Forty Years of 'Spy'
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Later on we found our home at the Grafton Galleries, in which suppers were also given, and many a pleasant Sunday evening was spent there. Like every club of the kind, however, it had its day. Perhaps it may have been the difficulty of finding variety among the entertainers or a want of funds to procure the best; but, whatever the reason, there was obviously a falling off of the original members, and the Gallery Club came to an end. Even so, it had been responsible for many evenings that are well worth remembering.
I shall never forget one night at the Grosvenor Gallery when Corney Grain and George Grossmith sat down at the piano together and sang and played the fool. They were then at their very best, and I think that was the night that Weedon and his brother gave their humorous skit on the extraction of teeth. The title I cannot recall; but the performance was so clever that the title doesn't matter.
In later days I joined the Punch Bowl Club, which was organized by a very good fellow named Mr. Percy Wood. He was a man of education and a thorough Bohemian: he had received a partial, but very incomplete, training as a sculptor; but he disliked work, and in the summer time led an idler's life. He would dress himself in old clothes, and go round the country hawking, like a common pedlar. He seemed to consider life under such conditions perfection; and yet he was always a gentleman (if one may use the much misused term), and everybody liked him. He was at one time engaged on a statue of the Prince of Wales, who arranged to call at Mr. Wood's studio. Whether his Royal Highness expected a distinguished company to meet him, or whether Mr. Wood intended to receive his Royal Highness in such a way, I am unable to say, but the Prince arrived to find a "gentleman in possession" at the studio, and Mr. Wood's visitors' book that day must have shown quite unprecedented signatures.
Our friend started the Punch Bowl Club (he had always been inspired with the great idea of a real Bohemian Club) in Regent Street, and one met a variety of good fellows and plenty of clever entertainers. One of the foremost members was Mostyn Piggott, who was quite a leading light. Raven Hill was very popular also. Our club room was situated on the uppermost storey of a house of which the foundation must have been rather "dicky," for one evening it descended into another, and when we arrived, we found our room wrecked beyond recall. After this avalanche, he started new premises over a motor establishment leading out of Oxford Street. Here we had very spacious and very originally decorated rooms, which were hung with a great number of Indian trophies, for Wood was an Indian chief, and rejoiced in the title of Rah—Rih—Wah—Casda of the Six Nations Indians—an honour bestowed, I believe, only on two or three other Europeans, the Prince of Wales (King Edward VII.) and the Duke of Connaught being the foremost chiefs.
Sometimes he appeared dressed in his war paint, as an Indian chief, at the large meetings which he delighted in organizing, when he brewed the punch, while other members, dressed in the character, gave their services as cook and waiters.
The club was run on somewhat similar lines to the Savage Club, and we addressed each other as "Brother So-and-So."
These dinners were very successful until Wood's health gave way, for they ended at a very late hour, and he never went home, preferring to sit up all night. After his death the club's popularity waned; the organizing personality that had previously supported it being absent, amusements fell through, but before the end we had some very pleasant evenings entertaining distinguished guests.
I was once persuaded to take the chair on the occasion of the visit of the Lord Chief Justice, and when, with every good intention, I rose to propose the usual toasts, to thank the Lord Chief Justice for his presence that evening, and to extol his good qualities, I almost forgot whether he was Lord Chief Justice or the Archbishop of Canterbury. However, I managed to struggle through, and with admirable promptitude the guest of the evening replied with real humour and relieved me of some part of my duty. At the end of the evening, Percy Wood came up to me and thanked me for so ably taking the chair, and when I apologized for what I considered my inability adequately to fill the post, he congratulated me, whereupon an artist who was standing by, said, "What! That a good speech! It was awful rot!"
It was a singular coincidence that on this and the following occasions when our guest was the Bishop of London, both men were total abstainers, while we indulged in our toasts from the punch bowl. I made a silhouette beforehand of the Bishop leaning forward as though to make a speech, which appeared on the menu.
Of the many well-known clubs I remember, I went to the Anglo-American Club, where I was invited to meet Oliver Wendell Holmes. At the time I was particularly requested to make a drawing of him for Vanity Fair. I was introduced to him, amongst others, and was particularly impressed by his kindly features; the first peculiarity my eye lit upon was the prominent eyebrows. Crowds of listening people surrounded him while he talked, and the opportunity of watching my subject unnoticed at such close quarters, was a splendid one, and from my observations I made one of the best caricatures that I have ever done from memory.
When I look back it gives me great pleasure to think of the jolly days and nights when, in March, 1878, many old friends met together for the purpose of rehearsing for the unique Amateur Pantomime given at the Gaiety Theatre and afterwards at Brighton. Edward Terry, Kate Vaughan, Nellie Farren, Amalia and Royce were then in their zenith, and John Hollingshead was manager of the Gaiety; and it was after this performance that we gathered for the night rehearsal.
The idea was originated by Archibald Stuart Wortley and William Yardley, and nothing could exceed their energy in promoting it. I won't say that such a thing had never been thought of before; as a similar entertainment by amateurs had taken place many years previously, in which Mr. Tom Knox Holmes had played the same part of pantaloon. I believe, however, that that performance was not carried out on the same scale.
Looking down the list of our theatrical company, I am reminded sadly of the few members of it that remain, although, of the four authors who contributed to its success, it is gratifying to know that Sir Francis Burnand is hale and hearty.
It is interesting to recollect how conscientiously W. S. Gilbert learnt his steps as the harlequin, how marvellously old Knox Holmes (who was well over seventy) played the pantaloon, and what a perfect clown Yardley made. "Odger" Colvile (afterwards the unfortunate General Sir Henry Colvile) was marvellous in his leaps and bounds. All this was the result of real hard work, and these men in the harlequinade gave the whole of their mind to it as though it were a matter of life and death. I mustn't forget either in this act that Fred McCalmont, Lord de Clifford, and Algy Bastard equally distinguished themselves.
Perhaps it is because the harlequinade required more rehearsing than the pantomime burlesque itself (written by Reece, F. C. Burnand, H. J. Byron, and W. S. Gilbert) that I mention it first; but, of course, Captain Gooch, Quintin Twiss, Archie Stuart Wortley, I. Maclean, and those who took prominent parts, were as good in their different ways; in fact, some of them were already distinguished amateur actors. The dancing of Ashby Sterry and Johnny Giffard I shall never forget: it was too funny to be described.
I delighted in the various characters selected for me to play, and when, as the "lightning artist," I drew Dizzy and Gladstone, I was overwhelmed with applause and boos that resounded in every part of the house from partisans of the two political leaders. So successful; in fact, was this item of the programme, that I received on the following day a genuine offer from a well-known manageress to take a similar part professionally at her theatre (a fact that amused me greatly).
POKER PLAYERS AT THE FIELDING CLUB
Much of my time was occupied before the curtain was raised in "making up" some of the "Forty Thieves" as prominent people of the day. For instance, Frank Parker's features adapted themselves to Gladstone's in a strikingly useful manner, and in consequence the "make up" was at once recognizable. "Willie" Higgins was Benson the convict, and so on.
At the end of the rehearsals many of us, being members of the Beefsteak Club, adjourned there, and it was not until the early morning that our party sought our respective beds. When I come to think of it, the majority of us were fairly young in those days, so we were all well able to stand the strain.
At one dress rehearsal, a scene representing a soldiers' encampment, where we were seated at mess, and a group of us dressed as officers ate a sham meal, I remember our enthusiasm was added to by the hospitality of an officer in the company who produced real champagne. Whether the effect lasted until another scene I could never quite remember, but "Odger" Colvile (our young Guardsman, who was very fond of theatricals, and had, I believe, a private theatre at his father's place) displayed wonderful agility in the harlequinade, where, as the policeman, he attacked the proverbial dummy, which at the rehearsal, owing to an oversight, was missing. Looking round in all the excitement of his enthusiasm in the part, he grew exasperated by the delay.
"Where the devil is the dummy?" he cried, and looking round desperately, his eye caught mine; without any warning he was on me, caught me up, and for the next few minutes I saw every imaginable star out of the heavens, he belabouring me with all the ardour which he would have bestowed upon the dummy. He at last let me go, while roars of laughter went up from the others—I would have laughed if I had been able, but I never had such a time in my life, and was obliged to reserve my laughter until I could get my breath, when I laughed as heartily as the others.
The occasion of the Brighton performance was not the less amusing to us, as after it was all over the company met together at supper at the "Old Ship," which included several ladies from the Alhambra ballet, who came down to add to the stage effect.
The following morning (Sunday) "Hughie" Drummond, one of the "Forty Thieves" and a champion practical joker, got on to the balcony of the Queen's Hotel, from which he was able to reach the hands of the clock and deliberately altered the time from five minutes to eleven to a quarter past. This, of course scared the people going to church, and resulted in a general stampede.
While sitting next to Lord Houghton at dinner one evening at the Beefsteak Club, I watched him make a lengthy scrutiny of the menu, which made me anticipate a wonderful selection to come. He ordered a herring! When the fish came, he regarded it stealthily for some time and then suddenly picking it up by the tail shook it violently (ostensibly to remove the flesh) and while I carefully picked off the bits of herring that covered me, the absent-minded poet ate the fragments that had accidentally lodged upon his plate.
He used to take out his teeth at meal times, and, growing accustomed to remove them, he became occasionally rather mixed in his discretion as to their removal. One day, on meeting a lady of his acquaintance, instead of taking off his hat, as he intended to do, he plucked out his teeth and waved them enthusiastically.
I remember the eccentric lord coming into the club one evening looking tired and hungry. Over the mantelpiece a white paper gleamed. It was a list of the Derby Lottery. Something stirred in his mind which was far away on other subjects bent, and reminded him that he was hungry. He scanned the Lottery list, anxiously rubbing his head as though he were apparently shampooing it. At last he was heard to murmur in dissatisfied tones, "Waiter, I don't see anything to eat there."
One couldn't help laughing at his funny ways, but he was a distinguished man after all and very kind.
CHAPTER IX
THE LAW
The Inspiration of the Courts.—Montague Williams.—Lefroy.—The De Goncourt case.—Irving.—Sir Frank Lockwood.—Dr. Lampson, the poisoner.—Mr. Justice Hawkins.—The Tichborne case.—Mr. Justice Mellor and Mr. Justice Lush.—The Druce case.—The Countess of Ossington.—The Duke's portrait.—My models.—The Adventuress.—The insolent omnibus conductor.—I win my case.—Sir George Lewis.—The late Lord Grimthorpe.—Sir Charles Hall.—Lord Halsbury.—Sir Alfred Cripps (now Lord Parmoor).—Sir Herbert Cozens-Hardy.—Lord Robert Cecil.—The late Sir Albert de Rutzen.—Mr. Charles Gill.—Sir Charles Matthews.—Lord Alverstone.—Mr. Birrell.—Mr. Plowden.—Mr. Marshall Hall.—Mr. H. C. Biron.
"The reason of the Law is … the law."—Sir Walter Scott.
The Law Courts held more possibilities for me than most "hunting grounds," because I invariably found my subject without the difficulty of "stalking" him, and with the advantage of wig and gown to add to the individuality and relieve the conventionality of his unprofessional habiliments. Another advantage lay in the fact that when a barrister or a judge was conducting a case or presiding on the bench, a host of peculiarities and idiosyncrasies became evident, and I had the satisfaction of observing all unnoticed. In some cases the very fact of being "on the spot" refreshed my memory, for on one occasion I forgot the features of a certain judge, and felt I must have another glimpse to recall them before I could revive my inspiration. Oddly enough, I recollected him perfectly the moment I set my foot upon the steps of the Law Courts, and, returning to my studio, I completed the drawing.
I found my friend Montague Williams (who perhaps defended more prisoners than any counsel of his day) an inestimable help when I wished to find an especial opportunity of watching any well-known criminal or legal character. Besides being a busy lawyer, he had a considerable personal knowledge of the men with whom, during the discharge of his duties, he had come in contact, and whom he regarded with more sympathy and kindness as to their possible reclamation than many men in his profession. He always found it necessary to believe fully in the innocence of the persons he was defending; and as he was naturally very excitable, he would work himself up to fever pitch, bringing tears to his own eyes as he described with pathos and righteous indignation the overwhelming injustice of the case against his client. His enthusiasm usually impressed the jury immensely. I recollect his saying once in an access of sentimental appeal: "Think, gentlemen—think of his poor mother!"
The Lefroy case was a curious and very unpleasant affair; probably my readers still remember the strange story of robbery and crime in a railway carriage, and the long and continually iterated innocence of the accused man whom my friend was defending. I went down (as I was curious to see the prisoner) to the Law Courts with Montague Williams one day. Lefroy's physiognomy was in itself almost enough to condemn him in my eyes—for his bad mouth, weak face, and chin that seemed to have altogether retreated, with the abnormal head with a very large back to it, all gave me an impression of latent criminalism. As I returned with my legal friend in the cab I ventured to say as much to him.
"Good Lord, man," he said. "Look at yourself in the glass … if appearances went for anything you'd have been hanged long ago."
I had neglected to shave that morning, it is true; but in spite of my omission I felt a trifle overwhelmed by my friend's verdict, much as it amused me.
At the De Goncourt trial (one of my early recollections) I sat next to Irving. I was busily engaged in making a sketch of Benson, who had been brought into the witness box with his latest decoration of broad arrows, and I remember that Irving congratulated me upon my drawing. On another occasion I watched Frank Lockwood (as he was then) listening to a case as one of the general public, pencil in hand, ready to portray anything that struck him. The case before the court concerned an accident to a pedestrian (a Scotchman) who was summoning a carter or the company he represented, for damages. The carter accused the plaintiff of drunkenness on the occasion of the accident, when he alleged that the man was so drunk that he reeled up against the wheel of his cart. I was amused to see Mr. Lockwood make a quick sketch of a drunken highlander attired in a kilt reeling against a cart wheel, with a glimpse of the Strand in the background, and send it up to the judge.
In the case of Dr. Lampson, the poisoner, I passed notes to the prisoner who mistook me for Montague Williams' clerk. Williams had defended the man on a previous occasion, but this time the charge was a grave one, for the accused was said to have visited a young relative (who stood between him and a sum of money), and given him poisoned cake which set up such violent symptoms that suspicion rested upon the doctor. The death of the boy, following shortly after, led to the arrest of Dr. Lampson, who was tried and found guilty.
One of the earliest cases I attended attracted great attention at the time, owing to the sensational evidence which embroiled Lord Ranelagh in a plot with a Mrs. Borradaile. This was due to the clever and unscrupulous plans of a Madame Rachel Leverson, who successfully obtained money in this way, and who was finally convicted of misdemeanour and obtaining money by false pretences. The case made a considerable furore, because during cross-examination the accused appeared to divulge the fact that the aforesaid lord had bribed her to let him look through the keyhole while her client underwent the process of being made beautiful. The whole affair turned out to be a fabrication.
One of my earliest caricatures for Vanity Fair was that of Mr. Justice Hawkins drawn from memory in 1873. He had the reputation then of being the most good-humoured in the Law Courts and the possessor of the hoarsest voice of any judge. He once said it was worth £500 a year to him. The last time I saw Lord Brampton (for he became eventually a law Lord) was after the opening of a Parliament, when the peers and peeresses were waiting for their carriages, and there was a tremendous downpour of rain. Standing with his peer's robes wound round and round his body, the famous judge made a most grotesque figure, in tight little trousers with his silk hat slightly on one side, an eyeglass in his eye, and a big umbrella over all. He resembled a resplendent hawk.
The Tichborne case gave Hawkins a chance to excel himself, and he proved to be on the winning side. I sketched most of the principal movers in this game of law, which was played round "the claimant," whom I recollect quite plainly as he sat at his table, which had a half circle cut into it for his unduly large stomach to fit in. Of his illiteracy (if poor spelling goes to prove it) I have a personal proof in a letter which ends,
"beleive me,"Yours truly,"A. C. Tichborne."I once sat in the court, watching him, with pencil in hand ready to jot down upon my shirt cuff anything I especially noticed, when he caught my eye, called the usher, and spoke a few words to him. It was duly intimated that my presence was "extremely disturbing to the claimant."
The claimant's counsel, Dr. Edward Kenealy, Q.C. (and the one man on record who was supposed to have ruffled Hawkins's temper), was said to have believed in the claimant to the day of his death. Dr. Kenealy made his name in the Tichborne trial. He was, besides being a lawyer, a writer and poet (and an admirer of Disraeli) before the stupendous case arose to give him a field for his powers. I remember him as a little man with a wig that contrasted strangely with a sweep of beard and a firmly set mouth. When he rose to speak he placed one hand under his gown as though it might have been coat tails and used his right to point emphasis at his opponent.
Some years afterwards, when I was walking near Brighton, I was very much interested to see his tomb in a churchyard there, or rather a very elaborate monument that had been placed there by the late Guilford Onslow.
Mr. Justice Mellor and Mr. Justice Lush, both Judges in the Tichborne case, came under my pencil at the same period.
Justice Lush wore the oddest round wig with the suspicion of a dent on the top. He always reminded me of a champagne bottle, with this queerly shaped wig like a cork on his head, and his shoulders sloping down like a bottle. As a judge Mr. Lush attempted humour. Vanity Fair labelled him "a little Lush," because when he was told that the toast had been changed from "Women and Wine" to "Lush and Shea," he said, "A spell of sobriety will do the Bar no harm, and a little Lush may do the Bench some good."
Sir John Mellor was noted for his unwearied patience and extreme impartiality on the Bench. When I caught him, he sat sucking his little finger and listening carefully to the counsel for the claimant stating his case as he watched the Court from under his heavy-lidded eyes, over which his eyebrows slanted with sudden fine lines to his big nose, while his humorous mouth seemed ready for a wry smile.
A trial with which I was indirectly associated, and which aroused at the time a furore only to be equalled by the sensation created by the Tichborne case, was the Druce-Portland case. For the benefit of those readers who have forgotten the facts, I will give a slight outline of the extraordinary story.
The fifth Duke of Portland was a very eccentric old gentleman. He had several peculiarities that rendered the mystery surrounding him even more involved, and his odd habits gave rise to the most extraordinary rumours.
The reluctance to show his face or to hear other people was sometimes alleged to have been the result of a fatal quarrel with a brother, and it was said that the Duke, after the affair, retired more completely from public life. He became more eccentric than ever; his servants were taught to play the piano to him. He resented any recognition by his servants and employees, and was accustomed to travel in a special carriage built for himself hung round with heavy curtains, in which he would travel to the station. The coachman had orders to come and go without scrutiny or inquiry, and frequently he was quite in the dark as to whether he conveyed his master or not. At the station the carriage was placed upon a special truck, and so the Duke travelled to town.
His hobby was building. Five hundred workmen were employed to build and excavate museums, libraries, and a ball-room under the lake, and all the plans and models were prepared by himself.
It is said that after making a fine collection of paintings, the Duke's further peculiarity led him to destroy in a huge bonfire several thousand pounds worth of them.
In his personal appearance he was remarkable for an excessively high hat, a strange ulster and trousers that were invariably tied round the ankles with string. He habitually wore a very old-fashioned wig, and never stirred out, wet or fine, without a great umbrella.
In 1880, the Duke, whose habits had grown more and more unaccountable, died, and immediately afterwards, his sister, the Countess of Ossington, commissioned me to paint a life-sized portrait of him, and shortly afterwards Mr. Boehm was asked to model the bust. I therefore lost no time in having a cast of the head taken; a beautiful thing it was, showing how refined the features must have been in life.
Lady Ossington then gave her ideas of how she wished the portrait composed, and suggested that the Duke should be seated in his study with plans of buildings or of gardens that he might be designing, introduced as likely accessories, and, of all things, a sunset appearing in the background of which he would never tire. A considerable correspondence ensued between Lady Ossington and myself and her written descriptions helped me considerably.
"Viscountess Ossington presents her compliments to Mr. Leslie Ward," one of the letters ran, "and sends him an Inverness tweed cloak that used to be thrown lightly on when looking at plans before going out...."
When all this was fully described, the valet paid me a visit and brought with him his late master's clothes, his hat, stick, and wig as well as the cape which was of characteristic cut, at the same time informing me that the frock coat was always rather loosely made.