightly bestowed upon him the Order of Merit.

Even at the end, when telling a friend of the pain he suffered in his fatal illness, he was gay, and said of death, that he felt the distinguished thing had come to him at last. Much the same thought doubtless crossed the mind of Charles Frohman, the theatrical manager, when he went down on board the Lusitania. He turned to his companion with the words, borrowed from Peter Pan: "Now for the great adventure." Courage is expressed in many wonderful ways.

I have mentioned my first meeting at the elder Boucicault's with Charles Reade, author of The Cloister and the Hearth. As a man of letters, his name is entitled to be enrolled among the giants of his day. Friendship with him began at the Garrick Club, where I have seen him at a whist table with Anthony Trollope and Charles Lever, playing in the same rubber. It ripened rapidly when we produced Masks and Faces, over which my wife and I had many a fight in getting him to agree to some important changes we wished to make. We won the day, and the old book was done with for all time. I will quote from a superb description, written with the insight of a gifted woman, Ellen Terry: "Dear, kind, unjust, generous, cautious, impulsive, passionate, gentle Charles Reade! who combined so many qualities, far asunder as the poles. He was placid and turbulent, yet always majestic. He was inexplicable and entirely lovable—a stupid old dear, and as wise as Solomon! He seemed guileless, and yet had moments of suspicion and craftiness worthy of the serpent."

Wilkie Collins

Wilkie Collins was another Victorian novelist of high repute, whose books would give great pleasure to modern readers if they sampled The Woman in White, Armadale, or The Moonstone, and left themselves in debt to such creations as Count Fosco, Margaret Vanstone, Mercy Merrick, and many more. We knew him well, and sided with his view of the well-known unfortunate episode in the early history of the Garrick Club which resulted in the expulsion of Edmund Yates, through his youthful indiscretion in writing of Thackeray in a way that so great a giant could have afforded to ignore.

At the most, he might have called for an apology—which was offered but declined. "Wilkie" stood by Dickens in the defence of Yates, and they resigned their membership together.

For years Collins was a confirmed opium taker and a slave to the drug. He once left the Engadine, in its primitive days, and found himself, to his horror, without any. He and an intimate friend, who happily spoke German like a native, were travelling together: they represented themselves to be doctors and so obtained from chemists at Coire, and afterwards at Basle, the maximum supply the Swiss law allowed, and so reached Paris without the catastrophe Collins described in alarming words.

At my table, Wilkie Collins, George Critchett, who had left general practice and become an eye specialist, and Sir William Fergusson, the eminent Victorian surgeon, were present together. Critchett told Sir William that Collins had confided to him what was the dose of laudanum he then took every night, and had his permission to ask Sir William if it was not more than enough to prevent any ordinary person from awaking. Fergusson replied that the dose of opium named would suffice to kill the twelve men who sat round the table.

T. W. Robertson

It is impossible for me not to recall, however briefly, from the shadowy past the name of T. W. Robertson, whose empty chair was left vacant more than fifty years ago. He was the first of my friends to speak and write to me as "B." There are few to whom the once-famous name of Tom Robertson now has full meaning, although his comedies made so deep a mark in their day and so largely influenced the future of the stage. Time has not lessened my remembrance of the charm with which he read his comedies; a melody sung sweetly in the long-ago. My wife was always very proud that he dedicated to her the best of them, his masterpiece, Caste.

I look back with sorrow at the small reward he received from them, and the brief time he enjoyed their fame. The fees paid to dramatic authors were miserably poor in those days, although we advanced them materially, added to which, there was no copyright for foreign authors in America. Expert shorthand writers were cunningly scattered in different parts of our theatre on successive nights, until the text of Robertson's principal comedies was completely taken down, and they were played throughout the United States without a dollar being sent to the author. No wonder that Robertson was sarcastic and bitter.

The unusual compliment of closing our theatre when he died was, I fear, but a small set-off against the pain he must have endured before he once said to me: "My dear B, I have often dined on my pipe."

Edmund Yates

Edmund Yates was an old friend. He knew my wife in her girlhood, and I first met him at Epsom on the historic day, in 1867, that Hermit won the Derby in a snowstorm. My mention of that incident reminds me that, years afterwards, at a public sale, among effects which had belonged to Mr. Baird—known on the turf as "Mr. Abingdon"—I came across a letter-case made from the coat of Hermit, and so inscribed on a silver shield. I bought it, that I might have the pleasure of giving it, on the thirtieth anniversary of the race, to Mr. Henry Chaplin, as he then was, the great horse's owner. Yates at that time held a position in the General Post Office and told me, soon afterwards, that he made an early marriage upon a small income and was handicapped for many a long year by a domestic calamity—the birth of three sons in eleven months.

Yates was an admirable after-dinner speaker and story-teller, a power which doubtless owed something to inheritance, both his parents having held prominent positions on the stage. At one dinner party, Edmund Yates, Dion Boucicault and George Augustus Sala, all being present, were asked in turn if they regretted and repented of any "backslidings" they had to answer for. Boucicault at once said he was sorry for his sins; Sala admitted that he hoped some day to be sorry; Yates, after a pause, smote the table and muttered "No." He was a fierce fighter.

A mutual friend was rather severely caricatured in Vanity Fair. I asked Yates what he thought the original would say about it. "Say, my dear B.? He'll say he thinks it delightful, but will go upstairs to his bedroom, lock the door, and rub his head in the hearthrug." When his trouble came, as it did soon afterwards, I wonder what his own conduct was.

His tragic end was connected with the revival of a comedy in which my wife appeared for her old friend John Hare, at the Garrick Theatre. Yates was seated in the centre of the stalls, and throughout my wife's performance had laughed and applauded heartily. At its close, when she was loudly called for by the audience, he gave her his last smile, turned to his neighbour and said: "The old brigade, the old brigade—it will take a deal to beat it!" He stooped for his hat, fell forward in a fit, and never recovered consciousness. "How oft when men are at the point of death have they been merry!"

W. S. Gilbert

I made the acquaintance of W. S. Gilbert during the year I spent in Liverpool; he had just been "called" and was a briefless barrister on the Northern Circuit. Having failed to become attached to the staff of Punch, he was already a contributor to a comic journal called Fun, in which his Bab Ballads first appeared. Soon afterwards he began to write for the theatre. The Palace of Truth and Pygmalion and Galatea both had great success at the old Haymarket; the latter was perhaps a starting point in the brilliant career of Madge Robertson (Mrs. Kendal).

He will, of course, be best remembered through the enduring success of the comic operas he wrote in conjunction with Arthur Sullivan, the most memorable of artistic partnerships.

What humorous things he was constantly uttering! I will endeavour to repeat one or two which may not have been heard. When the beautiful Scala Theatre was built on the site of our old Prince of Wales's, my wife was appropriately invited to perform the opening ceremony. At the end of the pretty speech she made, Gilbert joined her on the stage, and said he had been to the back of the dress circle, where he heard every word of it; adding that the voice was as beautiful as ever and that, if she continued to take pains and work hard, she might be sure of having a great career behind her.

Talking with a Mr. Such Granville, who was on the stage and said to Gilbert: "My name is Such, but I act as Granville," he at once replied: "I wish your name were Granville and you'd act as such."

A young lady who was always known as "Nelia" was about to be married. Gilbert was congratulating her, adding that her Christian name would join charmingly with her forthcoming surname; the girl then told him that her first name was really "Cornelia." Gilbert at once replied: "Oh, I see, you've cut your corn."

Once, in my presence, Gilbert was being questioned by an ardent playgoer as to one of his serious plays, and was finally asked how it ended; its author immediately answered that it had ended in a fortnight.

On another occasion I arrived at the Garrick Club on foot as Gilbert drove up in a hansom: when he alighted he handed the driver half-a-crown. The cabman asked, "What's this?" Answer: "It's your fare." Cabman: "This ain't my fare." Gilbert took back the half-crown, saying: "I beg your pardon, I made a mistake, there's your fare"—as he gave the man a florin. Tableau.

Someone remarked to him what an extraordinary title Henry Arthur Jones had given a new play of his. Gilbert asked: "What is it?" The Princess's Nose. Gilbert hoped it would "run."

The fashion of the "hobble skirt" was being discussed in Gilbert's presence, who said that it reminded him of the boards outside a prospering theatre—"standing room only."

In long past days what was called a shilling subscription was got up by the Daily Telegraph as a testimonial to W. G. Grace. At one time there was a fine cricket ground known as Prince's, which was a rival to the Oval and Lord's, and stood upon the land now occupied by Pont Street and Lennox Gardens. At an afternoon party the question of the testimonial was being discussed, and a young girl asked Gilbert if Grace was anything besides a great cricketer. The brilliant tongue at once replied: "Oh, yes, my dear, he is lord of Lord's and the only ruler of Prince's."

As a rule I have been careful in the choice of guests and successful in seating them to ensure good companionship, for what you put on the chairs is quite as important as what you place on the table, but let me confess to a terrible blunder when I invited Gilbert and Burnand to the same dinner. At an early stage of it, when all was going well, a loud-voiced guest said: "Tell me, Mr. Burnand, do you ever receive for Punch good jokes and things from outsiders?" This was not long after he had been elected to the editor's chair, and Burnand replied, cheerfully: "Oh, often." Gilbert sharply grunted from the opposite side of the table, over his knife and fork: "They never appear!" The rest was silence. This is the true version of an otherwise much-told tale.

Editors of "Punch"

The allusion to Punch reminds me that I can readily tell how many weeks old I am, as we were born in the same year; and not many people now can say they have known all its editors: Mark Lemon—when he was old and I was young, Shirley Brooks—who was my proposer at the Garrick Club, Tom Taylor, Frank Burnand and Owen Seaman. What pleasure they have given, and how incomplete the week would be without the charm of Mr. Punch's infinite pen and pencil!

Burnand's humour was different from Gilbert's: he excelled as a punster. From his earliest days he was devoted to the theatre and founded the A.D.C. at Cambridge. He wrote with marvellous rapidity. When he saw Diplomacy, in the height of the play's original success, he left the theatre, sat up through the night, began and finished a most amusing travesty, which he called Diplunacy.

Years ago my son was at Ramsgate, reading for an examination in the law. He met Burnand, who asked what he had been doing. George told him that he had been on the Goodwins with his "coach." Burnand replied that he had no idea you could drive there!

He told me once that, in spite of every kind of exercise, he was a slave to liver—a livery servant. One of the best of his many smart things was said when he was recovering from a serious illness. A journalist friend paid him a sympathetic visit, and said: "Your condition has been so grave that my editor asked me to write an obituary notice of you, adding that he wished it to be generous and that I must give you a column." Burnand at once exclaimed: "A column! Why, that's all they gave Nelson."

My first meeting with Oscar Wilde was at Oxford. He had recently "come down," but was visiting a friend there. His appearance suggested to me that he might have prompted Disraeli to write these words, they seemed so accurately to apply to the once spoiled darling: "The affectations of youth should be viewed leniently; every man has a right to be conceited until he is successful."

I think the best plays from his pen were Lady Windermere's Fan and The Importance of Being Earnest.

He was talking with us about one of his comedies, just produced, when my wife remarked that the leading situation rather reminded her of the great scene in a play by Scribe, to which Wilde unblushingly replied: "Taken bodily from it, dear lady. Why not? Nobody reads nowadays."

He once congratulated us when we wrote some account of ourselves, on and off the stage, on not having waited, as most people do, until they have lost all memory.

Robert Marshall

One of many heavy blows I have naturally had to bear during my fifty-six years' membership of the Garrick Club was through the loss of Robert Marshall. His was a strange career. The last man to imagine who could claim the honour of rising from the ranks, through failing to pass an examination, to be a captain in the army. He had left it before we met, but was always smart and soldierly in appearance.

He wrote some charming plays, with a distinctive quality of their own. I recall especially A Royal Family, His Excellency the Governor, The Second in Command, and The Duke of Killiecrankie. What pleasant evenings they gave us! When he was stricken and his friends knew that his lease of life was not to be renewed, he was lying in a nursing home close to Portland Place. A man who loved him was sitting by his bed-side one afternoon when Marshall's quick ear caught the sound of approaching military music. It was the band of the Horse Guards on the way from Albany Street barracks to a Royal function. He started up in bed and with a far-off look in his eyes, his mind having travelled back to his soldier days, listened for the last time to the trumpets and the drums: as their sound died away he fell back on his pillow in a flood of tears.

Henry Lucy

Henry Lucy—Toby, M.P.—was an old and amusing friend; we often enjoyed the pleasant parties to which Lady Lucy invited us, and they were our guests in London and frequently at Underlea, when they lived hard-by, at Hythe. Perhaps the greatest of the many surprises I have had was the discovery that instead of the poor journalist he was thought to be, he left a quarter of a million. How so vast a fortune was accumulated has remained a mystery to me, fostered by the fact that during the War they discharged their servants as a duty, and ran their cottage themselves, with the simple help of one old woman and then only once in a week. However his wealth was achieved, it was hardly by such means as those of a brother journalist, a wily Scot, who, when he was seen coming out of a telegraph office by a friend, who knew his penurious ways and asked: "Surely, Mac, you've not been wasting your money in sending telegrams?" replied: "Not I, mon, I've only been giving my fountain pen a drink!"

Lucy was an odd looking little creature, with his hair standing straight up, reminding me of some strange bird that might have escaped from the zoo. I remember his telling me once that, when dining with Lord Rothschild, he arrived late, jumped from a hansom, ran up the steps, flung his Inverness cape into the arms of a footman, but, as he passed his hand through his hair, was stopped from entering the dining-room by a stately butler, who told him, pointing to a door, that he would find brushes in his lordship's dressing-room.

On the occasion of one of his visits to us, the talk turned upon Forbes-Robertson's acting in The Passing of the Third Floor Back. Lucy told my wife that he had not yet seen the play, but much wished to do so, and would she tell him the story. To the amazement of those who heard her, she gave the most perfect and dramatic illustration I have ever listened to—if I may use the expression, she seemed to be inspired. We sat spell-bound as the various incidents were unfolded and brought to a wonderful climax. After a pause, Lucy rose from his chair, took her hand, and said: "Good-bye, my dear; there is no need for me to see the play."

VII MORE MEN OF MARK

"Why dost thou lead these men about the streets?"

For the egotism which is bound to occur in a book of this sort it is useless to offer excuses or apology; it must have its sway.

My wife one day on returning from an afternoon party, to which I was unable to go, in answer to my question: "Who were there?" humorously replied: "Oh, ladies and other dukes." The phrase came to stay—being often used by us. In writing further of departed guests—"Shadows of the things that have been"—it will constantly be on my tongue.

Prince Francis of Teck

I enjoyed the acquaintanceship of Prince Francis of Teck, who was certainly a man of mark, at a social club as well as at the Middlesex Hospital, of which he was the energetic chairman. Having been a member of the weekly board for more than thirty years, I ought to know something of the value of his services and devotion to the welfare of that institution. My wife first met the Prince in the Engadine, long before he was our guest; in fact, when he was a boy on a visit to St. Moritz, in the company of his mother, the Duchess of Teck, his sister, Queen Mary, and other members of his family.

The Prince was a good soldier, and bore himself well, with an air of command. He served with distinction in Egypt and South Africa.

He died at forty, or thereabouts. I saw him in the Welbeck Street nursing home before he succumbed to that enemy, even of the robust, pneumonia, and was one of the deputation from the hospital bidden to Windsor, where he was buried.

I now find myself up against a duke. There is no need to dwell at any length on the name of his late Grace of Beaufort, beyond saying that he was a great lover of the stage and gave us his friendship. (I mean the grandfather of the present Duke.)

When it became known that my wife and I had decided to abandon the old Prince of Wales's Theatre, and had a lease of the Haymarket, a movement was set on foot, in which the Duke took a prominent part, to present us with a "testimonial." That sort of thing was always obnoxious to me; and, happily, the intention came to my ears in time for me to bring it to a prompt end.

Referring to our farewell night at the Haymarket Theatre, later on, the Duke wrote to my wife:

"Do you know, I feel it to be too melancholy an occasion to assist at. I should hate it all the time. Some day, when you both play for a benefit or a charity, I hope to be there to welcome you. Let me say how very much I regret your determination to retire from management. What a loss I feel it, and how sure I am the general public share that feeling."

Another duke!—but merely a viscount when he sat at our table—Viscount Macduff, a close friend of Horace Farquhar, whose name reminds me of his amusing brother Gilbert, generally known as "Gillie" Farquhar. Gillie, when it was rumoured that he intended to go on the stage, was angrily sent for by Horace, his elder and prosperous brother, who loudly expostulated on such a step being taken, but learned from Gillie that he was quite in earnest. Horace then thundered: "Of course you will take some other name. What do you mean to call yourself?" Gillie quietly replied: "I have thought of calling myself Mr. Horace Farquhar!"

When we first knew Macduff we were neighbours, and constantly saw him lead his father, the old and infirm Earl of Fife, into the garden of Cavendish Square, where tea was taken across the road to them.

I was invited to dine at No. 4 one Sunday evening, but had to be elsewhere with my wife, so asked leave to join the party later, as I knew it would not be an early one. When I entered the room a young man was standing in the middle, giving an imitation of myself. When he had finished I was made acquainted with Herbert Tree.

Lord Londesborough

Lord Londesborough, the first earl, was also a keen playgoer. For years he and Lady Londesborough showed us thoughtful kindness. Our theatre did not seem to be complete if they were not present on a "first night."

With reference to the farewell performance of Caste, which had an added interest from Hare's coming to us, from his own theatre, to play his original part, Lord Londesborough wrote: "The demonstration was most thoroughly well deserved, for there is no one to whom the stage, and therefore the country, owes more than to you and to Mrs. Bancroft. It is always satisfactory when the public shows its appreciation of those who do their work, and make their mark, without beat of drum and flourish of trumpets."

He was a great "whip" and a prominent member of the Coaching Club. I was of his joyous party to the Derby for a number of years, until his sight failed him through an accident while shooting; and I remember his telling my wife, in the later years of his life, that the remaining eye was saved by a consultation held at Lord's between C. I. Thornton, W. G. Grace and myself. I was fond of cricket in those days, and became a member of the M.C.C. before it was necessary to be proposed in boyhood.

On one occasion I drove with our kind friend to Ascot. While seated in a prominent position on the front of his coach, helping a group of gorgeously-dressed ladies to lobster salad, I felt someone touching my toe; on looking down I saw a well-known "nigger," who for years frequented the race-courses. He held up his tambourine to me and called out, with a grin: "Now, Mr. B, don't forget the perfession!"

These Men of Mark who gave me the joy of their friendship are more numerous than I had looked for, and the names of those left to me must not be dwelt upon. I cannot ignore, however, the delightful and unique dinners enjoyed in Whitehall with the late Lord Onslow, when Members from both Houses streamed in and sat, informally, at separate tables, reinforced by men prominent in other walks of life. As an example, I once was placed in the company of the Archbishop of Canterbury and Mr. Balfour, as he then was. Onslow was a delightful host and a delightful guest. I have never forgotten his saying to me that very few men, even eminent men, had any idea who their great-grandfathers were.

Lord Rowton

Few more attractive men have graced a table than Lord Rowton: we knew him first as Montagu Corry. Later on he became a next door neighbour: our No. was 18, his 17. In his courtly way he said to my wife we ought to change houses, so that he might address her as "sweet seventeen," and not as his "dear neighbour." It is, to my pen, difficult to describe his pervasive charm, which I am sure was as manifest in simple homes as at Balmoral. He always appeared to be gay, never boisterous, and his devotion to his great chief, Disraeli, must have been priceless.

I was told by an eminent authority for many years at the bar, my friend Sir Edward Clarke, that in his early days he "read" in chambers where "Monty" Corry was his companion. The career of my informant speaks for his diligence; and he assured me that Corry chiefly passed his time in making rhymes on the names which appeared in The Times of the day in the column restricted to the announcements of "hatches," "matches" and "despatches"!

Two other things about this dear man occur to me. He told me, after the great fancy-dress ball given at Devonshire House on a State event, that he was at the head of the staircase when Irving arrived, and was struck with the impression that the actor alone of all the distinguished crowd wore his robes (he went as a cardinal) as if they were his daily garb, and not obviously hired from a costumier's store, or made for the occasion.

My last remembrance of Rowton is on leaving a club with him one night to walk home; he suddenly stood still on the way and, after a pause, said, as if dreaming of secrets under mental lock and key: "I seem to have passed the whole of my life in holding my tongue."

"Jacky" Fisher

At the hospitable board of mutual friends we first met Sir John and Lady Fisher, as they then were. The great Admiral took my wife down to dinner, and from that evening was her good friend and mine. Others at the table, I remember, were the scientist Lord Kelvin and Canon Ainger, the Master of the Temple. Fisher accepted an invitation to dine with me in these words: "On the 25th, with pleasure. Yours till hell freezes, J. F." His bad language was really only a not very bad habit—his bark was infinitely worse than his bite; in fact, he was a deeply religious man, as a beautiful letter he wrote to my wife when Lady Fisher died would testify. He knew much of the Bible, and quotations from it were as often on his lips as were his stock phrases. A friend of mine told me that he was once as astounded to hear the old Sea Lord preach a sermon in the Duke of Hamilton's private chapel as he was by its excellence. Whenever he caught sight of me, no matter where, Lord Fisher would call out, cheerily, "How's the vintage?"

When Queen Alexandra shared King Edward's throne, Lord Fisher paid Her Majesty a pretty compliment when offering his congratulations on her sixtieth birthday. "Have you seen, Ma'am," he asked, "the paper which says: 'Her Majesty is sixty years old to-day; may she live till she looks it!' The words were his own, but he thought it would please the Queen more to believe that the compliment had been paid to her publicly. Soon afterwards, the Queen cut out from an illustrated catalogue the figure of a little girl, stuck on the top of it a portrait of her own head, and wrote underneath it: "May she live till she looks it!" and sent it to Lord Fisher.

This reminds me of a compliment that I will dare to mention, paid to me by Alfred Sutro on my eightieth birthday, when he ended a charming letter with these words: "But then, my dear B, you are not really eighty, you are only forty for the second time."

We did not know that dandy of the Senior Service, Lord Alcester, until he had retired upon his laurels and left the planks of an ironclad for the pavement of St. James's Street, of which his lavender kid gloves seemed to be a daily part, and had earned for him his gorgeous nickname, the "Swell of the Ocean."

It was as Beauchamp Seymour that he so ably served his country, the height of his career being the brilliant success of his bombardment of Alexandria, which gave him his Peerage, and doubtless paved the way to our occupation of Egypt. It is interesting to know that two of his captains at the time were named John Fisher and Charles Beresford.

The first Admiral Sir Edward Inglefield was our neighbour fifty years ago, and many a nautical salute have we exchanged "over the garden wall." As a "handy man" I never met his equal. If a pane of glass in house or conservatory was broken he replaced it; if the kitchen clock stopped he soon made it go again; if a chimney took to smoking it soon gave up the habit through his means.

On the other hand, Lady Inglefield used to say that the punctuality with which she heard our wheels at night, when we returned from work, regulated her movements.

Sheridan's Granddaughter

At a garden party given by them we met the celebrated Mrs. Norton, the granddaughter of Richard Brinsley Sheridan, famous alike for her poetry and novels, and for her unhappy relations with her mean and cruel husband. She was still a beautiful woman in the sixties, and it was easy to believe that she was the granddaughter of the lovely Elizabeth Linley. Time had then all but obliterated the old and untrue scandal that she had sold to The Times the news of Peel's conversion to Free Trade, and his intention to get the Corn Laws repealed. George Meredith's novel, Diana of the Crossways, had (though wholly against the author's will) done something to revive the false report that, for her own financial ends, Caroline Norton had wormed the secret out of Sidney Herbert; the truth being that Delane had been told it by Lord Aberdeen himself, who intended him to publish it.

On one occasion, when Sir Edward was in command of one of our fleets, he condemned a man to receive so many strokes from the lash, and was on deck to see the sentence carried out. When the delinquent approached he made certain signs known to Freemasons. "Oh," said the Admiral, "a Mason, eh? Well, I doubt if you're better at that job than as a seaman. Go down and take your punishment."

Garnet Wolseley

Having written of Lord Fisher, a great sailor, I will now turn my attention to a great soldier, whom we first knew, fifty years ago, as Sir Garnet Wolseley. We became friends and later on were neighbours.

To my regret, I only had a club acquaintance with Lord Roberts, who was too true a gentleman ever to murmur: "I told you so—why did you not listen to me?" The same with Lord Kitchener; we only knew him as a fellow-guest at other people's tables. It was a Frenchman who wrote this tribute on his sad end, which staggered the country: "Great England's valiant soldier needed a nobler tomb than a hole in the ground, and he had the noblest of all tombs. God ordered his funeral; the waves sang his requiem; the organ-pipes were rocky cliffs; his pall was the black sky, foam the flowers, and the lightning his funeral torches."

Wolseley was, I repeat, a great soldier. One of those leaders whom men will follow—even unto death. These words were written before the powerful biography written by two friends of mine, Sir Frederick Maurice and Sir George Arthur, was published. I think he saw service even before the Crimean War, where, as little more than a boy, he became Captain, and was almost cut to pieces by bullets. Then came Lucknow and service in many lands. He was a Lieutenant-Colonel when twenty-six; and throughout his long career honours of all kinds poured on him. He became Commander-in-Chief, but was not destined to have realised the wish expressed to my wife—"I hope I shall never die in a bed." There was something about him, about that slight cheerful figure, and that glowing face, that outspoken talk, that was very helpful and strengthening: he seemed in some way to shed happiness round him.

Among the accumulated correspondence we found waiting after a holiday in 1882 was a cheery letter from Wolseley, postmark Alexandria, August 18th, in which he wrote: "The 'army' keeps arriving daily, and I hope very soon to be in a position to bring Mr. Arabi to book." The realisation of this prophecy, and the curious incident of an atmospheric phenomenon caused by the comet of that year, prompted some verses, that were sent to the hero of the achievement and thus acknowledged from the War Office: "I am very glad Bancroft induced you to send me your lines on Tel-el-Kebir, for I like them extremely. The word-painting is admirable, and the whole incident is told most feelingly and well. I shall put the little poem away among my treasures. Many, many thanks for it." I wonder where it is now. He was a shockingly bad speller—double pp's and double ll's were sure to be found where they were not wanted.

A rebuff

I was told of a terrible rebuff Wolseley brought upon himself on an occasion when he took Madame Melba down to dinner, not having, most unfortunately, caught her name when presented. He neglected her at table and devoted himself to a charming lady on his other side, whom he knew well. After a time he asked—as was rather his habit—too loudly, "Who is my other neighbour?" "Surely you know Madame Melba," was the answer. "Only heard of her: never met her before: did not catch her name: when I brought her down she conveyed nothing to me." At last he turned to the great songstress and addressed some casual remark to her. Melba quietly asked: "To whom am I speaking?" He answered: "General Wolseley," and received the reply: "I am afraid the name conveys nothing to me." I hope Dame Nellie Melba will forgive me for repeating the story.

Writing of Wolseley reminds me of another, his comrade, Sir Redvers Buller, for years, with Lady Audrey, our friend and neighbour. Buller was a man of unflinching courage and dogged bravery: it was said that he had won his Victoria Cross three times over.

He invited me to join a congratulatory dinner party to be given by him, at a military club, in honour of Wolseley having been made a Field-Marshal. All the guests turned up except Wolseley, who had received a late summons from Windsor, commanding him to dine at the Castle, as Her Majesty wished to present the bâton to him in person on that very evening.

A long spell of years has passed since my wife and I were guests at what was then Thomas's Hotel, in Berkeley Square, now converted into flats, and met Evelyn Wood when he was about thirty, having already won the V.C. in the Indian Mutiny, after beginning his adventurous career as a midshipman and being wounded in the Crimea. We lost sight of him for a long while, and he must have become a Field-Marshal when he dined with us, as he often did, until increasing deafness made him cautious of accepting such invitations. He amused us once by threatening to recite the Lord's Prayer in an alarming number of languages if provoked.

Another Field-Marshal and V.C. whom we knew was the hero of Ladysmith, Sir George White. I met him first on board a P. & O. steamer when he was Governor of Gibraltar. We walked many a mile together on the deck of the Arabia. Both he and Lady White were very kind to me when I landed from his launch for a short stay on the Rock, and enabled me to be present at a memorial service for the Duke of Cambridge. When his own time came White was Governor of Chelsea Hospital. His body was taken across London, for burial in his native Ireland, to such a tribute of affection and regard from his comrades and the people as is rarely given.

I first knew the popular old soldier and father of the charming Lady Burnham and Lady Somerleyton, Sir Henry de Bathe, in the early days of my membership of the Garrick, and was so struck by his appearance that I did my best to suggest it in a part I played soon afterwards—I suppose with a measure of success, for when I stepped upon the stage Lady de Bathe (now the Dowager, still, happily, strong and well), who was seated in the stalls, exclaimed audibly, "Why, it's Henry!"

My wife was so impressed by a dramatic story the old general told of his Crimean days, that she often repeated it.

A convict from Eton

One evening, in the severe winter time, it was de Bathe's duty to direct the clearing of the dead and wounded after a deadly encounter with the enemy, the brunt of which had been borne by men drawn from the French convict settlements, who were thrust into the hottest places when trying work had to be done. The searching party came across one poor fellow who was grievously wounded but still alive: de Bathe had him placed upon a stretcher, lifted his head, and poured brandy into the soldier's mouth. The man took his hand and pressed it, murmuring in English, "Thank you, de Bathe." Thunderstruck, he stooped down and asked how a Frenchman knew his name and could also speak such perfect English. The wounded man smiled and whispered, "Eton!" as he fainted; de Bathe accompanied the stretcher to the French lines, saying that he would return as soon as his duty would allow him. He did so, but the man was dead; de Bathe lifted the sheet from his face and gazed upon it earnestly without recognising the lost creature, once his school companion, then known only as a French convict with a fictitious name.

I remember being once so fortunate, when the old general dined with me, as to place him between Sir William Howard Russell, the war correspondent, and Dion Boucicault, the dramatist, and to learn that all three of them in boyhood's days had been at the same school together in Dublin.

Lord Rathmore—better remembered and thought of by me as David Plunket—was a fascinating creature. What otherwise could he be with such youthfulness, brightness, wit—such qualities as earned for him the friendship of the sphinx-like Disraeli?

Our acquaintance with him began many years ago at Homburg, where we had a happy time, and continued until 1915, when, with his company and that of other pleasant people, my wife and I passed a holiday at the old Queen Hotel, on The Stray, at Harrogate. He was a delightful guest, an arresting personality at any table, and one of the most gifted orators—I can use no smaller word—I have listened to; his highly polished sentences being rendered even more attractive by his sometimes pronounced stammer, which often added charm to his brilliant flow of language. David Plunket's many friends at his favourite club, the Garrick, where he was beloved, missed him greatly and mourned his loss.

Lord Glenesk, always a great supporter of the drama, gave us his friendship for many years. As Sir Algernon Borthwick, he was, to our great delight, at Balmoral when we were commanded by the late Queen to act there. From his house in Piccadilly, we saw both joyful and mournful processions. In a letter to my wife he wrote: "You were the first to teach the school of Nature, and not only by your own bright impersonations, but also by your influence over all those with whom you were brought in contact, to prove that English art is second to none."

Acquaintance with the first Lord Ashbourne, so long Lord Chancellor of Ireland, began years ago in the Engadine, and I recall happy times spent there and by the Lake of Como in his excellent company.

Edward Carson

We were dining with him one evening when my wife asked who was a young man at the farther end of the table. "Oh," said her host, "his name is Carson. He is a fellow-countryman of mine, who has just been called to the English Bar, where he means to practise." "And where he will go far, if I am any judge of a face," was my wife's reply. Lord Ashbourne brought the "young Irishman" to her afterwards, and so an affectionate and enduring friendship with the brilliant advocate, the valiant patriot, Lord Carson, had its birth.

I was one of four who made up a table with Lord Ashbourne—who was gay and amusing—to play bridge at the Athenæum on the day before he was stricken.

I first met Edward Lawson, afterwards Lord Burnham, on the morning of my wedding day, which chanced to be his birthday. My wife had made his acquaintance before, as also that of his sage old father, who founded the fortunes of the great newspaper, of which three generations have now been justly proud.

I gratefully remember that it is to the senior of the trio the stage owes much of its present recognition by the press. To digress for a moment, it was well that Clement Scott, young and enthusiastic, was given his head, and for a long while—years, in fact—his virile pen was devoted to the service of the drama.

Lord Burnham continued in his father's footsteps, as, in his turn, his own son has done. I remember hearing Burnham say, when asked if there was any particular advantage in being very rich: "Only one; you can afford to be robbed."

I was indebted to his constant kindness and hospitality, especially at Hall Barn, for little short of fifty years, until the war broke his splendid spirit and claimed him as its victim.

Of my friend since his boyhood, the present Viscount, I will only say, although I can hardly believe it, that I have given him a sovereign when he went back to Eton!

Alfred Lyttelton

My first acquaintance with Alfred Lyttelton was as a spectator at Lord's, in the field, and in the courts. Before I knew him I had the privilege of two well-remembered talks with Miss Laura Tennant, whose beauty and charm left a lasting impression. His career, political and otherwise, is too well known to need a word from me. The widespread popularity he enjoyed began early. He was captain of both his school and university elevens, and held the tennis championship without a break for many years.

A personal note I can strike with this most lovable man is through going with him in Paris to see one of the earliest performances of Cyrano by Coquelin. He also did me the honour to take the place of Sir Henry Thompson as my seconder at the Athenæum.

Alfred Lyttelton was spared the agonies of the Great War and the bewildering sense of uncertainty as to what will result from it in this much-altered world. On the day he was buried, in July, 1913, the Oxford and Cambridge match was being played at Lord's. At the solemn hour the game was stopped, and the great assemblage stood uncovered as they thought of him. Later, on the same day, Mr. Asquith said of him in the House of Commons that he, perhaps of all men of this generation, came nearest to the ideal of manhood which every English father would like to see his son aspire to and attain.

It is among my happy memories to have been many times the guest of that prince of hosts, Sir Henry Thompson, extending over twenty years. No dinner parties were more justly celebrated than the "octaves," generally eight guests and himself, he arranged with so much thought and knowledge.

He was an exceptional, an extraordinary, man, in addition to his skill as a great surgeon. He had talent as a painter, had pictures hung in both the Academy and the Salon; he wrote novels, and his knowledge of old Nanking china, of which he owned a fine collection, was that of an expert; and he was founder and president of the Cremation Society. He introduced me to motoring, when it was in its infancy. He was an enthusiast in astronomy, having a private observatory erected by himself. He gave a valuable book on this subject to my wife with the inscription: "Homage from an Astronomer to a Star of the First Magnitude."

Public servants

Other names crowd my mind: Sir Frank Lascelles, so long our Ambassador in Berlin, and Sir Rivers Wilson, also a distinguished public servant—delightful hosts, delightful guests—both great gentlemen, and both devoted to cards as an amusement. The former cursed them (never his partner) when they persistently went against him; the latter caressed them, however badly they treated him.

Of Schomberg McDonnell, known better to his big circle of friends as "Pom," I recall one personal incident. He was the first to congratulate me on my knighthood, through being at the time Lord Salisbury's private secretary, a post which he had the courage to give up to take his part in the South African War, where he did good service with the C.I.V., and was rewarded on his return by being reinstated. He again served his country in the Great War and died from his wounds, beloved and regretted.

I must in these names include that of a friend of many years, Sir Thomas Sutherland, so long the chairman of the P. & O. Company. To the kindness of his invitations to be a guest on trial trips of ships of that great fleet I owe the happiest "week-ends," in wonderful company, I have ever spent.

"Mr. Alfred," as Alfred de Rothschild was generally spoken of, was once our guest; we were often his in Seamore Place. I was invited to join a week-end party, when I might have seen the wonders of his country home, with its circus and performing animals, but I could not go. Being delicate and of a highly nervous temperament, he must have been a mine of wealth to members of the medical profession. He was a great lover and patron of the theatre. I remember a peculiar incident concerning him when we revived Robertson's comedy School at the Haymarket. Sometimes for several nights running, sometimes twice in a week, he took a large stage box, occupied it for not more than half an hour, sat alone to see the second act of the comedy, and then went.

Burton and Stanley

The two famous travellers and explorers, Burton and Stanley, were old friends of ours. I couple their names because it so chanced that we saw the most of them, and more intimately, together with Lady Burton and Lady Stanley, in hotels—one in Switzerland, the other in Italy—when we were all holiday making.

Burton's early career was that of a wild, untamed gipsy spirit. His childhood was passed in France and Italy, when his mastery of tongues began. At Oxford he acquired Arabic, having turned his back on Latin and Greek. He told me that, eventually, he conquered well over thirty languages—I forget the exact number—as well as made progress towards interpreting what he called the speech of monkeys. We first met him at the table of a dear friend, Dr. George Bird, who asked how he felt when he had killed a man. Burton replied that the doctor ought to know, as he had done it oftener.

Stanley's fame was chiefly established by his "finding" of Livingstone, when he was only about thirty, the search having occupied eight months.

Of the two, Burton was the easier to get on with, being full of talk and anecdotes. Stanley was reserved, and it often took my wife some time to draw from him stories, full of interest, about the King of Uganda and other persons, and incidents of his courageous travels.

Labouchere

Our acquaintance with Henry Labouchere dates back to the time when he built the Queen's Theatre in Long Acre, where St. Martin's Hall formerly stood, and of which his wife was the manageress. Henrietta Hodson was a clever actress, whom, in the early days of the old Prince of Wales's Theatre, we introduced to London. She afterwards played Esther Eccles in Caste with the first complete company which toured the provinces.

Labouchere's varied career, after he left Eton and Cambridge, began in diplomacy. Among many similar stories I have heard of him in those days, is one of a pompous visitor who, calling at the embassy in Washington, and not liking the look of so youthful an attaché, said abruptly: "Can I see your boss?" Labouchere calmly replied: "With pleasure, if you'll tell me to what part of my person you refer."

After giving up diplomacy he entered Parliament; at one time represented Northampton with Bradlaugh. I think it was then he became known as "Labby," and a sort of licensed clown. He was also prominently associated with journalism. His "Letters of a Besieged Resident," sent over from Paris by balloons, were so sensational as to increase the circulation of a daily paper by more than double.

We knew him best on the Lake of Como, at Cadenabbia, a place he loved, which my wife said ought really to be renamed Cadelabbya. I remember his suddenly turning to her one morning and saying that he would rather be deformed than unnoticed.

On the night that our Haymarket career commenced London was fog-bound. The density lasted for days, being unique in its horrors, as records of the time can tell. Labouchere was at the theatre and emerged with the rest of the audience into dreadful gloom. This is the story of his reaching home. He ran heavily against a man, who asked him in what direction he wanted to go. Labouchere replied, "Queen Anne's Gate." The questioner said that he also was going that way, in fact, that he lived hard by, and would take him there safely if he chose to go with him. Labouchere had some fears as to being trapped, but decided to risk it and be wary. The two plodded along together arm-in-arm; they met with one or two minor difficulties; but presently the cheerful stranger, who evidently was of humble station, stood still in the pitch darkness and said: "Here we are; what's your number?" Labouchere told him, and his companion answered: "Then we must cross the road." They did so, the man groped about a door with his fingers and said: "That's your house; you're all right now; try your latchkey."

Labouchere, before rewarding his friendly guide, in amazement asked how he had found his way so accurately on such a night. The simple answer was: "I'm blind!"

He ended his days at his villa in Italy. When I read his name in the Honours List as Privy Councillor, I sent him a telegram: "Labouchere, Florence. Congratulations. Bancroft." His reply was to the effect that I had puzzled him dreadfully, as he had no idea to what I referred until he received The Times on the following day.

Oscar Browning—or shall I say "O.B."?—was an odd-looking creature. We made his acquaintance in our haunt for many years, the Engadine, when my wife christened him "The Wicked Monk." For my part, I never felt quite certain how much of him was "Jekyll" and how little there was of "Hyde."

Some time afterwards he sent word to me at the theatre that he was in the stalls and would like to introduce me to a young friend who was his companion. I arranged that he should do so at the end of the play, when they were brought behind the scenes, and O.B. made me known to Mr. George Curzon, who had recently left Eton, and whose friendship, if I may use the word, I claim the privilege of having since enjoyed, in the great position to which Browning had no doubt foreseen that his pupil would attain. Our last meeting was when Lord Curzon presided at the dinner given to another old friend of mine, T. P. O'Connor, with a charm only equalled, in my experience, on somewhat similar occasions by Lord Rosebery and Lord Balfour.

Comyns Carr

I think it was when I first met Comyns Carr—"Joe"—early in the seventies, that I heard him rebuke a pushing young man as "a pantaloon without his maturity and a clown without his colour"—the sort of thing that he fired off throughout his life, as if he were a well-charged satirical machine-gun.

He had been called to the Bar, but was then on the eve of his marriage with the attractive Miss Strettell, the daughter of a delightful old clergyman whom I knew as the chaplain at St. Moritz. Carr did not stick to his first choice of a profession, which I always regarded as a pity, but drifted into journalism instead. He was, in his day, attached to many newspapers. Then, fostered by his love and knowledge of art, came a long career when Sir Coutts Lindsay, our old friend and guest, reigned at the Grosvenor Gallery, with Carr as Director. It was famous for Sunday afternoon parties, which were unique. The robes of Royalty rubbed against the skirts of Bohemia. "Ladies and other dukes" were plentiful, as were the followers of every art, and all were happy. Then he wrote plays; next managed a theatre.

I often think he was right when he said to me: "My dear B, the first duty of wine is to be red." Most of the witty things he uttered have no doubt appeared in print; perhaps the following gem has not. An old and well-known friend, who dyed his hair and beard so unnatural a black that even the raven's wing had no chance against it, was lunching, on a hot day, in the revealing sun's rays, with some club friends, of whom one was Comyns Carr, and presenting a sad picture of the struggle between the ravages of time and the appliances of art. He left the table early, and his departure was followed by remarks. "How dreadful—what a pity!" "Can't somebody advise something?" Some one turned to Carr, who had remained silent, and asked him what he thought. Joe replied that of all his friends and acquaintances the old fellow was the only one who really was as black as he was painted.

Carr's gift of eloquence was naturally sought at public banquets, where his speeches took high rank. But was it not, after all, the old story of "a rolling stone" which left him best remembered by his brilliant tongue?

Cecil Clay

I could go on writing of other Men of Mark to whom I have had the good fortune to play the host, and tell again of the great goodness shown to followers of the stage by members of the healing art, and by lights in the law; but let me bring this chapter to its close by a reference to Cecil Clay, who wrote A Pantomime Rehearsal and, with those who acted his amusing play, gave the old generation much pleasure. He was beloved in every circle that he moved in, and I never heard an unkind word pass his lips or saw an unkind look upon his face. He went so far once as to reproach a fellow-member of one of his many clubs who swore at the matches because they would not strike. "My dear fellow, don't be angry; pray remember they are the only things in the country that don't!"

I have asked Owen Seaman to allow me to reprint some lines which appeared in Punch, written, I feel sure, by the pen of Charles Graves.

The Sickles tragedy

I have alluded to an early visit to New York, when I was a lad of seventeen. During my stay what was known as "The Sickles Tragedy" occurred in Washington; the details of which have lingered in my mind ever since. Many years afterwards my wife and I were at an evening party given by the Dion Boucicaults to a handsome and distinguished-looking American, with one leg and a crutch; the other leg he had lost, valiantly, on the field of Gettysburg. His name was Daniel Sickles. My interest was at once aroused. He was, or had been, United States Minister to Spain, being no less eminent in diplomacy and the civil service than as a volunteer soldier and general. At one time the tragedy of his life might have robbed his country of his great abilities. He had married, some six years before, a beautiful girl of sixteen, Italian by origin, and they were living in Washington, where Sickles held a Government appointment, when he learned from an anonymous letter that his young wife was false to him, clandestinely meeting at a certain house hired from an old negro woman by her lover, named Philip Barton Key, a widower nearly twice her age, a Government lawyer, and the son of the author of "The Star-Spangled Banner." Sickles had the house watched, and found that the news was true. Charged with the offence, his wife confessed all, and explained the system of signals by which, from an upper window, she and Key, watching through an opera-glass from his club, arranged their meetings. Sickles demanded her wedding-ring, told her to leave his house and return to her parents. Soon afterwards, looking out of his window, he saw the seducer walking towards the house and make a signal with his handkerchief. He went out, and coming up with Key at the street-corner, accused him to his face and shot him. Key attempted to defend himself, but Sickles fired twice more, and then, while Key was on the ground and still breathing, put his revolver to his own head. Twice it missed fire. Sickles then walked away and gave himself up to the police. The case aroused intense excitement, not only in America but in England. The trial lasted some weeks, and so strong was public opinion in the prisoner's favour that he was acquitted, and set free to do his country services in the future. I have been told that, in years after, husband and wife came together again. It is certain that all through the affair, Sickles treated her with the greatest consideration, even allowing her to keep their eldest child, who, grown into a beautiful girl, was present with her father when we met at the Boucicaults' and who soon afterwards was our guest.

Of the distinguished Americans who have been sent to our country as Ambassadors from their own land I have met Mr. Lowell, Mr. Phelps, Mr. Bayard, Mr. Choate, Mr. Page, and Mr. Davis. It is a privilege to have known such men; a greater privilege, in the case of Mr. Choate, to have been his host. I don't know whether a charming little story has been in print before—very likely it has—but I can answer for its exactitude as I now tell it, and where the incident occurred.

On one of his visits to us the subject was started—I think by Bishop Boyd-Carpenter—of changing one's identity. My wife turned to her chief guest and said: "Tell us, Your Excellency, who you would rather be if you were not Mr. Choate." The Ambassador, slightly rising from his chair, bowed across the table to his wife, who was at my side, and at once replied: "Mrs. Choate's second husband."

VIII THE STAGE

"Of all amusements the theatre is the most profitable, for there we see important actions when we cannot act importantly ourselves."—MARTIN LUTHER.

I

When I was nineteen I ran away from home to become an actor, and have been stage-struck ever since.

Charles Mathews

Of eminent Victorian leaders of my calling the first to be our guest, in very far-away days, was the accomplished Charles Mathews, the most conspicuous comedian of his time. The memory of childhood's play-going days tells me that I once saw Madame Vestris, his first wife, a beautiful and accomplished woman, in one of Planche's extravaganzas called The King of the Peacocks, at the Lyceum Theatre. I first met Charles Mathews in 1863, as a star in the theatrical firmament when I was a struggling young actor in Dublin, where I had the great advantage of playing with him in a round of his favourite comedies for a whole month; during which I hope I learnt something from his delightful personality of the beautiful art of acting.

Among other accomplishments, he was an amusing after-dinner speaker. When presiding at a theatrical charity banquet, with his own charm of manner, he began: "Douglas Jerrold once said to me that he did not despair of living to see the day when I should be trudging up Ludgate Hill, with an umbrella under my arm, to invest my funds in the Bank of England. I am sorry to say that the great humorist did not live to see that vision realised. The only step I have advanced towards it is, that I have bought the umbrella."

When Mathews left England for a tour in Australia, a banquet was given in his honour at which he presided; himself proposing the toast of his own health in these words:

"The most important task assigned to me has now to be fulfilled, and I rise to propose what is called the toast of the evening with a mixture of pleasure and trepidation. I was going to say that I was placed in a novel but unprecedented position, by being asked to occupy the chair. But it is not so. There is nothing new in saying that there is nothing new. In The Times of October 3rd, 1798, there is an advertisement of a dinner given to Mr. Fox on the anniversary of his first election for Westminster: 'The Hon. Charles James Fox in the chair.' Here is a great precedent; and what was done by Charles James Fox in 1798 is only imitated in 1870 by Charles James Mathews. I venture to assert that a fitter man than myself to propose the health of our guest could not be found; for I venture to affirm that there is no man so well acquainted with the merits and demerits of that gifted individual as I am. I have been on intimate terms with him from his earliest youth. I have watched over his progress from childhood, have shared in his joys and griefs, and I assert boldly that there is not a man on earth for whom I entertain so sincere a regard and affection. Nor do I go too far in stating that he has an equal affection for me. He has come to me for advice in the most embarrassing circumstances, and what is still more remarkable, has always taken my advice in preference to that of any one else."

Needless to say the speech was interrupted at every point by laughter. Here is a characteristic letter I received from him during a winter which he was passing at Nice:

"It is hard to be obliged to come indoors on such a heavenly day to write a letter, and you will no doubt think it harder to be obliged to read it. But friendship calls, and I sacrifice myself upon its altar. Do thou likewise.

"A very nice fellow has written a comedy. ('O Lord!' I hear you say.) All I ask of you is to read it, have the parts copied out and produce it, playing the principal part yourself—nothing more. Your new piece, of course, will not run more than two or three years, and then you will have this ready to fall back upon. The human mind naturally looks forward, and managers cannot make their arrangements too soon. If by any unforeseen and improbable chance you may not fancy the piece (such things have happened), please drop me a sweet little note, so charmingly worded that the unhappy author may swallow the gilded pill without difficulty. There is something in the piece—or I would not inflict it upon you. If well dressed, and carefully put upon the stage, it might be effective.

"This is what is called writing just one line. You will of course say it 'wants cutting,' like the piece. So I will cut it—short.

"On reading this rigmarole, I find I have only used the word 'piece' four times. When you give my letter to the copyist, you can make the following alterations: For 'piece' (No. 1) read 'play.' For 'piece' (No. 2) read 'production.' For 'piece' (No. 3) read 'work.' For 'piece' (No. 4) read 'comedy.'"

"Our Boys"

As an instance of his good judgment, on the first night of Byron's comedy, Our Boys, which had a phenomenal run, I was in the billiard room of the Garrick Club; a group of men came in who said they had been to see a new comedy at the Vaudeville Theatre. Various opinions were expressed, several present thinking the comedy would only have a moderate run, when Mathews, who was playing pool, said, quietly: "I don't agree with you fellows. I was there, and haven't laughed so heartily for a long while. Byron this time—he doesn't always—has taken his goods to exactly the right shop. That play is sure to run."

Charles Mathews was originally an architect of considerable skill and promise. Although he did not go upon the stage until he was thirty, he became one of the most beloved of the public's favourites. Mathews was distinctly an actor of manners: it was beyond his range to portray emotion. Later on, Charles Wyndham, at one time in his career, had some of his attributes, and so, very strongly, had Kendal. Nowadays, the actor who at times recalls him to me in the delicacy and refinement of his comedy is Gerald du Maurier.

Pictorially, Charles Mathews lives again in the interesting series of stage portraits on the walls of the Garrick Club with which I was first familiar on the staircases when he lived in Pelham Crescent and Belgrave Road.

In a defence of himself and the view he took of his art, he once said: "It has been urged against me that I always play the same characters in the same way, and that ten years hence I should play the parts exactly as I play them now; this I take as a great compliment. It is a precision which has been aimed at by the models of my profession, which I am proud to follow, and shows, at least, that my acting, such as it is, is the result of art, and study, and not of mere accident."