CVNC-.
 
 W. P. FRITH, R.A.
 
 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY 
 
 AND 
 
 REMINISCENCES 
 
 BY 
 
 W. P. FRITH, RA. 
 
 CHEVALIER Or Till LEGIO* OF HO.VOR AM) OF THE ORDER OF LEOPOLD ; 
 
 MEMBER OF THE ROYAL ACADEMY OF BELUICM, AMD OF THE 
 
 ACADEMIES OF STOCKHOLM, VIK.XSA, AND ANTWERP 
 
 ' The pencil tptakt the tongue of every land "" 
 
 DRY DEN 
 
 NEW YORK 
 HARPER & BROTHERS, FRANKLIN SQUARE 
 
 1888
 
 TO 
 
 MY WIFE 
 
 IN ACKNOWLEDGMENT OF HER 
 CONSTANT SYMPATHY AND EVER READY HELP 
 
 J Debicate 
 
 THESE REMINISCENCES 
 
 TO THE WRITING OF WHICH 
 
 I HAVE BEEN STIMULATED BY HER BELIEF 
 
 THAT THEY WILL BE OF INTEREST 
 
 TO THE GENERAL READER 
 
 U.C.LA
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 OUAPTCE 
 
 I. EARLY DAYS, " 1 
 
 II. MY FUTURE DESTINY DISCUSSED 7 
 
 III. MY CAREER DETERMINED ........ 15 
 
 IV. THE SCHOOL OF ART 23 
 
 V. THE LIFE SCHOOL 40 
 
 VI. PRACTICE IN PORTRAIT-PAINTING 46 
 
 vii. "POSTING" FROM HARROGATB TO LONDON. . . 51 
 
 VIII. FIRST ATTEMPTS AT " SUBJECT-PICTURES " ... 57 
 
 IX. MY FIRST SUCCESS i" . . . . .. . 66 
 
 X. ELECTED AN ASSOCIATE 82 
 
 XI. THE " OLD ENGLISH MERRY-MAKING " .... 88 
 XII. DINNER-PARTY AT LORD NORTHWICK's . . . .103 
 
 XIIL ON SUBJECTS 109 
 
 XIV. PICTURE-SEEING IN BELGIUM AND HOLLAND . .115 
 
 XV. SERVICE OF ART IN DETECTION OF CRIME . . . 124 
 
 XVI. THE "COMING OF AGE*' 130 
 
 - XVII. SUBJECTS FROM GOLDSMITH, SMOLLETT, AND MO- 
 
 LIERE . , 143 
 
 XVIII. THE HANGING COMMITTEE 153 
 
 XIX. HANGING REMINISCENCES 166 
 
 XX. " RAMSGATE SANDS " 171 
 
 xxi. "THE DERBY DAY" 189 
 
 XXII. PORTRAIT OF CHARLES DICKENS 213 
 
 xxni. SUCCESS OF "THE RAILWAY STATION" .... 229 
 
 xxiv. "THE MARRIAGE OF THE PRINCE OF WALES". . 235 
 
 XXV. THE GREAT ACTORS OF MY YOUTH 255 
 
 xxvi. "THE SALON D'OR" . .271
 
 VI CONTENTS. 
 
 OIIAVIKU PAGE 
 
 XXVII. REJECTED SUBJECTS 289 
 
 XXVIII. THE PIOUS MODEL 309 
 
 XXIX. VISIT TO ITALY 315 
 
 XXX. THE BEARDED MODEL 332 
 
 XXXI. " THE ROAD TO RUIN " 342 
 
 XXXII. THE FONTHILL STORY 353 
 
 XXXIII. " THE RACE FOR WEALTH " 358 
 
 XXXIV. A MYSTERIOUS SITTER 369 
 
 XXXV. JOHN FOR8TER AND THE PORTRAIT OF CHARLES 
 
 DICKENS 390 
 
 XXXVI. SECOND VISIT TO THE LOW COUNTRIES . . . 395 
 
 xxxvu. THE DOCTOR'S STORY 399 
 
 XXXVIII. " FOR BETTER, FOR WORSE " 406 
 
 XXXIX. MODELS THIEVISH 411 
 
 XL. "OLD MASTERS" 414 
 
 XLI. A SUCCESSFUL DEALER 420 
 
 XLII. A STRANGE ADVENTURE 429 
 
 XLIII. MEN-SERVANTS 435 
 
 XLIV. " THE PRIVATE VIEW " 441 
 
 XLV. DR. DORAN 446 
 
 XLVI. MY LATER PROFESSIONAL WORK 453 
 
 XLVII. A STRANGE PURCHASE ' 458 
 
 XLVIII. THE CRAZY ARTIST . . , 464 
 
 XLIX. JOHN LEECH 469 
 
 L. A GHOST STORY 474 
 
 LI. THE STORY OF MY PORTRAIT 480 
 
 LII. JENNY LIND, MR. BARNUM, AND OTHERS . . . 485 
 
 LIII. LADY ARTISTS 488 
 
 LIV. PEOPLE I HAVE KNOWN . . 493
 
 MY AUTOBIOGKAPHY AND 
 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 EARLY DAYS. 
 
 TIIOUGH it has been constantly urged, and with a con- 
 siderable amount of truth, that the lives of painters in 
 their somewhat monotonous course present but little or no 
 interest when told, I have thought that if the painter him- 
 self were to be the historian, and he were to describe sim- 
 ply and truly his early career up to the final success or 
 failure of it, he might point a moral, though from want of 
 literary ability he might not be able to adorn a talc. At 
 the present date I have passed more than fifty years of 
 artistic life; and I propose to relate the many ups and 
 downs of it, my means and methods of study, some ex- 
 periences of great difficulties, and the way they have been 
 occasionally surmounted, together with matter more or 
 less interesting arising from circumstances connecting 
 me with men and things with whom, and with which, 
 I have been in contact in the progress of my life and 
 work. 
 
 To begin at the beginning, I was born on the 9th of 
 January, 1819, at a little village in Yorkshire called Aid- 
 field. My father held a position of trust in the family of 
 the then owner of Studley Royal, Mrs. Lawrence. He 
 had a taste for art, and a proficiency in the practice of it 
 which proper cultivation would have improved into ex- 
 cellence as many of his drawings still in my possession 
 1
 
 2 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 go very far to prove. He collected engravings and pict- 
 ures which, were poor enough, but in which the ignorance 
 which is sometimes bliss enabled him to see merits which 
 did not exist; and it was this passion that blinded him 
 into thinking that a wretched drawing done by me when 
 I w r as about eleven years old showed signs of a genius 
 worth cultivating. That drawing I still have: it is a copy 
 from Moreland of an animal that might have been a dog 
 under the hand of Moreland, but in my translation of it 
 the species is left undetermined anything worse or more 
 hopeless it would be impossible to imagine. But I antic- 
 ipate. I have no very early recollections interesting to 
 myself or anybody else. My family, consisting of two 
 brothers and a sister, with the "parent pair," left Aldfield 
 about the year 1826, and went to Harrogate, a well-known 
 watering-place, where my father became the landlord of a 
 large rambling inn called The Dragon, now in ruins. It 
 was at that time that the little general education ever al- 
 lowed me was begun, and I was sent to school at Knares- 
 borough. 
 
 How fortunate is the present generation compared with 
 that of sixty years ago ! How great the change for the 
 better in the fact of such schools as those to which I was 
 sent, all more or less of the "Dotheboys Hall" pattern, 
 being improved off the face of the earth is so evident as 
 to need no proof from me. It is a great satisfaction to 
 me to feel that I have been able to give my own children 
 such educations as have enabled them to take positions, 
 and to do work, utterly denied to me. 
 
 As nearly as I can remember, it was on a winter's even- 
 ing in 1830 when I was sitting idly looking over some of 
 my father's engravings having previously obeyed an or- 
 der from my mother to wash my hands, as those members 
 in their normal condition were justly considered to be un- 
 fit to touch those precious prints that I asked for a pen- 
 cil and paper, and tried to copy an engraving of a dog. 
 What impelled me to the deed which actually determined 
 my future life I cannot tell. If I might guess at the mo- 
 tive, I think it was merely that I thought it would afford 
 me a chance of sitting up later than the hour of the chil-
 
 EABLY DAYS. 
 
 dren's bedtime rigorously fixed at nine o'clock as it did, 
 for I was allowed to finish my wonderful production there 
 and then. If I have a doubt as to what prompted me to 
 my first work, I have none whatever as to what induced 
 me to undertake the second. 
 
 I received sixpence for the dog, with a promise of a 
 similar reward for another effort. From that moment, 
 and on such evidence, I was considered the genius of the 
 family, and schoolmasters were informed that all other 
 learning must be considered secondary to the cultivation 
 of this great gift ! and very secondary indeed it became. 
 I found copying Dutch prints much easier than geography 
 and the use of the globes, to say nothing of Latin, for a 
 very slight experience of that language led me to feel that 
 life would be unendurable if I were compelled to learn it; 
 so that beyond a little of the grammar, and the acquisition 
 of a few quotations which I find useful to this day when 
 I desire to create an impression that they are but samples 
 of a wealth of the classical knowledge that I possess I 
 know nothing whatever about it. Greek was not one of 
 the accomplishments taught at any of my schools, so I was 
 spared that trouble. My education was finished at a large 
 establishment at St. Margaret's, near Dover, kept by a very 
 amiable man named Temple, who, with a staff of ushers, 
 boarded and educated nearly a hundred boys for twenty 
 pounds a year apiece. I really believe the education was 
 quite extraordinary for the price paid for it; but I cannot 
 speak with authority, for I was only allowed a very little 
 of it, the most of my time being taken up with my eternal 
 copying in chalks, or lead-pencil, with a little pen and ink 
 for a change, from any good, bad, or indifferent print that 
 fell in my way. I was placed in charge of the drawing- 
 master, a Frenchman, with strict injunctions to allow me 
 to do as I liked; and these injunctions received his careful 
 attention, for he never interfered with me. Indeed, I soon 
 found that his knowledge was as limited as my own; and 
 it will scarcely be believed when we see the system, ad- 
 mirable as it is, which is now almost universally adopted 
 in school-teaching, that in my early days bad drawings of 
 impossible landscapes, and still more outrageous figures,
 
 4 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 were the only models placed before art students, who made 
 bad worse, and only learned that which they had most 
 studiously to forget when they began serious work. 
 
 I remained about two years at St. Margaret's, and, ex- 
 cept a little French, I learned nothing. There were sev- 
 eral French boys from whom I, nolens volens (here you 
 have classical example number one), picked up a little of 
 the polite language of the world; in return, I endeavored 
 to instil into one of them a little knowledge of the manly 
 art of self-defence as it is practised in tins country. There 
 was a chronic state of ill-feeling between the French and 
 English boys. Waterloo was a red rag which we pretty 
 often shook in their faces; frogs were sought and found 
 in the ditches about St. Margaret's, and also in the beds of 
 the French boys, who, on remonstrating, were accused of 
 ingratitude for complaining of gratuitous gifts of their 
 national food. I forget what my immediate cause of quar- 
 rel was with one of them (a long, thin fellow, taller than 
 I) ; whatever it may have been, the result was a fight be- 
 hind a haystack in a neighboring farmyard that is, if the 
 affair could be dignified by the name of a fight. I placed 
 myself in the posture of self-defence with which I was 
 familiar from my usual source of information engraving. 
 My adversary, who was very angry, stared at my projected 
 fists for a moment, then flew at me like a cat, scratching, 
 kicking, and clawing in a very irregular manner; and it 
 was only after a desperate struggle to free myself from 
 his long legs and get my hair out of his clutches with some 
 loss of it, that I was able to give him " one on his peepers" 
 (to use the language of the P.R.), which produced a very 
 black eye, and made him cry, and the battle was over. 
 
 This was my first and last fight. 
 
 To turn from war to peace, it must be evident to any 
 thoughtful person who may be improving his mind by read- 
 ing these pages, that my art studies must have resulted in 
 a very large heap of copies from prints, but never in an at- 
 tempt to draw anything from nature, or to design a com- 
 position from imagination an element of mind which I 
 might, or might not, possess, but without which success in 
 art is hopeless. I fancy everybody can remember the ex-
 
 EARLY DATS. 5 
 
 qaisitc delight of his first visit to a theatre, or the reading 
 of his first novel; both those experiences are very vivid to 
 me at this moment. Long before I went to St. Margaret's, 
 when I was very young, I revelled in works of imagina- 
 tion the novels of G. P. R. James, the romances of Mrs. 
 Radcliffe, and, above and before all, the works of Scott 
 and Cooper. The two last named still retain their charm 
 for me. Mr. James I have tried again, but the old love is 
 dead, and I now wonder it was ever born. I can recall the 
 bright pictures with which the Wizard of the North filled 
 my imagination. Why I did not, as a boy, try to repro- 
 duce Rebecca and Ivanhoe, or Jeanie Deans, or Madge 
 Wildfire (I had enough of them afterwards), however im- 
 perfectly, is now a wonder to me a wonder and a lesson 
 for unless my sensibilities, like Miss Squeers's, " came late 
 into blow," I could have done something in the shape of 
 original work instead of wasting valuable, irrecoverable 
 time in profitless copying. I know very well that I never 
 was, nor under any circumstances could have become, a 
 great artist; but I am a very successful one, and my ad- 
 vice is often asked by anxious parents who produce speci- 
 mens of their children's work, and place me in the really 
 awful position of a kind of destiny over the future of their 
 sons or daughters. Let me advise all artists who may find 
 themselves elected arbiters of the fate of others to be as 
 dumb as the ancient oracle when difficulties were presented. 
 Except in the rarest and most exceptional cases, judgment 
 from early specimens is absolutely impossible. Consider 
 the quality of mind and body requisite for a successful 
 artistic career long and severe study from antique stat- 
 ues, from five to eight hours every day; then many months' 
 hard work from the life, with attendance at lectures, study 
 of perspective, anatomy, etc.; general reading to be at- 
 tended to also all this before painting is attempted, and 
 when attempted the student may find he has no eye for 
 color. I do not mean color-blind, which is of course fatal, 
 but that he is not appreciative of all the subtle tints and 
 tones of flesh; or, what is more fearful still, he may find 
 that he has .all the language of art at his fingers'-ends, and 
 that he has nothing to say. I illustrate this by an example
 
 6 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 of one of my fellow-students at the Royal Academy, a 
 young fellow named Powell, who died long ago. He was 
 highly accomplished in many ways; he drew splendidly. 
 His studies from the nude were the admiration of student 
 and professor alike. He gained medals in all the schools, 
 and when he tried to turn his knowledge to account and 
 produce pictures he failed utterly. Composition and ar- 
 rangement of the colors, and light and shadow, necessary 
 in a group of more or less figures, cannot be taught, or if 
 taught by line and rule the result is nil' the whole thing 
 is a matter of feeling and imagination. An artist must 
 see his picture finished in his mind's eye before he begins 
 it, or he will never be an artist at all. Powell could not 
 appreciate the difference between a good composition and 
 a bad one, nor could he understand the value and impor- 
 tance of light and shadow. I think what I have just said 
 is worthy the attention of advised and advisers alike, and 
 I desire to impress on all those who rely upon advice, no 
 matter from whatever eminent source, that the risk they 
 run is terrible.
 
 CHAPTER H. 
 
 MY FUTURE DESTINY DISCUSSED. 
 
 I NOW go back to my own career. On returning home 
 from school with my bundle of specimens, a family coun- 
 cil was called, with friends to assist. There was no doubt 
 in the mind of any one of them, I verily believe, that I was 
 a great genius. 
 
 " Why, just look," said an old woman in the shape of a 
 man, "you can't tell one from t'other!" showing a print 
 of Teniers' and my chalk copy from it; and they certainly 
 were, and arc (for they still hang and can be compared on 
 my staircase), very much alike. 
 
 I was the wonder of High Uarrogate, then my home. 
 People came and asked for a sight of the wonderful works, 
 which my dear mother showed with a pardonable pride. 
 She could not and did not ask her guests to wash their 
 hands a treatment, as I remember, desirable for some of 
 them ; but she would never let the drawings leave her 
 own hands, for fear of the precious things being rubbed 
 or otherwise injured. 
 
 " If I was you," said one wiseacre, " I'd never let him 
 have any teaching; they'd spoil him. Look at Mr. Wilkie 
 now, the man that did the 'Blind Fiddler' and that ; he 
 was self-taught." 
 
 " No, he wasn't," said my father. " Don't you talk of 
 what you know nothing about." 
 
 I may remark here that my father was a gruff, silent 
 man, but by no means such a fool as to think that a self- 
 taught artist had anything but a fool for both master and 
 pupil. At this time I was in my fifteenth year, and it 
 was thought desirable that my future career should be 
 determined. My eldest brother had died, my youngest 
 one was intended for the law, and I for the arts if I de-
 
 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 cided on that profession. Parents, in nearly all instances 
 that have come within ray experience, have shown marked 
 and often angry opposition to the practice of art as a pro- 
 fession for their children; naturally and properly, I think, 
 considering the precarious nature of its pursuit. My par- 
 ents were exceptions to that rule, and I shall never forget 
 my father's look of disappointment when, on his asking 
 me if I should like to go to London and learn to be a real 
 artist, I replied: 
 
 " I don't care much about it." 
 
 " Well, what would you like to be ? You must do some- 
 thing for your living, you know." 
 
 " I think I should like to be an auctioneer, or something 
 of that kind." 
 
 "An auctioneer be !" said my father, who used 
 
 strong language sometimes. 
 
 Itinerant artists, generally portrait-painters, wandered 
 over the country fifty years ago, more I think than they 
 do now; and so long as vanity influences the human being, 
 there will be work for the limners of faces, for not only 
 do the sitters satisfy themselves and their friends with 
 the "counterfeit presentment" of their figures, but they 
 fancy themselves encouragers of the arts as well. Fuseli, 
 who could not have painted a decent portrait to save his 
 life, but who produced works of a weird and poetic char- 
 acter of great excellence (which rarely found purchasers), 
 says in one of his lectures, after abusing portrait-painting 
 as a low kind of art, " Every fool who has a phiz to ex- 
 pose and a guinea to throw away thinks by the expendi- 
 ture of that small sum he becomes a patron of art." There 
 was a goodly crop of such people in Yorkshire, and among 
 the reapers was one, whose name I suppress, that my father 
 
 took me to see a Mr. II , who had pitched his tent 
 
 at Knaresborough, and turned a large drawing-room over 
 a linen-draper's shop into a studio. Judging from the 
 number of finished and unfinished portraits on easels and 
 against the walls, the artist was doing a good stroke of 
 business. To me they were " too lovely," to use a collo- 
 quialism of to-day one of a stout lady in emerald-green 
 velvet quite won my heart, and I really felt a mild desire
 
 MY FDTUBK DESTINY DISCUSSED. 9 
 
 to do likewise. It must be remembered that up to this 
 time I bad seen no modern pictures, but only tbe ancient 
 ones in my father's collection. Those were very dark, so 
 obscure as to cause one of our Harrogate friends to say 
 that he " didn't care a button for the old masters, for you 
 have to take a sponge and wet 'em all over before you 
 know what the subjects are about." 
 
 Mr. II 's pictures were bright and lovely, and he re- 
 ceived a commission there and then from my father to 
 paint my mother, for which he was to receive twenty 
 pounds and free quarters at the Dragon during the prog- 
 ress of the work. I was allowed to watch the operation, 
 and all our friends applauded the result. My mother was 
 the one unsatisfied " he had not caught her expression," 
 she said, and she was right. The picture is now in the 
 possession of the proprietor of the Granby Hotel at Har- 
 rogate, where I saw it three years ago. It is indeed a 
 forlorn production, without one quality of decent art in it. 
 
 Poor II ! he tried his fortune in London, sent picture 
 
 after picture to the Academy, and never got one exhibited. 
 
 " I know they have a personal spite against me," he 
 said to me one day. "And look at their own infernal 
 
 rubbish! I am not conceited" (poor II !). "I walked 
 
 round those rooms" (at Somerset House) "and compared 
 my own work with what is there, and it's enough to make 
 a man's blood boil to see such things hung and such as 
 mine rejected." Then after a pause he said, " Look here, 
 Frith now you won't mention what I am going to tell 
 you to any one; oh, I know you won't now next year I 
 shall send my portraits in under a feigned name, 'Alger- 
 non Sydney,' or something like that, and then you will 
 just see whether those men are honest or not; for I have 
 heard in fact I know that so long as my own name is 
 attached to my work, it will never be admitted." 
 
 Next year came, but "Algernon Sydney" came not; 
 no such name could be found in the catalogue. 
 
 " My dear II ," said I, on meeting him shortly after 
 
 the opening of the Exhibition, "did you send your pict- 
 ures to the R.A., as you said you would, under a feigned 
 name ?" 
 1*
 
 10 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 ' Yes, I did," said he ; " but the ruffians found me out, 
 and rejected them again, of course." 
 
 H soon fled from the battlefield where he was 
 
 always beaten by far stronger men, and became quite a 
 favorite portrait-painter in a town in the north of Eng- 
 land. There he married one of his sitters a very hand- 
 some girl four-and-twenty years younger than himself 
 and died at a ripe old age a few years ago, in the firm 
 belief, not an uncommon one among disappointed artists, 
 that he had been ruined by the Royal Academy. 
 
 As my father and I returned home after seeing the 
 
 H collection, he recurred to the subject of my future 
 
 destiny. 
 
 " Surely you would like to be able to paint such pict- 
 ures as H 's," said he. 
 
 " Yes, but I never could ; still, I will try if you wish it." 
 
 Not much of the sacred fire in all this, not much of the 
 passion for art which Constable once stigmatized in a man 
 who painted very poor pictures, and who claimed a right 
 to have them exhibited because painting had been all his 
 life a passion that possessed him. " Yes," said Constable, 
 " a bad passion." 
 
 Soon after this my father showed me a letter from Sir 
 Launcelot Shadwell, who was, I think, vice-chancellor, 
 and who had been one of the visitors at The Dragon for 
 several seasons. The letter was in reply to an inquiry as 
 to the best way of proceeding in the event of my study- 
 ing as an artist. Sir Launcelot had seen my drawings, 
 and, being pardonably ignorant, had seen, or fancied he 
 saw, not only promise, but such performance in them as 
 would make much instruction unnecessary ! Mr. Phillips, 
 R.A., however, a friend of the vice-chancellor's, informs 
 all and simdry that the kind of drawing described to 
 him meant nothing ; that if I intended to follow the 
 profession seriously I had best go to London and place 
 myself under a Mr. Sass, who had a school of art in Char- 
 lotte Street, Bloomsbury; and after I had worked hard 
 there for two or three years, I might possibly become a 
 student of the Royal Academy, where I should find ample 
 and gratuitous instruction. I was a light-minded, rather
 
 MY FUTURE DESTINY DISCUSSED. 11 
 
 idle, flighty youth, not at all fond of serious work, and 
 this letter frightened me. I told my father I did not 
 think my health would stand such work as that. 
 
 " What do you mean your health? What's the matter 
 with your health ? You have never been ill in your life, 
 except when you had measles. Don't talk such stuff ! Now 
 look here," he added ; " I want to talk to you seriously " 
 (he seldom talked, and always seriously). " You have 
 your living to get; everybody says you show ability for 
 the artist business; will you follow it ? If you will, I shall 
 take you to London, and am willing to spend some money 
 on it; and if you won't do this, what will you do ? If you 
 are not an artist, what will you be ?" 
 
 I had been two or three times to an auction-room, and 
 the business seemed a very easy and, I had heard, a profit- 
 able one; so instead of saying I would die rather than not 
 be a painter, I reiterated to my father that I thought I 
 should like auctioneering better. Again the blank look 
 of disappointment; then, after a pause, he said, 
 
 " Very well, will you agree to this? You and I will go 
 to London. I will take your drawings and show them to 
 Sir Launcelot Shadwell's friend the R.A. If he says you 
 ought to be an artist, will you go to this Mr. What's-his- 
 name in Bloomsbury and learn the business ? If he thinks 
 nothing of your drawings, I will apprentice you to Oxen- 
 ham's in Oxford Street, and you can learn auctioneering. 
 Now, what do you say ?" 
 
 Very well, I will." 
 
 " You agree to what I propose ?" 
 
 "Yes, I do." 
 
 " Now go and tell your mother; she will be pleased, I 
 know." 
 
 Before I take leave of the Dragon Hotel, an incident 
 which created an ineffaceable impression on my youthful 
 mind may be related. The house was a large, rambling 
 structure, the basement consisting of a bar, a kitchen in 
 which the giant Blunderbore might have regaled himself, 
 reception-rooms of all sorts and sizes, and a ballroom of 
 enormous length; tp say nothing of parlors rejoicing in 
 fancy names, such as " The Green," " The George," ' The
 
 12 MY AUTOBIOGEAPHY AND BEMINISCENCES. 
 
 Bear," " The Angel," and so on. The sleeping accommo- 
 dation of the guests consisted of rooms of various sizes, 
 on each side of very long and narrow passages, dignified 
 by the name of galleries, which started in different direc- 
 tions, from no special point, according to the caprice of 
 the builders, to whom changes and additions had been 
 intrusted and made at various periods during more than 
 a hundred years. The rooms were destitute of bells, but 
 there was one common to each gallery. It was about the 
 year 1828 or 1829 that the son of my father's banker, ac- 
 companied by his wife's brother, a Captain Rowe, came 
 to Harrogate in the hope that some weeks' experience of 
 the fine air and the waters might restore his shattered 
 health. The banker's son, whose name was Owen, had 
 been but recently married. Mrs. Owen went to visit some 
 friends in the South, leaving her husband to the care of 
 her brother. These gentlemen came to us as my father's 
 friends, and not as ordinary guests to the hotel. They 
 dined with us, and on the evening of the day of their ar- 
 rival, my brother and I were allowed to assist at a round 
 game of cards, and to sit up much beyond our usual bed- 
 time. We were ordered off at last, to our great regret, 
 for both the guests, especially the invalid, made much of 
 us, and winked at certain boyish tricks which, I am afraid, 
 bore a strong resemblance to cheating. My brother and 
 I slept together in a room made from an odd corner sep- 
 arated from the galleries. We were no sooner in bed 
 than we were both fast asleep. How long I had been in 
 that condition of "honeyed slumber" I know not, but I 
 was suddenly aroused from it by a fearful cry quite un- 
 like anything I have heard before or since. I jumped out 
 of bed, followed by my brother, and we opened our door 
 in time to see two white figures, one flying down a long 
 gallery, and the other pursuing and uttering yell after 
 yell. They disappeared down a staircase, and in the di- 
 rection of a room in which I knew my father was likely 
 to be, as he was in the habit of using it for business pur- 
 poses making up accounts and so on often till the small 
 hours of the morning. 
 
 My brother and I crept down-stairs in mortal terror,
 
 MY FUTURE DESTINY DISCUSSED. 13 
 
 and saw the opon door of my father's room, in which a 
 light was burning. Except for the violent barking of a 
 dog that seldom left my father, the silence was unbroken. 
 We were trying to see into the room when one of the 
 white figures, Captain Rowe, came stealthily up to us, 
 literally paralyzing me with fear. 
 
 " Now what on earth are you boys doing out of bed ? 
 Go back this moment." 
 
 We couldn't move; but the captain went cautiously to 
 the door of the room and looked in. His naked feet could 
 not have been heard, but quicker than thought a terrific 
 blow was struck with some hard substance by an unseen 
 hand, accompanied by an awful cry. 
 
 In the rapidity of his exit the captain had pulled the 
 door after him, thus making a shield for himself which no 
 doubt saved his life. He rushed up-stairs, beckoning us 
 to follow. In terror and tears we followed him. He 
 pushed us into our room, ordered us instantly to lock our- 
 selves in, and not to stir again till the servant came to us 
 in the morning. Sleep was out of the question. From 
 our window we could see that morning had come, for day 
 was breaking; and as we looked we heard my father's 
 voice calling to some men who were driving a cart past 
 the house. The cart stopped, and the men seemed to join 
 my father, and we heard no more. Presently the men re- 
 appeared, and the cart was driven away. Next morning 
 my mother, with many tears, explained the mystery. 
 
 Mr. Owen and the captain went to sleep in a double-bed- 
 ded room. The captain was awoke by his brother-in-law, 
 who, kneeling upon his body, was endeavoring to strangle 
 him. Captain Rowe, by far the more powerful man of the 
 two, flung his assailant on the floor, and made for the door, 
 feeling sure, from the cries and wild words, that sudden 
 insanity had seized his friend. The door was locked, and 
 for an awful instant during which he heard the madman 
 at the fire-irons the key refused to turn. He threw his 
 vast strength against the door, and burst it open. Then 
 began the flight and pursuit that we witnessed. Rowe 
 made his way accidentally to the room in which my father 
 sat, closely followed by Owen armed with the poker, which
 
 14 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 afterwards dealt such a blow to the parlor door as to mark 
 it for many years (indeed, till it was replaced by a new 
 one). The sudden light seemed to dazzle and divert 
 the madman, who stood quietly in my father's room, star- 
 ing at the dog, who fortunately continued to bark. My 
 father guessed the whole business, and went quietly to the 
 window and opened the shutters. Most fortunately at the 
 moment a cart was passing, and two men, called by my 
 father, came through the window, went quietly behind 
 the maniac who continued staring at the dog pinioned 
 him, seized the poker, and threw him without much diffi- 
 culty on to the sofa. My father pulled down one of the 
 bell-ropes, and in a few minutes the poor fellow was 
 harmless. 
 
 Owen never recovered. He was one of the most vio- 
 lent patients in the asylum at York, where he afterwards 
 died.
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 MY CAREER DETERMINED. 
 
 IT was on a bleak March afternoon in 1835 that I started 
 for London to make my fortune. My father had charge 
 of me and a large portfolio of drawings, the exhibition of 
 which to a well-selected judge was to devote me to art or 
 tie me to an auctioneer's desk. I think at the present 
 time an express train requires little more than four hours 
 to make the journey from Leeds to London fifty years 
 ago the quickest Royal Mail passage occupied never less 
 than twenty-four hours, and sometimes, in snowy winter 
 weather especially, much longer ; and the weariness, the 
 cramp, the sleeplessness of those terrible times can with 
 difficulty be realized by the luxurious travellers of to-day. 
 My father and I were packed inside with two other pas- 
 sengers. 
 
 " Is this your son, sir ?" said one. 
 
 " I believe so," replied my father. 
 
 "Then would you mind asking him to manage his legs 
 a little better? I should like to get to London with some 
 skin on my shins, if it's all the same to the young gentle- 
 man." 
 
 We entered London through Highgate Archway, and 
 my first impression of the great city was very disappoint- 
 ing of course totally unlike the grand place I had imag- 
 ined. The morning was foggy, and from a distance Lon- 
 don resembled a huge gray bank of fog, with the dome of 
 St. Paul's rising out of it; and when we entered it by dirty 
 Islington, and rattled through streets each uglier and dirt- 
 ier than the last, my illusions vanished. 
 
 The coach stopped at the Saracen's Head, on Snow Hill. 
 Each passenger claimed his luggage. My precious draw- 
 ings had been preserved in a folio covered with some ma- 
 terial like tarpaulin, impervious to the weather. They
 
 1C MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 were safe, as were our portmanteaus. The hotel porter 
 fetched us a lumbering hackney-coach, driven by a man 
 whose coat of many capes amazed me. Two miserable 
 horses dragged us slowly to my uncle's house in Brook 
 Street, Grosvenor Square. 
 
 My uncle's name was Scaife, and he became my uncle 
 by marrying my mother's sister. His trade was that of a 
 hotel-keeper. Scaife's Hotel (now Symonds's) was a very 
 fashionable establishment, and my aunt and uncle were 
 what is called thorough business people, with a contempt 
 for professions generally, and for the artistic in particular. 
 
 They simply thought my parents insane when the proj- 
 ect of my embracing the disreputable calling was broached, 
 and they said so. My uncle was a shrewd man of the 
 world, without any of the vices that so often disfigure that 
 character; and I quite believe a more honorable man never 
 lived, and he was respected accordingly. His education 
 had been more neglected than mine, the result being a 
 difference of opinion with Lindley Murray, and a disre- 
 gard of the aspirate except where it should never be 
 used that was astounding. 
 
 Though my aunt and uncle disapproved of my possible 
 artistic career as much, or more, than they approved of 
 the auctioneering proposition, they heartily welcomed us 
 to their home; indeed, to the last days of their lives they 
 were kindness, even affection itself, to me. If in the course 
 of my history I may touch on some of my uncle's peculi- 
 arities, I shall treat them as tenderly as if I loved them, 
 as indeed I did. 
 
 The first step in my interest that it was necessary to 
 take was to find Mr. Phillips, or some other eminent ar- 
 tist, upon whose verdict my fate as agreed between me 
 and my father was to be decided. Sir L. Shadwell was 
 away, so there was no way of approaching Mr. Phillips, 
 whose title of R.A. created a sensation of awe in my fa- 
 ther and of ridicule in my uncle. 
 
 " R. A., sir," said my uncle. " Why, they're as poor as 
 
 rats, the lot of 'em. I know for a fact that ," naming 
 
 one of the most eminent animal-painters that ever lived, 
 " never paid for a dead swan, or a deer, or something, that
 
 MY CAREER DETERMINED. 17 
 
 be got from that place in the New Road; and, what is 
 more, he lodged for six weeks with a cousin of my 'ead- 
 waiter, and ran away without paying a farthing. And 
 that's the kind of thing you're going to bring your son up 
 to!" 
 
 Another judge must be procured, as Mr. Phillips failed 
 us; and my father soon found one in the person of a Mr. 
 Partridge, who lived a few doors from my uncle's hotel: 
 a portrait and history painter of reputation, and, what 
 was more to our purpose, a friend of many of the members 
 of the Royal Academy. Nothing less than the veto of a 
 real R.A. would satisfy my father that I was unworthy of 
 following the arts. Mr. Partridge looked at my drawings, 
 and gave no opinion ; but he kindly allowed my father to 
 leave the portfolio, telling him that the contents should be 
 shown to the brothers Chalon, both academicians, who 
 were engaged to visit him in the evening. 
 
 With what trepidation my father went to see Mr. Part- 
 ridge the next morning, and with what an air of triumph 
 he called on me to keep my promise, I well remember; 
 as, indeed, I do the indifference I felt about the whole 
 thing. 
 
 I may interpose for a moment here to complete the his- 
 tory of the Messrs. Chalon's influence, settling as their 
 judgment of my drawings that night did my lifelong ca- 
 reer. Many years after I was a Royal Academician, Mr. 
 Alfred Chalon (his brother had died) was a guest at my 
 house, and, on his paying me a passing compliment on a 
 picture I had painted, I took the opportunity of thanking 
 him for his favorable verdict at Mr. Partridge's, for, said 
 I, " if it had not been for you I should not have been an 
 artist at all." Chalon looked astonished, and then said, 
 " Of course I knew Partridge, but I can remember noth- 
 ing like what you charge me with." I tried to recall the 
 circumstances to his memory. I described the drawings, 
 told him the date of the transaction, but he could remem- 
 ber nothing of it. " What became of the drawings ?" said 
 Chalon. " I have them, many of them at least, and could 
 show them to you." " I wish you would," was the reply; 
 and the drawings were produced. The old artist looked
 
 18 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 long and carefully at them, evidently trying in vain to re- 
 member them ; at last he said : " Do you mean to tell me 
 that I ever saw those things before?" "Indeed you did." 
 "And that I advised that you should be trained as an 
 artist on such evidence as that ?" " Indeed you did." 
 " Then," said Chalon, " I ought to be ashamed of myself." 
 
 "Mr. Partridge wants to talk with you," said my father. 
 "You will be delighted with him; he is one of the most 
 elegant-mannered men I ever met quite the gentleman 
 and he paints such lovely pictures. Why he isn't an R.A., 
 I can't think." 
 
 " It's because he's too clever, sir," broke in my uncle. 
 " Why, those painters are that jealous of one another, the 
 wonder is the whole thing don't break down ! And it 
 will some day, Master William, just about the time that 
 you are ready for it." 
 
 " Ah," said my father, "if I could live to see that day!" 
 
 " What day ?" said my aunt, who had just joined us. 
 
 "Frith would like to see his son a R.A. at Somerset 
 House, sooner than the head of such a business as Oxen- 
 ham's," said my uncle. " That's the sort of day he wants 
 to see, good Lord !" 
 
 If my father heard this, he never replied to it, but or- 
 dered me to go with him at once to Mr. Partridge, whom I 
 found to fulfil all my father had said of him. His man- 
 ners were delightful, copied, I was told afterwards, a good 
 deal from those of Sir Thomas Lawrence; but nothing but 
 real kindness of heart could have influenced him when he 
 took great pains to instil into my immature mind some 
 first principles of art, taking a bust the Clytie, I think 
 as his text. I thought it was beautiful talk, but I didn't 
 understand a syllable of it. Every word he said was miles 
 high over my head. He talked, among other things, of 
 " breadth." What on earth did he mean ? In the light 
 in which the bust was placed, he said, "Now see how 
 broad the light and shade is." It didn't appear broad at 
 all to me, in my sense of the word. Tone, too ; what's 
 tone ? thought I. I know the tone of a fiddle, but what 
 tone can come of that thing? But the word that puzzled 
 me most was chiaro-oscuro ; it sounded to me like a catch-
 
 MY CAREER DETERMINED. 19 
 
 word used by the conjurers whose performances I had seen 
 at Harrogate. In short, I was thoroughly bewildered, and 
 when he offered to lend me the bust to draw from, I fer- 
 vently hoped it would get broken in its transit to my 
 uncle's; but it did not. It was taken up into a bedroom. 
 A drawing-board, paper, and chalk were given to me, and 
 I was left alone with the dreadful thing. 
 
 I stared at it with a stare as stony as its own for some 
 time, and then I tried to draw from it; to take its likeness, 
 in fact. I could make nothing of it. I could not get my 
 attempt to look in the least like a human head. I tried 
 and tried all in vain ; so I put down my port-crayon and 
 had a good cry, in the midst of which my father came into 
 the room. 
 
 " What's the matter ? can't you manage it ?" 
 
 " No; I never could if I tried for a year." 
 
 "Well, never mind; give it up then. I want to tell 
 you that I have just returned from the School of Art in 
 Charlotte Street, Bloomsbury, kept by Mr. Sass, and have 
 arranged for you to go there in a few days. He has a lot 
 of pupils. He took me all over the place splendid place 
 large gallery filled with casts some like that, others big 
 figures as large as life and larger: every means for the 
 study of the profession, Mr. Sass says. You are to live in 
 the house, board with the family, and I think you will be 
 very comfortable. There is another in-door pupil older 
 than you, ' very advanced,' Mr. Sass says." 
 
 " Is Mr. Sass a very gentlemanly man like Mr. Part- 
 ridge ? Does he talk as he did ? What does he mean by 
 the other boy being 'very advanced P n 
 
 This was rather a poser. After a few moments' thought, 
 my father said: 
 
 " I suppose Mr. Sass meant the young man had got on 
 a good deal in consequence of his teaching, which you can 
 do if you like to work hard." 
 
 " I should like to go to the play, one of the big theatres; 
 may I ?" 
 
 " Well, we will see. You mustn't keep your uncle and 
 aunt up late, you know." 
 
 There were some days to elapse before I should be con-
 
 20 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 signed to the care of Mr. Sass, and the hard labor to which 
 I felt I was condemned, and these were devoted to amuse- 
 ment. I was taken to the Adelaide Gallery, where a 
 steam-gun discharged a hundred bullets every minute a 
 terrific weapon. The man who showed it gave a kind of 
 lecture upon it; assured the audience that the Duke of 
 Wellington came to see it the day before yesterday, and 
 told the speaker that if he could have had the benefit of 
 the steam-gun at the Battle of Waterloo, that engagement 
 would have been over "in about half an hour, instead of 
 lasting all day." He also said that all the regiments in 
 our present army would be furnished with steam-guns, and 
 it was expected in consequence that there would be no 
 more fighting. The Adelaide Gallery and the steam-can- 
 non are no more; the fighting continues. 
 
 And then the theatre. The first play I saw was Shake- 
 speare's " King John." Macready was the King; Charles 
 Kemble, Faulconbridge; Mrs. Warner, I think, Constance. 
 Can I ever forget it, or my delight in it ? My father 
 quarrelled with a man who sat next us in the pit because 
 he chose the moment when Constance moved the house to 
 tears to disturb the silence only broken by half-stifled 
 sobs by sucking an orange in a loud, slobbery fashion. 
 When the queen retired, and the house was gradually re- 
 suming its equanimity, my father turned to his neighbor, 
 and, wiping his own eyes, said: 
 
 " Well, you didn't seem to be affected by the acting of 
 that scene like the rest of us." 
 
 " Why should I ?" replied the man. " It isn't true; and 
 if it was, it's nothing to me." 
 
 "You are a nice man to come to the play and disturb 
 other people. Why can't you suck your oranges at home ? 
 you'd find it cheaper." 
 
 " Look here," said the man, opening a handkerchief and 
 showing a nest of oranges, " I shall put away all those be- 
 fore I go ; and if you object, you had better move into a 
 private box." 
 
 My father's temper was short, like himself, and the 
 quarrel grew till the audience interfered, and the call to 
 both to " shut up " was obeyed. I shall not allow the fear
 
 MY CAREER DETERMINED. 21 
 
 of being charged with the laudatur temporis acti disposi- 
 tion to prevent me from asserting that no such acting as 
 Macready's King John, or Kemble's Faulconbridge, can 
 be seen on our stage now. Macready's fearful whisper 
 when, having placed his mouth close to Hubert's ear, and 
 dropping his half-hearted hints of his desire for Arthur's 
 death, he throws off the mask, and in two words, "the 
 grave," he makes his wish unmistakable was terrific: the 
 two words were uttered in a whisper that could be heard 
 at the back of Drury Lane gallery, and the effect was tre- 
 mendous. You felt as if you were assisting at a terrible 
 crime. The grace and gallantry of Faulconbridge, as 
 Charles Kemble acted the character, were unapproachably 
 delightful ; and of the tone in Avhich he repeated again 
 and again to Austria, "And hang a calf-skin on those rec- 
 reant limbs," no description can give an idea. Then his 
 swagger into Angers after the famous scene which leads 
 to the surrender of the town ! I can see him now, as, with 
 the elegant saunter appropriate to the character, he dis- 
 appears under the portcullis, and, the place being new to 
 him, be looks to the right and left with the insolence of a 
 conqueror. His Mercutio, Don Felix, Cassio, Charles Sur- 
 face, were simply perfect. My father was as fond of the 
 play as I, and I was indulged till my uncle began to look 
 a little black at our late hours. 
 
 I shall only mention one theatre more that managed 
 by Madame Vestris, then in the zenith of her beauty. I 
 fell madly in love with her at once, and would have flown 
 far away from Sass and the studio, as he called it (I was 
 just sixteen), if I could have induced that lovely being to 
 be my companion. It was at the Olympic, in Wych Street, 
 where the enchantress held her nightly revels. 
 
 " Oh, father !" I remember exclaiming when she first 
 burst upon the stage and me; " isn't she a beautiful creat- 
 ure ?" 
 
 " Eh what ? You attend to the play and don't talk." 
 
 And there was Listen, and Oxberry, and Mrs. Orger, 
 and Charles Mathews, whose first appearance I did not 
 witness, for he had played three nights before I saw him, 
 in "The Old and Young Stager" Listen playing the old
 
 22 MY AUTOBIOGEAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 coachman with the many-caped coat, and Mathews a young 
 groom, I think. 
 
 It is time for me to cease this holiday-talk, and go to 
 work and to Sass's care, to which on one memorable even- 
 ing I was confided. My father beguiled the walk down 
 Brook Street, down Oxford Street, through Han way Yard, 
 along Great Russell Street, to my future home, with much 
 fatherly warning and advice; I all the while wondering 
 how much pocket-money he was going to allow me, how 
 much money I was to be trusted with for ordinary ex- 
 penses, whether I was to order and pay for my own 
 clothes, etc. A feeling possessed me that I was afloat in 
 the world, and that I ought to be trusted to manage my 
 pecuniary affairs, for which I felt the capacity of chan- 
 cellor of the exchequer. As nothing on the subject was 
 volunteered by my father until we both stood on the door- 
 step of No. 6 Charlotte Street, under the bust of Minerva, 
 which to this day looks down on the passer-by, I being 
 possessed at the moment of a very few shillings and a half- 
 sovereign wrapped up in paper, on which my mother had 
 written " A friend in need " ventured to ask how much 
 money he was going to give me for the many expenses I 
 must incur beyond the sum paid for my board and lodging 
 and tuition. I shall never forget my bitter disappoint- 
 ment at being told that I must get an account-book, into 
 which every item of my expenditure must be entered ; 
 that I must be satisfied with 2, which he handed to me, 
 and when that was accounted for to the satisfaction of my 
 uncle, that treasurer would advance me 2 more. To a 
 young person who expected to have the immediate con- 
 trol of a considerable income this was a blow, and I am 
 ashamed to confess that I bore it so badly as to show my 
 disappointment by bursting into tears tears not drawn 
 from me only by financial disappointment, but I would 
 fain think as much, or more, by the pangs of separation. 
 As we parted, my father kissed me I can feel now the 
 rough scrub of his shaven chin and I passed under a roof 
 which sheltered me for the following two years.
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE SCHOOL OF ART. 
 
 MB. HENRY SASS was a student of the Royal Academy, 
 and a contemporary of Wilkie, Mulready, Haydon, and 
 many others less known to fame, all of whom continued 
 his steadfast friends, supplying him now and again with 
 pupils whose education those distinguished men were too 
 busy to undertake. Though Mr. Sass thoroughly under- 
 stood the principles of art, and could most efficiently in- 
 culcate them, he never succeeded in putting them satisfac- 
 torily into practice on his own account. His pictures were 
 coldly correct, never displaying an approach to the sacred 
 fire of genius, and almost always unsalable. Under these 
 circumstances, and warned by an increasing family, Mr. 
 Sass established his School of Art, at that time the only 
 one existing. The duties of the school fully occupied the 
 master's attention, leaving him time only to exhibit occa- 
 sionally at Somerset House, and then only a small picture 
 always called "A Study of a Head;" and even this mod- 
 est contribution was not allowed to escape the malignity 
 of the critics, one of whom, in his general notice of one of 
 the annual exhibitions, said: " Mr. Sass continues to exhib- 
 it a study of something which he persists in calling a head." 
 
 It was the firm and settled conviction of my master that 
 the neglect of the public, so unmistakably displayed tow- 
 ards his work, was the result of the dense ignorance of the 
 so-called patrons of art; it was also his conviction that if 
 he could have afforded to devote himself to the practice 
 of art instead of the teaching of it, he could have grasped 
 the highest honors of the profession. Dear old Sass ! I 
 think he was wrong. It ought to have been, and it was, a 
 consolation to him to feel that by instilling his admirable 
 principles into others he gave them ample means of achicv-
 
 24 MY AUTOBIOGBAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 ing a success denied to himself. Many of his pupils be- 
 came painters of high reputation, several were afterwards 
 Academicians, and one and all, I feel sure, would, if death 
 had not sealed so many lips, endorse all I have to say in 
 favor of the admirable art-teaching of Henry Sass. I may 
 mention here one distinguished man, my old friend Millais, 
 who was Sass's pupil, though only for a short time, I think. 
 His remarkable powers enabled him to enter the Royal 
 Academy Schools per saltiim; and I can well remember 
 the amusement of the students some of whom were then, 
 as now, almost middle-aged men when a little handsome 
 boy, dressed in a long blue coat confined at the waist by a 
 black leather band, walked into the Antique School and 
 gravely took his place among us. This was my first sight 
 of Millais, for I had left Sass's and become an R.A. student 
 a year or two before the appearance of my young friend. 
 But to return to my early work. In the opening lines of 
 these reminiscences I have said that I hoped to point a 
 moral, by which I meant that much that I might have to 
 tell would be of use to future students, either in the form 
 of warning or encouragement. 
 
 Reynolds says, "You must have no dependence on your 
 own genius; if you have great talents, industry will im- 
 prove them; if you have but moderate abilities, industry 
 will supply the deficiency." Another writer says, " Genius 
 means the power of taking great pains." I don't think 
 either of those great men could have been quite serious, 
 or could have intended their advice to be taken literally, 
 but rather to enforce the absolute necessity of hard work. 
 Would the severest application have produced a Raphael 
 or a Hogarth? No. But neither Raphael nor Hogarth 
 could have produced their immortal works without the 
 exercise of painful industry; and when is the time for that 
 exercise? In healthy youth a time, alas! when tempta- 
 tion to idle pleasure is most difficult to resist. No artist 
 who has arrived at mature age can look back at his early 
 opportunities without a remorseful sense of his neglect of 
 many of them. I can even accuse myself, fool that I was, 
 of feeling contempt for the scrupulous attention insisted 
 on by my master to details that seemed to my youthful
 
 THE SCHOOL OF ART. 25 
 
 wisdom to be absurdly unimportant. I know better now, 
 and suffer justly for my folly. 
 
 Sass's course of study was very severe; my precious 
 drawings were looked at and remarked upon by the mas- 
 ter, to the best of my recollection, in the following words: 
 " Ah, copies from Dutch prints! Shouldn't wonder if you 
 turn out eventually to take to engraving. Whatever in- 
 duced you to spend time in doing such things? Terri- 
 ble waste. Can't have done you much harm if you can 
 contrive to forget all about them. You will spend your 
 evenings here in studying the compositions of Michael 
 Angelo and other great artists. You will find a large col- 
 lection in my library, but no Dutch prints." 
 
 The master had prepared with his own hand a great 
 number of outlines from the antique, beginning with 
 Juno's eye and ending with the Apollo hands, feet, 
 mouths, faces, in various positions, all in severely cor- 
 rect outline. The young student, beginning with Juno's 
 eye, was compelled to copy outlines that seemed num- 
 berless ; some ordered to be repeated again and again, 
 till Mr. Sass could be induced to place the long-desired 
 " Jiene" at the bottom of them. This course, called 
 "drawing from the flat," was persisted in till the pupil 
 was considered advanced enough to be allowed to study 
 the mysteries of light and shade. A huge white plaster 
 ball, standing on a pedestal, was the next object of atten- 
 tion, by the representation of which in Italian chalk and 
 on white paper the student was to be initiated into the 
 first principles of light, shadow, and rotundity. The effect 
 to be produced by a process of hatching. No stumps 
 objects of peculiar horror to our master were allowed. 
 Sass's hatred of the stump gave rise to a ribald but admir- 
 able caricature by one of the students, who drew the pro- 
 fessor (a wonderful likeness of him) in the infernal regions, 
 surrounded by boy demons (supposed to be old pupils cut 
 off in their early career), tormenting him with stumps to 
 all eternity. The drawing was carefully kept out of the 
 master's sight, and well for the student it was, for his ex- 
 pulsion would certainly have followed any glimpse that 
 irascible individual might have got of it. 
 2
 
 26 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 I spent six weeks over that awful ball (the drawing exists 
 still, a wonder of line- work), the result being a certain 
 amount of modelling knowledge very painfully acquired. 
 Then came a gigantic bunch of plaster grapes, intended to 
 teach differences of tone (I soon learned what tone meant) 
 in a collection of objects, with the lights and shadows and 
 reflections peculiar to each. How I hated and despised 
 this second and, I thought, most unnecessary trial of my 
 patience ! but it was to be done, and I did it. Then per- 
 mission was given for an attempt at a fragment from the 
 antique in the form of a hand. Thus step by step I ad- 
 vanced, till I was permitted to draw from the entire figure. 
 How I regret that I did not exert myself to draw more 
 figures and more carefully ! but the severity tried me very 
 much, and I felt very weary and indifferent. I could feel no 
 interest in what I was about. Perspective bewildered me, 
 and to this day I know little or nothing about that dreadf ul 
 science; and anatomy and I parted after a very short and 
 early acquaintance. I am relating the true history of my 
 early days, and it must be borne in mind that for the kind 
 of art I have practised, very little perspective and anatomy 
 are required; but the neglect with which I treated those 
 acquirements would be fatal to the artist who may be pur- 
 suing the highest branch of art. 
 
 All my evenings were passed in making outlines from 
 Michael Angelo's "Last Judgment," the wonderful car- 
 toon of Pisa, and other work from that immortal hand, 
 together with studies from other old masters Guercino, 
 the Caracci, Poussin, and the like. After two years' 
 working from the antique I can scarcely call it study, so 
 ever to be regrettedly perfunctory were my doings I was 
 allowed "to try for the Academy;" and to my surprise 
 and the astonishment of my master, I was admitted as 
 probationer. But before I tell of my experience in that 
 capacity, I will try to describe the school and students at 
 Sass's as they existed in the reign of that professor. A 
 door on the left, as you entered the house, opened upon a 
 passage shut off by curtains at the bottom of it from a 
 large circular hall lighted from the top, in which were 
 placed, in an angle of light copied from the Pantheon at
 
 THE SCHOOL OP ART. 27 
 
 Rome, statues, the size of the originals, of the Laocoon, 
 the Apollo, the Venus de Medici, and other famous antique 
 works. The passage through which the gallery was en- 
 tered was lined with drawings done by favorite and suc- 
 cessful pupils. Facing the passage at the bottom of the 
 gallery was a staircase leading to an upper school, much 
 smaller than the lower gallery, but built precisely on the 
 same plan circular and lighted d la Pantheon, heated 
 by hot-water pipes " hermetically sealed." Below the up- 
 per gallery were small studios occupied by private pupils, 
 of whom I can only remember one, the late Sir William 
 Knighton, sent to the school by Wilkie, and afterwards 
 an assistant of that great painter in some of the details 
 of his works. Old students at Sass's, several of whom are 
 living, will remember his description of the angle of forty- 
 five degrees copied from the lighting of the Pantheon at 
 Rome, the hermetical sealing of the water-pipes, and the 
 rest of it, which he repeated to succeeding visitors, friends, 
 or parents of pupils, always exactly in the same words; 
 and how droll it was to hear him go through his first in- 
 structions to new pupils in precisely the same manner, 
 words, intonation, everything, as he had administered them 
 to yourself only a week or two before ! Hogarth's well- 
 known illustration of the power of single lines he invaria- 
 bly inflicted on the new proselyte at the moment he 
 thought it most appropriate, always at the same point in a 
 given lesson. 
 
 " Now to illustrate what I say, I shall draw a soldier, 
 his gun, and his dog in three lines," and he proceeded to 
 do it thus: "There is the public-house door," making a 
 perpendicular line; "there is the man's gun," making a 
 stroke at his favorite angle near the top of the door; "and 
 there is the dog's tail," making a little curve near the 
 bottom of the straight line; ending his lecture always by 
 the words, "Don't laugh; there is nothing to laugh at." 
 This was invariably said, whether the student laughed or 
 not. 
 
 Mr. Sass, like many other folks, had his peculiarities; 
 he was somewhat passionate, and knowing that his pas- 
 sion, unless checked, would betray him into unseemly vio-
 
 28 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 lence, he made it a rule to retire instantly from the cause 
 of offence, and force himself to pause a few moments be- 
 fore he resented it, which he then did with dignified sever- 
 ity. To illustrate this, I recall an incident in which I un- 
 consciously offended. An eclipse of the sun took place, 
 and the young Sasses and I went on to the roof of the 
 house by means of a trap-door, to look at the sun through 
 bits of smoked glass. I was enjoying the sight, and at 
 the same time breaking the tiles with my feet, when I was 
 interrupted by what seemed to be a fearful oath. I looked 
 down just in time to see the rapidly descending head of my 
 master. I saw the cause of the explosion, and waited in 
 trepidation for the return of the head. In about two min- 
 utes it slowly reappeared, and stopped where it was on a 
 level with the broken tiles. " Did it strike you, Frith it 
 ought to have struck you, and if it had knocked you down 
 I should have been pleased that you were destroying the 
 roof of my house in your absurd Henry !" suddenly 
 seeing his son's shoes had been also destructive " why, 
 you confound " and down went the head again, and 
 more calming time was required and taken, the finale be- 
 ing an announcement that Henry's pocket-money should 
 suffer for his misdoings, and my father's purse for mine. 
 Reflection must have softened the ireful decision, for I 
 never heard any more of it. 
 
 Sass's veneration for the antique amounted almost to 
 worship, and anything like an insult and a very small 
 matter took that shape in his eyes was fiercely resented. 
 On one occasion I left some dirty paint-brushes on the 
 plinth on which the Apollo stood. Sass threw them to 
 the ground, and quietly told me " if such conduct occurred 
 again, my immediate expulsion would follow." Though 
 Mr. Sass was well-educated and a gentleman, he was, as I 
 have shown, subject to attacks of excitement and irrita- 
 bility from influences sometimes so slight as to cause sur- 
 prise in those who had unwittingly made him angry; his 
 language then became curiously involved, ungrammatical, 
 and often incomprehensible. 
 
 One of his pupils, a light-headed, careless young fellow, 
 who had annoyed the master by his conduct, received a
 
 THE SCHOOL OF ART. 29 
 
 reprimand in the following words addressed to the whole 
 school: "Gentlemen, I was at the lecture at the Royal 
 Academy last night, where I met Wilkie, and he said to 
 me, 'Sass, you could teach a stone to draw;' and so IT is, 
 but I can't teach that C anything." 
 
 On another occasion, when he was instructing us in the 
 true way of producing the harmony that should exist in 
 works of art between the figures in a picture and their 
 
 background, thinking he detected a sneer on C 's face, 
 
 he said, turning to C , and pointing to one of his own 
 
 works, " You," with tremendous emphasis on the word, 
 " won't believe me / perhaps you will believe Sir Thomas 
 Lawrence, who said when he looked at that picture, ' What 
 a wonderful "harmonious" ! How is it produced?'" 
 
 While I was in school there were two expulsions: one 
 in the person of a youth from Jersey, who, in spite of a 
 notice in large letters always visible to him, that " Silence 
 is indispensable in a place devoted to study," persisted in 
 singing French songs in a piercingly shrill voice, and in 
 laughing at Mr. Sass; and singing louder than ever when 
 the professor disappeared. The other discharged student 
 was my old friend Jacob Bell, so well known afterwards 
 as the intimate and valued friend of Sir Edwin Landseer, 
 the purchaser of so many of that great artist's works, and, 
 I may add, of my " Derby Day," all eventually bequeathed 
 by him to the National Gallery. 
 
 Bell went through the drawing from the flat with much 
 tribulation, and at last began the fearful plaster ball, in 
 the representation of which he had advanced considerably; 
 but he also had arrived at the limit of his patience, and 
 on one fatal Monday morning, after witnessing an early 
 execution at Newgate, he drew the scaffold and the crimi- 
 nal hanging on it, in the centre of the ball. We were 
 grouped round the artist listening to an animated account 
 of the murderer's last moments when Sass appeared. 
 
 The crowd of listeners ran to their seats and waited for 
 the storm. Mr. Sass looked at the drawing, and went out 
 of the studio a pin might have been heard to drop. Bell 
 looked round and winked at me. Sass returned, and 
 walked slowly up to Mr. Jacob Bell, and addressed him as
 
 30 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 follows : " Sir, Mr. Bell; sir, your father, placed you under 
 my care for the purpose of making an artist of you. I 
 can't do it ; I can make nothing of you. I should be 
 robbing your father if I did it. You had better go, sir; 
 such a career as this," pointing to the man hanging, "is 
 a bad example to your fellow -pupils. You must leave, 
 sirr 
 
 " All right," said Bell, and away he went, returning to 
 the d^iggist's shop established by his father in Oxford 
 Street, where he made a large fortune, devoting it mainly 
 to the encouragement of art and artists, and dying prema- 
 turely, beloved and regretted by all who knew him. 
 
 It is reported of his father, a rigid Quaker, who watched 
 with disapproval his son's purchases of pictures, that he 
 said to him one day: 
 
 "What business hast thou to buy those things, wasting 
 thy substance ?" 
 
 " I can sell any of those things for more than I gave for 
 them, some for twice as much." 
 
 " Is that verily so ?" said the old man. " Then I see no 
 sin in thy buying more." 
 
 When Bell first appeared at Sass's, he wore the Quaker 
 coat; but finding that the students showed their disap- 
 proval in a marked and unpleasant manner such, for in- 
 stance, as writing " Quaker " in white chalk across his back 
 he discarded that vestment, and very soon afterwards 
 was himself discarded by the Quakers. His dismissal hap- 
 pened in this wise. At "meeting" the men sit on one 
 side of the chapel, and the women on the other. Bell dis- 
 liked this arrangement, and, finding remonstrance of no 
 avail, he disguised himself in female attire, and took his 
 place in the forbidden seats. For a time all went well, 
 but a guilty conscience came into play on seeing two of 
 the congregation speaking together and eying him suspi- 
 ciously the while; he took fright, and, catching up his petti- 
 coats, he went out from "meeting" with a stride that 
 proclaimed his sex. For this he was, as I have heard him 
 tell many a time, expelled from the community. 
 
 To retui'n once more to Sass's. 
 
 Besides the warning notice that had so little effect on
 
 THE SCHOOL OF ART. 31 
 
 the musical student, there were many other pieces of ad- 
 vice distributed around and about the gallery in motto 
 fashion, one or two of which I particularly recollect : 
 " Those models which have passed through the approba- 
 tion of ages are intended for your imitation, and not your 
 criticism;" "Blessed is he that expecteth nothing, for he 
 shall not be disappointed;" " Laborare est orare" and so 
 on. I don't think the motto system did us any good. 
 Upon greater familiarity grew greater contempt, and the 
 wise sayings lost their influence, if they ever had any. 
 Very few of the contemporaries of my student-days have 
 left any " footprints on the sands of time." Many of them 
 died young; others, after becoming students of the Royal 
 Academy, drifted, disappointed, away from artistic life 
 into more congenial and profitable pursuits. 
 
 Edward Lear, afterwards well known as the author of a 
 child's book called " A Book of Nonsense," was one who 
 became an intimate friend of mine, as well as fellow- 
 student. He is still living, I believe, somewhere in Italy. 
 Lear was a man of varied and great accomplishments, a 
 friend of Tennyson's, whose poetry he sang charmingly to 
 music of his own composing. As a landscape-painter he 
 had much merit; but misfortune in the exhibition of his 
 pictures pursued him, as it has done so many others, and 
 at last, I fear, drove him away to try his fortune else- 
 where. There were two men named Savage, one very 
 dark, the other very fair. We called the one black, and 
 the other white, Savage. I cannot recall even the names 
 of more than two others. The first how much the first 
 in all respects! was Douglas Cowper, a fair, handsome, 
 delicate youth who possessed powers which, if rapid con- 
 sumption followed by death before he was twenty-one had 
 not cut short his bright and happy life, would have speedi- 
 ly placed him in the first rank of his profession. His 
 matchless application, his delight even in the driest parts 
 of his training, and the rapidity of his improvement, were 
 matters of envy and astonishment to all of us. He was 
 the master's favorite pupil, and often held up to us in his 
 presence as an example to Mr. C - and others, among 
 whom I must place myself. Cowper's course was very
 
 32 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 rapid. He became a student of the Royal Academy, 
 gained medals in all the schools, succeeded at once in 
 painting pictures in which he displayed (of course in a 
 comparatively immature manner) refinement, extreme sen- 
 sibility to female beauty, appreciation of character in 
 short, every quality that can adorn a picture. Finding 
 disease increase upon him, he went abroad, became worse, 
 and returned home to die. The other, Benjamin Aplin 
 Newman Green, my fellow in-door pupil, was as different 
 from Cowper as it was possible for one human b.eing to be 
 from another. A good-natured, foolish creatm-e, without 
 the least ability as an artist ; but a great worshipper of 
 Byron, most of whose poems he could repeat by heart, to 
 my sorrow, for our evenings were perforce nearly always 
 spent together, and the study of Michael Angelo was dif- 
 ficult enough without constant interruptions from the 
 "Corsair" and the "Bride of Abydos." Poor Green was 
 the butt of the school. The more advanced students 
 worked in the lower gallery, and no sooner did the monot- 
 onous tones of Green's voice reach us in the upper studio, 
 than, armed with bread-crusts, we quietly descended the 
 stairs, and before he had got further in his recitation than 
 
 " O'er the glad waters of the dark blue sea, 
 Our thoughts as boundless, and our souls as free," 
 
 a shower of bread, crust or crumb, according to what was 
 at our disposal (after using it for error-erasing in our draw- 
 ings), put a temporary stop to the infliction. On one oc- 
 casion I remember my own aim being diverted by the 
 sudden apparition of the professor, who passed through 
 the curtains of the passage at the moment of attack, and 
 the result was a smart blow in the middle of the august 
 waistcoat instead of the spot intended. I went back to 
 my work and waited. In a minute Sass appeared in the 
 upper gallery with the crust in his hand. 
 
 " Who did this ?" said he. 
 
 "I threw it, sir; but it was not intended for you." 
 
 " For whom was it intended, sir ?" 
 
 " For Mr. Green." 
 
 "Then never dare to presume to throw bread at me
 
 THE SCHOOL OF ART. 33 
 
 again. If I ever discover you guilty of such unexampled 
 conduct, I will," etc., etc. 
 
 From Mr. Sass's family, with whom as in-door pupil I 
 was in constant intercourse, I received the greatest kind- 
 ness. Mrs. Sass was a mother to me in the best sense of 
 the word ; and it was a wondering pleasure to me to see 
 so many of the great men of that day, whose like we shall 
 not look upon again. I was sitting with the family in the 
 drawing-room one evening, a little reading and music 
 going on, when Mr. Wilkie was announced. Mr. Sass 
 went to meet him, and tried to induce him to stay; but 
 the great painter was not, or did not think himself, in 
 presentable evening costume, and, besides, he was in a 
 great hurry. He was very tall, and wore a long blue cloak. 
 The Sass family, of course, he knew, and I was pointed 
 out to him as "one of my pupils who has just finished his 
 drawing for the Academy." 
 
 " Varra weel," said Wilkie, the Scotch vernacular being 
 very marked. 
 
 Mr. Sass was accustomed to give a series of conversa- 
 zioni, at which great artists and other distinguished men 
 were present. Etty, Martin (certainly one of the most 
 beautiful human beings I ever beheld), and Constable were 
 frequent visitors. We had dinners and dances, too. Who 
 that had once seen Wilkie dance a quadrille could ever 
 forget the solemnity of the performance ! Every step was 
 done with a conscientious precision that pointed to the 
 recent dancing-master. " Whatever is worth doing at all 
 is worth doing well," seemed to be expressed in every 
 movement ; and then the courtly grace with which he 
 bowed to his partner and led her to her seat ! Autre temps, 
 autre mceurs. We never see such sights nowadays. 
 
 I assisted at one memorable dinner. The guests were 
 Eastlake, Constable, Wilkie, Etty Chantry, I think and 
 others whom I forget. I sat between Eastlake and Con- 
 stable. The only words addressed to me were by East- 
 lake, and they were to the effect that a sugar erection on 
 the table near us was like a Grecian temple; didn't I think 
 so ? I was too frightened to reply. Wilkie talked a great 
 deal, but quite over my head ; and on the conversation 
 
 9*
 
 34 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 turning upon how far ignorant opinion was valuable on 
 pictures, Constable maintained that it was worthless, as he 
 believed was Moliere's housekeeper's judgment on literary 
 work. To illustrate his opinion he gave the following ex- 
 ample : A nobleman (whose name I forget) had com- 
 missioned Constable to paint a landscape of a beautiful part 
 of the country surrounding a certain castle, the seat of the 
 noble lord. The picture was to be both a landscape and 
 a portrait of the castle, and a large summer-house was al- 
 lotted as a studio for the painter, who made many studies, 
 and, indeed, painted one or two pictures from adjacent 
 scenery. The walls of the summer-house had been newly 
 covered with a gorgeous paper representing flowers, trees, 
 rocks, etc. On this wall hung an empty gold frame, and 
 Constable declared that the gardener, whose opinion he 
 had asked upon his work generally, after making a variety 
 of idiotic remarks, said, looking at the empty frame hang- 
 ing on the wall through which the wall-paper appeared 
 as a picture " T/iafs a lovely pictur', sir ; that's more 
 finished, that is ; more what I like." 
 
 Undoubtedly Constable was one of the greatest land- 
 scape-painters that ever lived, second only to Turner, the 
 greatest of all. He was an embittered, disappointed man, 
 and with reason; for while artists of far inferior talent 
 sold their pictures readily and for large sums, Constable 
 was neglected and unpopular. The works of a landscape 
 and sea painter of great eminence, whose name I suppress, 
 were sometimes open to the charge of a certain putty-like 
 texture, and the fact that Constable had expressed his 
 opinion that " Blank's" pictures were " like putty " reached 
 the artist's ears; and upon some occasion soon after, when 
 Constable praised a certain picture of his, "Blank" im- 
 mediately retorted: 
 
 "Why, I am told you say my pictures are like putty !" 
 " Well," said Constable, " what of that ? I like putty." 
 Constable died very suddenly in the year 1837. He 
 had retired to rest in his usual health, and was found dead 
 in the morning. I fear there are few men now living who 
 can remember Dr. Herring's account of the effect of Con- 
 stable's sudden death upon two painters named Wilkins,
 
 THE SCHOOL OP ART. 35 
 
 both very short, very stout men, who, to use Dr. Herring's 
 words, " wore the calves of their legs in front," each pos- 
 sessing larger corporations than are commonly seen. They 
 were pompous men, and carried their calves and their 
 stomachs very much en evidence. 
 
 One of them painted pictures of dead game, and on 
 Herring admiring a group of dead rabbits and praising 
 the natural appearance of them, Wilkins said, in his loud, 
 unctuous, pompous tone, 
 
 " Nature, sir. Yes, I flatter myself there is more nature 
 in those rabbits than you usually see in rabbits." 
 
 One of the Wilkinses hearing of Constable's death, hur- 
 ried home with the news. He walked up to his brother, 
 their corporations almost meeting. 
 
 " William, what do you think ?" giving his brother a 
 butt with his stomach. 
 
 " I don't know," returning the push. 
 
 " Constable's dead!" a violent effort of corporation fol- 
 lowing, which sent the brothers for the moment a little 
 back from each other. 
 
 " Constable deadf" said William, in accents of incredu- 
 lity and consternation, and with a tremendous return of 
 the stomach charge. 
 
 "Yes!" with a butt. 
 
 " No!" with return butt. " Not deadT butt. 
 
 "Yes, DEAD!" return butt. 
 
 And they continued exclaiming and butting at each 
 other until their surprise and consternation ceased. 
 
 After my admission as a student of the Royal Academy 
 that is to say, after more than two years' hard work at 
 drawing I was allowed to take my first step in painting, 
 and I returned to Sass's for that purpose. Here, again, 
 the system was admirable. A simple antique model was 
 put up before the student, who, provided with brushes, 
 and black and white paint only on his palette, was told to 
 copy it in monochrome. I date my first real pleasure 
 in my work from that moment. After the tedious manip- 
 ulation of Italian chalk, the working with the brush was 
 delightful, and the result seemed so much more satisfac- 
 torily like the object imitated than was possible by the
 
 36 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 former method. No sooner did I feel the fascination of 
 the brush than I burned to try my hand at nature in some 
 form or other. I begged to be permitted to paint a head 
 from life. I was told I was just as fit to command the 
 Channel Fleet as to paint a head from nature. "You 
 would wreck the ships, sir, and you would only spoil good 
 canvas if you had your will." So I was made to copy 
 copies of the old masters till I began to feel a dangerous 
 and rebellious spirit growing up within me, and at last 
 I told my master I would copy no more. Oliver " asking 
 for more " did not produce a greater effect upon Mr. Bum- 
 ble than did my audacity on Mr. Sass. He could not 
 trust himself to reply until the usual retirement had taken 
 place. He then said, very calmly, "You are too great a 
 man for me; you want no more instruction; I am useless. 
 I will write to your father and tell him there is no neces- 
 sity for you to remain here any longer; your friends ex- 
 pect you to be a second Wilkie. I can't make Wilkies; 
 and if I could, I should not make the experiment out of 
 such material as you." This was disheartening; but I 
 knew the good old fellow would not write to my father, 
 and would soon forget .all about my impertinence. The 
 matter was compromised by my doing one copy more, 
 and then being allowed to arrange and paint a group of 
 still life. 
 
 My first attempt from nature still exists. It consists of 
 a brown jar, a wicker Florence oil-bottle, and an old ink- 
 stand. 
 
 I no longer regretted the easy life, or what I thought 
 such, of the auctioneer. I felt real enjoyment in my 
 work, a feeling which has possessed me from that day to 
 this in ever - increasing strength. The Sass boys were 
 handsome enough and patient enough for models, and 
 from one of them I painted my first exhibited picture. I 
 sent it to the British Gallery (then existing in Pall Mall 
 under the name of the British Institution), and to my 
 great delight my picture, which was called " A Page with 
 a Letter," was hung at the top of the room. And what 
 airs I gave myself! How superior I felt and looked to 
 those who had been less fortunate than myself! But I
 
 THE SCHOOL OF ART. 37 
 
 anticipate. Long before I could persuade my master to 
 let me try my hand at his son I had dreadful fights with 
 him about the method I persisted in adopting, which was 
 to go to the streets for any striking character I could per- 
 suade to place himself, or herself, under my " 'prentice 
 hand." Though I had painted many groups of still life, 
 all of which had passed under the criticism of my master, 
 ho still insisted that I should paint a composition of still- 
 life objects, ignoring all I had done. This forgetfulness 
 seemed strange; indeed, it was one of the first signs of 
 the mental trouble that afterwards 'terminated in insanity. 
 Another sign of the near approach of that dreadful dis- 
 ease may be mentioned. The cartoons of Raphael were 
 then preserved in one of the galleries at Hampton Court 
 Palace; and it was a custom of Mr. Sass's to take a selec- 
 tion of his pupils by coach to the palace, where he gave a 
 sort of lecture in the presence of the cartoons. He always 
 made us remove our hats on entering the room, and then, 
 in solemn tones, as if he were at church, he would expati- 
 ate on the wonders before him. I well remember the last 
 journey I made to Hampton Court. It was on a beautiful 
 summer's morning, and the students occupied all the out- 
 side seats of the coach; Sass sitting beside the coachman, 
 I, with my friend Abraham Solomon (a young man of 
 great ability, who died early), sitting immediately behind 
 our master and the coachman. Sass talked incessantly, to 
 the amusement of the coachman, who evidently attributed 
 his excitement to a common cause. We, who knew the 
 professor's temperate habits too well to be able to account 
 for it in that way, soon had a proof that our more terrible 
 suspicions were only too well grounded. Sass suddenly 
 turned to Solomon and said, 
 
 " Why don't you wear a Gibus hat ?" 
 
 Solomon had never thought of doing so, and said he 
 "didn't see why he should." 
 
 " Why!" said poor Sass. " I'll soon tell you tchy. You 
 can put it into your pocket when you have done with it; 
 if you sit upon it you can't hurt it; you just touch a spring 
 and it shuts up. They are first-rate things, and I shall 
 never wear anv other."
 
 38 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 On this particular day Mr. Sass wore a white beaver, 
 about as unlike a Gibus as it could possibly be. Solomon 
 then said, 
 
 " Well, sir, then why don't you wear one yourself ?" 
 
 "I do," said Sass; "this is one. Do you doubt it? I 
 see you do. Then just look here. Coachman, get up a 
 moment." The coachman got up as desired, and the hat 
 was placed on his seat. He sat down upon it and split it 
 in every direction. " There," said Sass, " I hope you are 
 satisfied that I do wear a Gibus." And wear his so-called 
 Gibus he did the rest of the day in its battered condition, 
 and became a laughing-stock in consequence. 
 
 After seeing the cartoons it was the custom to go upon 
 the river, and on this occasion our master wished to dis- 
 pense with a waterman and row us himself. This we de- 
 clined, so he refused to go with us, and insisted on having 
 a boat to himself; and, in spite of our remonstrance and 
 opposition, the adventurous oarsman pushed off, and, 
 though it was evident he had never attempted rowing be- 
 fore, he managed to paddle his boat into the middle of the 
 stream, where its motions became so eccentric and alarm- 
 ing that its poor tenant grew frightened, and called out 
 loudly for help, which speedily reached him. 
 
 Soon after this more unmistakable evidences of a dis- 
 turbed mind showed themselves, such, for instance, as his 
 ordering great quantities of goods for which he could 
 have no possible use from various unsuspecting trades- 
 men, strangers to him; and his purchasing quite a collec- 
 tion of atrociously bad pictures, blocking up the passages 
 and staircases of his house with these and all sorts of other 
 utterly unnecessary articles. One more most convincing 
 and melancholy sign of the sad affliction that had come 
 upon him occurred one evening. He was sitting over the 
 fire with an old friend, who told him a very good story, 
 which, for the instant, he seemed capable of thoroughly 
 appreciating and enjoying; but after a few minutes had 
 elapsed, apparently quite forgetful of when and where he 
 had heard it, he told the same story over again, as some- 
 thing entirely fresh, to the friend who had only just re- 
 counted it to him. Almost immediately after this incident
 
 THE SCHOOL OP ART. 39 
 
 restraint became compulsory, and "The School of Art, 
 Bloomsbury," under Mr. Sass's management, closed for- 
 ever. 
 
 Before finally taking leave of Mr. Sass I desire to bear 
 testimony to his great qualities as a teacher and to his 
 amiable disposition as a man. Personally, I feel I owe 
 everything to him and his teaching; and there are some 
 of my brother academicians now living who, I feel sure, 
 would endorse my verdict on our dear old teacher.
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE LIFE SCHOOL. 
 
 THOUGH I would gladly have bid adieu to antique draw- 
 ing, I found that if I desired to reach the upper school at 
 the R.A., where painting was taught, I could only do so 
 by drawings which must meet the approval of the council. 
 I succeeded, after several futile attempts, in achieving 
 these, and then I was permitted to draw in the Life School. 
 There the whole thing was delightful to me. The acade- 
 micians were visitors one of the august forty sitting with 
 us the prescribed two hours, rarely drawing, oftener read- 
 ing. In those days scarcely ever teaching. How differ- 
 ent to the present "manners and customs"! The Life 
 School, or, in other words, the school of the nude model, 
 was at that time held in what the students called the " pep- 
 per-box," namely, the centre cupola of the now National 
 Gallery in Trafalgar Square. It was a circular room, and 
 the model was posed on one side of it an extended semi- 
 circle of students working opposite. Dead silence reigned. 
 Strange scenes sometimes occurred. Some of our models 
 were splendid guardsmen. One, named Brunskill, was a 
 special favorite, from his magnificent physique, and his 
 extraordinary endurance of painful attitudes. He was 
 usually perfectly sober, because he knew well that one 
 lapse from that condition would put an end to his career 
 as a Royal Academy model. 
 
 I well remember his last appearance. He was late a 
 great sin in a model and, what was worse, he had evi- 
 dently been drinking. His attitude was that of a sailor 
 pushing a boat from the shore. He had a heavy oar, with 
 which he thrust against an impediment meant to represent 
 a rock. 
 
 I was almost under the man, and had a very difficult
 
 THE LIFE SCIIOOL. 41 
 
 
 
 piece of foreshortening to contend with, and was doing 
 ray best to master it, when the model said, 
 
 " I can't do it. I ain't fit to do it. This 'ere thing what 
 I hold ain't right. Nothing's right; so I wish you gentle- 
 men good-night. There now!" 
 
 It was "good-night" to us, and "good-bye" to Bruns- 
 kill, for he was never allowed to sit again. Some months 
 after this, when Mr. Jones, R.A., was visitor, an incident 
 occurred which may interest my readers, if I ever have 
 any. (Par parenthtee, I may say of Mr. Jones that he 
 was chiefly known as a painter of military pictures, and 
 in dress and person he so much resembled the great Duke 
 of Wellington that, to his extreme delight, he was often 
 mistaken for that hero, and saluted accordingly. On this 
 coming to the ears of the duke, he said, " Dear me. Mis- 
 taken for me, is he ? That's strange, for no one ever mis- 
 takes me for Mr. Jones.") 
 
 This anecdote was told by me to my old friend Edmund 
 Yates, who relates it in his delightful reminiscences. 
 
 But, to return to the Jones incident. A female model 
 was the sitter, and was placed with her back to the stu- 
 dents, half leaning, half reclining, in an attitude full of 
 grace. I had arrived late, and was compelled to take the 
 only vacant seat at the end of the semicircle, from which 
 I had a view of the model's profile. The face was new to 
 me; the attitude seemed a very easy one. I was, there- 
 fore, surprised to see tears slowly falling down the mod- 
 el's cheek. I thought I ought to draw the attention of 
 the visitor to the fact, and did so. "Oh, no!" said Mr. 
 Jones; "she can't be in pain; no. I think I know what 
 distresses her. Take no notice. Go on with your work." 
 
 The next night the sitting was repeated, but the tears 
 were not, and I thought little more about the matter. A 
 few months after this a very modest, respectable-looking 
 girl was sent to me by a friend as a model, and I engaged 
 her at once for a picture I had just commenced. I found 
 the girl was the daughter of a tailor in a very small way 
 of business, and that she was in every particular a thor- 
 oughly respectable person. It was not till after two or 
 three sittings, and on looking again and again at her pro-
 
 42 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 
 
 file, that it struck me that I had seen the tears coursing 
 
 7 O 
 
 each other down it in the Life School. 
 
 "Surely, Miss B , I cannot be mistaken; you sat for 
 
 Mr. Jones at the Royal Academy ?" She blushed terribly, 
 and tears came again. "Now tell me why you did such 
 a thing?" 
 
 "I did it," said she, "to prevent my father going to 
 prison. He owed three pounds ten, and if he couldn't 
 have paid it by that Saturday night he was to be arrested. 
 The Academy paid me three guineas for the week, and 
 saved him. I never sat in that way before, and I never 
 will again;" and I believe she never did. 
 
 She is at the present time in a position of life far beyond 
 anything she could have aspired to. She is a mother and 
 a grandmother, and no one has any idea that she sat for 
 the nude figure to save her father from prison. I desire 
 to say as little as possible on a disagreeable subject; but 
 attempts have been made now and again to prevent the 
 study of the female nude. If the well-meaning objectors 
 knew half as much as I do of the subject they would hes- 
 itate before they charge a small section of the community 
 with immorality which exists only in the imagination of 
 the accusers. I declare I have known numbers of perfectly 
 respectable women who have sat constantly and habitually 
 for the nude, and, if even it were unfortunately otherwise, 
 we painters could not do Avithout them. Many men draw 
 every figure naked in their compositions before they clothe 
 them. I did so for years, and ought to do so now. Then, 
 again, if the nude female figure had always been denied to 
 artists, such statues as the Venus of Milo the delight and 
 wonder of the world could not have been executed. Num- 
 bers of great works of the old and modern masters would 
 never have seen the light, and generations of their wor- 
 shippers would have been deprived of exquisite pleasure 
 and untold improvement. 
 
 One more little story of the Life School, and I have 
 done with it. Sir Edwin Landseer was visitor the only 
 instance of his filling the office in my time. He was a 
 very fashionable personage, and we all rather wondered 
 at seeing him willing to spend evenings, usually devoted
 
 THE LIFE SCHOOL. 43 
 
 to high society, in the service of the Life School. He 
 read the whole time; and one evening a very old gentle- 
 man in list-slippers, with a speaking-trumpet under his 
 arm, shuffled into the school. This was John Landseer, 
 an eminent engraver, an associate of the Academy, and 
 father of Edwin Landseer, whom he greatly resembled. 
 His son rose to meet him, with the book he had been read- 
 ing in his hand. 
 
 "You are not drawing, then; why don't you draw?" 
 said the old man, in a loud voice. 
 
 " Don't feel inclined," shouted the son down the trumpet. 
 
 "Then you ought to feel inclined. That's a fine figure; 
 get out your paper and draw." 
 
 " Haven't got any paper," said the son. 
 
 " What's that book ?" said the father. 
 
 " ' Oliver Twist,' " said Edwin Landseer, in a voice loud 
 enough to reach Trafalgar Square. 
 
 " Is it about art ?" 
 
 "No; it's about Oliver Twist." 
 
 "Let me look at it. Ha! it's some of Dickens' non- 
 sense, I see. You'd much better draw than waste your 
 time upon such stuff as that." 
 
 This amused the students, who tittered, and deepened 
 the frowns that had been gathering through the interview 
 on the brow of the great animal-painter, and added to the 
 strained condition that already existed between him and 
 the students; for Landseer nearly always came late, and 
 kept us waiting outside the door of the school while he 
 was placing the model in what we thought a purposely 
 aggravating way. The night after the interview I have 
 related the delay outside was so prolonged that we stamped 
 and knocked in the manner common to a crowd waiting in 
 the gallery of a theatre for the actors to appear. 
 
 The result of this riotous proceeding was that, in obe- 
 dience to a written order posted up in the hall on the next 
 evening, we were compelled to remain below till the bell 
 summoned us to mount the numberless stairs to the " pep- 
 per-box." Which of the students was guilty of writing 
 the word " Humbug " in large capitals across the obnox- 
 ious order I never knew, nor indeed did I know that it
 
 44 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 had been done till Mr. Jones, who was then keeper of the 
 Academy and the head of all the schools, walked into the 
 Life School with the order in his hand. He took his place 
 with his back to the model, and addressed us thus: " Gen- 
 tlemen I use that word in addressing you collectively, 
 but there is one person among you who has no claim to 
 the appellation I hold in my hand evidence of vulgar 
 insubordination. I am sorry to think that an act which 
 must have been witnessed by some of you was not pre- 
 vented before it was perpetrated. I seek not, gentlemen, 
 to discover the author of this insult, for, if I knew him, it 
 would be my painful duty to pursue him to his expul- 
 sion," etc. 
 
 Landseer lived at least thirty years after this, but was 
 never visitor again. About this time two young men be- 
 came students of the Academy who were destined to play 
 very important parts in the world. John Phillip, who be- 
 came an academician, and one of the finest painters of the 
 English or any other school, and Richard Dadd, his inti- 
 mate friend and future brother-in-law, a man of genius 
 that would assuredly have placed him high in the first 
 rank of painters had not a terrible affliction darkened one 
 of the noblest natures and brightest minds that ever ex- 
 isted, and eventually put an end to all the hopes that were 
 entertained for his future. I cannot go into details that 
 would be distressing to me to relate and to the survivors 
 of my unhappy friend to read. Suffice it to say that the 
 noble mind is destroyed, though the body still survives. 
 I would rather recall Dadd as I knew him in the happy 
 days of long ago, when he and Phillip, O'Neil, Elmore, 
 Ward, Egg (all gone!), and some others, formed a band 
 of followers full of the spirit of emulation, love for our 
 art and one another. As to jealousy of each other, I can 
 truly say the feeling never crossed my mind, nor do I be- 
 lieve it existed among us at all. We met together con- 
 stantly, formed a sketching-club, criticised and abused 
 each other's works whenever we thought they deserved 
 chastisement. We were not in the least a mutual-admira- 
 tion society, like that which is said to exist among a cer- 
 tain class at the present time.
 
 'I in: LIFE SCHOOL. 45 
 
 I must now return to the period when I entered the 
 Life Academy, and found my friend Douglas Cowper at 
 work there. He was far in advance of me in every way, 
 and had already begun to paint subjects, illustrations of 
 Scott and Shakespeare; and, what was most wonderful to 
 me, the pictures were sold ! for very small prices, certainly; 
 but they were sold. 
 
 " Why don't you give up painting heads," said he to me, 
 " and try your hand at a composition of two or three fig- 
 ures ?" 
 
 "Because I should make a mess of it," said I; and as I 
 made a very deplorable mess of a composition which I at- 
 tempted many months afterwards having in the mean- 
 time gone through a course of portrait-painting I should 
 only have disgusted myself beyond endurance by so pre- 
 mature an effort as Cowper proposed.
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 PRACTICE IN PORTRAIT-PAINTING. 
 
 I HAD quitted Sass's for good, and was practising, I 
 still think, in the right way, viz., by painting any one 
 whom I could persuade to sit to me; and among those 
 who had patience to go through this ordeal were my uncle 
 and aunt Scaife and several of their friends. That any- 
 body would be fool enough to pay money for my perform- 
 ances never entered my mind; but, to my delight, one day 
 an old gentleman, who had seen a portrait of one of my 
 uncle's friends, offered me five pounds if I would make as 
 good a likeness of him as I had done of my other victim. 
 I tried, succeeded, and received my first money reward for 
 " work and labor done." This old gentleman's daughter 
 was governess in a family in Lincolnshire, and the owner 
 of the family, happening to be in London, saw the portrait 
 of his governess's father, and was so struck with the like- 
 ness that he asked me if I could go to his house to paint 
 himself, and " others, he had no doubt, would follow 
 suit " price five pounds for a head, ten for a kit-cat, 
 fifteen for a half - length always the size of life. I 
 started full of hope and interest, and found myself in 
 the midst of most agreeable society, welcomed every- 
 where, and with as much work as I could do. The way 
 of it was this: I went from house to house, chiefly among 
 the higher class of gentlemen farmers, staying as long 
 as my work lasted ; sometimes flirting with the young 
 ladies, who thought painting " oh, such a beautiful art !" 
 flattering their mothers in their portraits, I mean and, 
 I verily believe, making myself a general favorite every- 
 where. 
 
 "Pickwick" was being published at this time in month-
 
 PRACTICE IN PORTRAIT-PAINTING. 47 
 
 ly parts, taking the town and country by storm; and as 
 each number appeared to beguile the tedium of the sit- 
 ting it was read by the wife of one of my sitters, who 
 was a jolly portly man, not unlike Mr. Pickwick him- 
 self. Mrs. N (the wife) was a very serious lady in- 
 deed, religious, I believe, in the truest sense of the word; 
 but certainly a very depressing person, without a par- 
 ticle of fun, or the least sense of humor, in her compo- 
 sition. Anything funnier, however, than her reading of 
 " Pickwick " could not be conceived. Every sentence 
 was uttered in precisely the tones she used when she 
 read morning and evening prayers, and I need scarcely 
 say that that method of elocution, excellent as it was for 
 the one purpose, became ludicrous in the extreme when 
 adopted for the other. If my reader will take the trou- 
 ble to imagine the following speech of Mr. Weller's 
 " You would change your note if you know'd who was 
 near you, as the hawk remarked to hisself with a cheer- 
 ful laugh, as he heard the robbing red breast a-singing 
 round the corner " delivered in the manner affected by 
 the severest of the Low-Church clergymen, an idea may 
 be formed of the result upon me, and even upon my 
 jolly sitter, whose solemn "Amen" after it I can never 
 forget. 
 
 After finishing my work at the N s', I betook my- 
 self, bag and baggage, to a neighboring farmhouse, where 
 fresh faces awaited my attention. The Grange was a 
 
 large farm, held under Lord Yarborough by a Mr. F , 
 
 who possessed a pretty little wife and a small old mother- 
 in-law, whose characteristic countenance made me long to 
 paint it. 
 
 In her youth, Mrs. B , who was the widow of a bluff 
 
 sea-captain of Hull, had been a great beauty. She was 
 now very old, and among her other eccentricities had a 
 habit of thinking aloud, and invariably on the same sub- 
 ject personal appearance. Very embarrassing, because 
 any new face was sure to produce an immediate criticism, 
 favorable or the reverse. I arrived very late at the Grange, 
 and was shown into the drawing-room, where a young 
 clergyman was reading prayers, and the visitors and faiii-
 
 48 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 ily were kneeling in various directions. The old lady was 
 allowed to pray sitting, seemingly; and when I appeared 
 and immediately knelt down with the rest, she interrupted 
 the clergyman by some words which I did not catch, but, 
 judging from the shaking of several of the worshippers' 
 shoulders, and the great difficulty the reader had in going 
 on with the service, they evidently were of a droll ten- 
 dency. It was not till the next day that Mr. F ex- 
 plained the situation. The fact was that no sooner did 
 the old lady catch sight of me, than she exclaimed: " Well! 
 he's no beauty." 
 
 She was an amusing sitter. With regard to her own 
 portrait, she was only anxious that a large miniature like- 
 ness of her husband, which she wore as a brooch, should 
 be faithfully rendered. "Oh, mister!" she said; "you 
 haven't caught the captain's eye. It was a beautiful blue, 
 not like that; THAT'S GREEN !" 
 
 She was, however, quite content with my rendering of 
 her own delightful old face her cheeks streaked like a 
 winter apple; and she was apparently quite indifferent to 
 the departed loveliness of her youth. Very unlike, in that 
 respect, many old ladies I have painted since, most of 
 whom have seemed possessed with the idea that time had 
 stood still for fifty years; and that the face over which 
 seventy or eighty summers and winters had passed was 
 very much the same as the one with which they were 
 familiar in their teens. I could furnish proofs of what I 
 have just written that would startle the incredulous as 
 much as the facts startled me. Among my sitters in those 
 days was an old clergyman, whose daughters were most 
 anxious that his portrait should be painted. He had been 
 a chaplain in the navy, and singular perhaps for a par- 
 son always wore a long blue coat, buttoned to the throat ; 
 the black ribbon of his pince-nez meandering across a 
 chest puffed and smooth, in unmistakable imitation of 
 George IV. He was very old, and very upright of a 
 spare, tall figure. A Sir Charles Grandison in courtesy, 
 but hated sitting with an intensity I have rarely seen 
 equalled. 
 
 I believe that the fight that went on between his desire
 
 PRACTICE IX PORTRAIT-PAINTING. 49 
 
 to please his daughters and his dislike of sitting shortened 
 his life. He was of a bilious temperament, and after he 
 had been sitting a short time, a flush spread over his face, 
 succeeded by a yellow patchiness (between both of which 
 I had to steer a middle course), plainly showing a pain- 
 fully disturbed condition of his system. To amuse him, I 
 placed a large looking-glass in such a position as to enable 
 him to see each touch as it was put on. I was hard at 
 work at the blue coat, the plain, pigeon-breasted appear- 
 ance of which I was modifying by a few creases, when I 
 saw my sitter give a violent tug at the front of the gar- 
 ment. I went on with my creases, however, successfully 
 as I thought, breaking up the mass of monotonous blue, 
 until the old gentleman, apparently unable to bear it any 
 longer, jumped up and came behind me, exclaiming : " My 
 dear sir, I never, never wear my coat like that ! I could 
 not endure such a coat it does not fit me ! Pray remove 
 those marks !" 
 
 And removed they were, and the coat is creaseless to 
 this day. I spent four months at that time painting por- 
 traits in Lincolnshire in fact, 1 remained as long as I 
 could find any work to do, constantly receiving letters 
 from my artist friends in London, giving glowing ac- 
 counts of the Exhibition of 1839 (opened during my .ab- 
 sence), and bestowing anathemas on myself for remaining 
 away from the scene of those glories, and the successes of 
 my particular friends, notably of Cowper and O'Neil, both 
 of whom had exhibited pictures which had found pur- 
 chasers. 
 
 Looking back, I feel that I not only did not lose time, 
 but improved it by my Lincolnshire practice. No better 
 preparation could be imagined for a man whose powers 
 enable him to cope successfully with the lower or the 
 higher branches of art, than the careful study of nature 
 and character that portrait-painting insures. I have seen 
 several of my performances since they were painted, and 
 what surprised me, and still surprises me, is the curious 
 difference in the merits of works done in consecutive or- 
 der. I find some quite exceptionally well done for so 
 young a hand good in drawing, color, and character 
 3
 
 50 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 others bad in every respect; but I have the satisfaction of 
 feeling that in every instance I endeavored to do my best, 
 and undoubtedly I gained greatly by the experience. My 
 work generally became much improved, and I would im- 
 press upon the young student the desirability of similar 
 practice when attainable.
 
 CHAPTER VIL 
 
 " POSTING " FBOM HABROGATE TO LONDON. 
 
 I AM perfectly ignorant of the principles of literary 
 composition. " Ignorance is bliss," they say; it may be, 
 but I have never been able to taste the rapture that con- 
 dition of mind is said to engender indeed, I am suffering 
 from the misery of it at this moment. To those who have 
 accompanied me thus far in my reminiscences, my confes- 
 sion of incompetence is needless; but I plead it in excuse 
 for the introduction in this place of matter that I fancy 
 should have appeared before. With this short prelude in 
 the shape of excuse, I have to say that in the year 1837 
 my father came to London, and stopped at my uncle 
 Scaife's hotel, as usual. He was a great sufferer from 
 asthma; and influenza being at that time very prevalent, 
 he was attacked by it, and died after a few days' illness. 
 I felt his loss very bitterly, for, as so often happens, under 
 a somewhat gruff manner there beat a warm and tender 
 heart; he was a kind and loving father, and his loss, at 
 the comparatively early age of sixty, was a lasting grief 
 to his widow and children. So soon as my mother could 
 find a tenant for the Dragon Hotel of which my father 
 had recently become owner as well as landlord she pre- 
 pared to leave Harrogate for London, so as to make a 
 home for her sons, whose professions (law and art) ren- 
 dered a residence in London imperative. I may premise 
 that for many years my mother had been a terrible suf- 
 ferer from rheumatic gout; entire loss of the use of her 
 limbs being the result. There were no railways between 
 York and London ; a night-and-day journey in a stage- 
 coach presented such a picture of misery, and perhaps in- 
 jury, to the invalid as to necessitate some other mode of 
 conveyance. There was nothing for it but to " post " all
 
 52 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 the way to London. A large carriage was procured, with 
 an ample roof for luggage, and a "rumble" behind. Well 
 do I remember the packing (piling, rather) of that tremen- 
 dous luggage ! When a mountain of moderate dimen- 
 sions had been erected, there still remained a large hair- 
 trunk. 
 
 " Where on earth is that to go ? There is no room for 
 it up there," said I to one of the packers an old servant, 
 who had known me from a child. 
 
 " Oh, there's plenty of room up in the allyment," said 
 Seth, and up into the element went the trunk, nearer to the 
 stars than it had ever been before. 
 
 Then came the scarcely less difficult packing of my 
 mother. That accomplished, my sister and, I think, a 
 maid being inside, and I in the rumble behind with a 
 Yorkshire housemaid, we started on our long journey 
 southwards. We were driven by easy stages fifteen 
 miles, more or less, at a stretch when, with fresh horses 
 and post-boys, we continued our travel. I very soon found 
 I was mistaken for a footman ; my homely appearance and 
 my position in the rumble may partly account for the mis- 
 conception; and I very likely favored it by my readiness 
 to alight at each stage, in seeing after fresh horses, and in 
 making myself more or less useful in attaching them to 
 the carriage. If I had any doubt of my mistaken iden- 
 tity, it was put to rest by the third post-boy, who, after 
 using bad language to me because I did not buckle some 
 strap or other properly, called out to me, " Here, you just 
 stand by the 'orses 'eads while I go and get just a nip at 
 the bar;" and there I stood. And when my friend re- 
 joined me, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, 
 he informed me that " There was no house on the road 
 where you could get a better glass of ' srub ' than the 
 Black Bear ; and now just give us a leg up, will you ?" 
 
 I confess I enjoyed my domestic position very much, 
 and took advantage of it often during our journey. My 
 dear mother first frowned when I touched my hat to her, 
 and then laughed and assisted in the fun giving me ficti- 
 tious orders, and then scolding and threatening me for 
 forgetting them.
 
 *' POSTING " FROM HABBOGATE TO LONDON. 53 
 
 At one place where we changed horses our new attend- 
 ant was a very old post-boy a figure quite strange to the 
 present generation. He wore an old white hat, a weather- 
 stained jacket that had once been blue, buckskin breeches 
 " all too wide for his shrunk shanks," and boots that had 
 seen better days. I led one of his horses from the stable, 
 and tried to back it into its proper place in front of the 
 carriage. The animal, wiser than the post-boys, knew 
 that I was an impostor, and refused to be directed by 
 me. He backed against the carriage-door. My mother 
 screamed and scolded, and the old post-boy roared in sten- 
 torian tones that I thought ought to have shaken him to 
 pieces : 
 
 " Hold there, will you ! What are you a-doing of ? 
 Bring her here, can't you ?" 
 
 I meekly obeyed, and resigned my charge to her master, 
 who speedily placed her in her proper position. 
 
 " I should say you was a in-door servant. Don't know 
 nothing about osses, eh?" said the old man. 
 
 " Yes," I said; "my work is mostly in-doors. I am not 
 accustomed to horses much." 
 
 " Then why couldn't you let 'em alone ? You'd no call 
 to meddle. You'd a been right served if she'd kicked 
 you." 
 
 As we approached nearer to London, the delusion be- 
 came, if possible, more pronounced. 
 
 "Won't the ladies alight and take some refreshment?" 
 said a man, apparently the landlord of the inn at which 
 we were changing horses. 
 
 The notion of my mother alighting amused me, and I 
 went to the carriage-window, and, giving my hat the foot- 
 man-touch that I knew so well, I said: 
 
 " The landlord desires to know if your grace will alight 
 and take some refreshment." 
 
 " Go along, you naughty boy !" said my mother. " Tell 
 him we haven't eaten half the provisions we brought with 
 us." 
 
 To the landlord I said, respectfully, 
 
 " Her ladyship is not very well, and would rather not 
 alight."
 
 54 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 "Humbug!" said the landlord. "Jemmy" to the 
 post-boy " mind how you go round the corner after you 
 
 pass the bridge as you go into " (some town, the 
 
 name of which escapes me), "or you'll upset 'em, as you 
 did the judge you took to the assizes, you know." 
 
 " Oh, ah ! I'll mind," said the post-boy. 
 
 Now whether those directions to our driver conveyed 
 masked orders for our destruction or not (in consequence 
 of her grace refusing to alight) will ever remain a mystery. 
 The landlord's directions made me very uneasy, and when 
 the distant bridge came into view across the top of the 
 carriage or rather on one side of it and the post-horse 
 pace was rapidly increased till it became exceedingly like 
 a gallop, I felt that the last moments of all of us (except 
 the post-boy) might be alarmingly near. Now we are on 
 the bridge; we approach the corner; the carriage sways 
 sideways past it, all but over; we are safe at the Bridge 
 Inn. This was too much for my mother. She called the 
 driver to the carriage, and rated him soundly. "How 
 dared he drive in that furious way !" etc., etc. 
 
 "It's the osses, mum; I can't hold 'em. Bless you! 
 they knows like Christians they're a-nearing home, and 
 their grub's a- waiting for 'em. I couldn't stop 'em; but 
 you're all right. Why, t'other day we'd a upset, but no- 
 body wasn't hurt, and perhaps you wouldn't a been neither." 
 
 " Go away," said my mother, " and send the next driver 
 to me." 
 
 That person received a warning that if he pursued any- 
 thing like the mad career of his predecessor he would be 
 mulcted of the threepence a mile that the post-boy usually 
 received for himself. 
 
 One more wayside experience as a footman, and I take 
 off my phantom livery. As we drove up to an inn, not 
 many miles from London, I could see from my perch in 
 the rumble that it was blessed with a remarkably pretty 
 barmaid. From my youth up I have been, and ever shall 
 be, sensible to the charm of female beauty; and I think 
 one glance at the barmaid was enough to make her ac- 
 quainted with that fact, sensible as she must have been of 
 her own attractions. Besides, was I not a fellow-servant?
 
 "POSTING" FROM HABROGA.TE TO LONDON. 55 
 
 I was young, so was she, though a little older than myself. 
 At that time I despised any girl younger than myself; no\o 
 I am of a different opinion. I talked to my mother at the 
 carriage-window for a moment, with a very bright eye on 
 the bar-window. Good gracious, she beckons me ! 
 
 " I feel so thirsty, mother." 
 
 " Well, dear, go into the house and get something; and 
 here, take this bottle and get it filled with the best sherry 
 they have." 
 
 I went to the bar. 
 
 "Now, young man, what can I do for you?" 
 
 What a question ! She was prettier near than at a dis- 
 tance. 
 
 " What will you take what is it to be ?" said the pretty 
 barmaid; and she kindly added, " Whoever changes horses 
 here, the orders is to give the servant a glass of anything 
 they like best." 
 
 " Oh, thank you !" said I. " I think I will take a glass 
 ofof" 
 
 "Try the 'srub?'" said the barmaid. 
 
 " What is ' srub ?' " said I. (I really did not know.) 
 
 " Oh, come, that's a good un ! you pretend you don't 
 know what ' srub' is ! There, that's it. Down with it ; it 
 will do you good after your journey. Come a long way ?" 
 
 The "srub" nearly choked me filthy stuff rum, I 
 think. 
 
 " Will you be so good as to fill this bottle with the best 
 sherry you have got ?" said I. 
 
 " Ain't got any best," said the barmaid; " it's all best in 
 this house. There you are; six shillings, please. Going 
 to London ?" inquired the lady. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Ah, I wish I was going with you !" said the barmaid. 
 (I am afraid I devoutly wished she was.) "I've never 
 been to London; have you?" 
 
 " Yes," said I. 
 
 Here we were interrupted by our new post-boy, who 
 said: 
 
 " Now, young fellow, your missis wants to know if you 
 are going to stand there jabbering all day. It's my opin-
 
 56 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 ion you'll have to look out for another situation if you 
 don't mind what you're about." 
 
 We resumed our journey, and in due time arrived at my 
 uncle's house in Brook Street not the hotel, but at a pri- 
 vate house in Upper Brook Street, to which he had retired 
 from business in easy competence. We were most kindly 
 received, and there we remained till a house could be found 
 for us. After much searching, we found in No. 1 1 Osna- 
 burgh Street a house that suited us in all respects save one 
 there was no decent painting-room. But I made the 
 best of a small back parlor, in which I painted my first 
 composition, and in which I passed some of the happiest 
 hours of my life; and to that small studio (with many 
 apologies for this interruption to my narrative) I now 
 return.
 
 CHAPTER Vin. 
 
 FIRST ATTEMPTS AT " SUBJECT-PICTURES." 
 
 I DETERMINED to try my hand at what we called "a 
 subject-picture." My admiration of Cowper led me into 
 unconscious imitation of his manner, and after throes un- 
 utterable I produced a small composition of two lovers 
 a reminiscence of a little affaire de cceur of my own. The 
 lady was represented listening to vows, that were as sin- 
 cere as I could make them appear, from a gentleman in a 
 Spanish costume fresh from the masquerade-shop. 
 
 The picture was sent to the Liverpool Exhibition, and 
 sold for fifteen pounds. It was long before I could recon- 
 cile myself to the idea of being paid for a portrait; but 
 that any idiot could be found who would give fifteen 
 golden sovereigns for a child of my imagination astound- 
 ed and delighted me, and at the same time urged me to 
 further effort. As I have said earlier in this narrative, I 
 was a great reader of Scott. With his novels I was very 
 familiar, less so with his poetry. I read much of the 
 poetry, however, with a view to a picture, and fixed upon 
 a scene from the " Lay of the Last Minstrel " selecting 
 the following passage for illustration : 
 
 " Full slyly smiled the observant page, 
 And gave the withered hand of Age 
 A goblet crowned with rosy wine." 
 
 A much-needed refreshment for the old man as he proceeds 
 with his long-winded narrative to the duchess. 
 
 It was necessary, of course, to get an old and, if possi- 
 ble, a bearded model; but the latter in those days it was 
 almost impossible to find, as an account given later in these 
 reminiscences of my search after that then rare individual 
 will show. I knew far too little of perspective, and con- 
 3*
 
 58 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 sequently the relative sizes of the old man and the page 
 puzzled me frightfully; sometimes their figures were tum- 
 bling over each other, and sometimes they were slipping 
 out of the picture. Do what I would, I could not make 
 their feet stand flat on the floor. The boy had a stupid 
 giggle on his face, and stood upon his toes. The old man's 
 beard insisted on looking as if he had tied it on, and its 
 annoying owner nearly drove me wild with his remarks; 
 and the girl who sat for the page said, " She never see 
 such a face; it wasn't like her, she knew." Indeed it was 
 not, nor like any earthly thing. How well I remember 
 throwing down palette and brushes, and rushing out of 
 the house in despair, and wandering about Chalk Farm, 
 where pigeon-shooting was going on, watching the pigeons 
 as they were knocked over, almost envying their fate ! 
 After rubbings out and alterations innumerable, the pict- 
 ure was finished. O'Neil and poor Cowper came, smiled, 
 and said nothing. My old master told me flatly I should 
 never do anything as long as I lived, and that all his hard 
 work to make an artist of me had been thrown away. 
 This was inspiriting! However, I sent the "Last Min- 
 strel" to the Suffolk Street Gallery, and it was hung 
 among other specimens of imbecility. The whole exhibi- 
 tion was frightfully criticised in the newspapers, and if 
 I were not selected for especial abuse, it was evident, I 
 thought, that I was not worthy of notice. 
 
 In spite of the practice I had had in portrait-painting, 
 I still felt great difficulty in painting flesh; and I there- 
 fore made many more studies from life, in the hope of the 
 improvement that was long a-coming. 
 
 Soon after I ventured on another and larger composition 
 of figures, the subject being from Scott's " Heart of Mid- 
 lothian," and the scene the interior of the church, with 
 Madge Wildfire dragging Jeanie Deans up the centre 
 aisle, to the amazement of the congregation. This was 
 considered to be a great advance on the "Last Minstrel," 
 and, indeed, it might be an advance without going very 
 far; but there was really much more promise, and more 
 performance too, than could have been expected from the 
 miserable shortcomings of the previous work. " Madge
 
 FIEST ATTEMPTS AT "SUBJECT-PICTURES." 59 
 
 Wildfire" also figured on the walls of Suffolk Street, and 
 I received some compliments on the varnishing-day which 
 greatly elated me, and, what was better, nerved me for 
 future work. 
 
 My next attempt was on the principle of " fools rushing 
 in where angels fear to tread," a subject from Shakespeare 
 "Othello and Desdemona " and the moment chosen 
 was when Othello takes the pretty broad hint that Des- 
 demona gives him, and declares his love " Upon this hint 
 I spake." My Othello was painted from an East Indian 
 crossing-sweeper, and Desdemona from my sister; the re- 
 sult being a resemblance to the models from whom I drew 
 the characters, and none whatever to the characters that 
 Shakespeare drew. This picture came into ray hands 
 many years afterwards, when I cut off Othello's legs as 
 well as the lady's, and repainted the whole thing; having 
 reduced the size of the picture considerably, but I hope 
 added a little to its value. At the present time Cambridge 
 has the honor of possessing this work, where it hangs 
 among a collection presented to the Fitzwilliam Muse- 
 um. I respectfully wish the museum joy of it. I sent 
 " Othello " to the British Gallery, accompanied by " Re- 
 becca and Ivanhoe." The " Othello " was hung in a good 
 place ; the " Rebecca," a much better picture, rejected ; 
 being the only picture I have ever had rejected from any 
 exhibition. 
 
 No artist can forget the first notice of him by the press. 
 At any rate, I shall always remember the first public 
 criticism on a picture of mine. In the Art Journal, then 
 called the Art Union, appeared a few lines of commenda- 
 tion, ending with, "The young painter has given proof 
 that he thinks while he labors." 
 
 I well remember attending a lecture given by Haydon 
 in the Suffolk Street Galleries, in which he told us one or 
 two interesting things one on the subject of public criti- 
 cism. Wilkie's first exhibited picture was the "Village 
 Politicians." Haydon, Jackson, and he were intimate 
 friends and fellow-students. On the day after the pri- 
 vate view at the Royal Academy, Haydon having work 
 of his own in the exhibition, "rushed," as he expressed it,
 
 60 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 for the morning papers, where he found a favorable no- 
 tice of Wilkie's " Village Politicians." He " rushed " to 
 Wilkie's modest lodging in Sol's Row, Hampstead Road. 
 He and Jackson tore into the room where Wilkie was at 
 breakfast, and roared: 
 
 " Wilkie, my boy, your name is in the paper !" 
 
 " No ! really . ? " replied Wilkie ; and then the three 
 danced hand-in-hand round the breakfast table. 
 
 Wilkie's "No! really?" became so ludicrously frequent 
 in his conversation that Haydon determined to try to 
 break him of the habit, and in course of a conversation 
 one day in which " No ! really ?" had cropped up with pro- 
 voking frequency, Haydon said: 
 
 " Now, Wilkie, you mustn't mind my telling you of a 
 habit of yours which is causing people to laugh at you. 
 To whatever is said to you, you give but one reply, the 
 two words, ' No! really ?' " 
 
 " No ! really ?" replied Wilkie. 
 
 In this lecture Haydon gave us some advice direct from 
 Vandyke. A very old lady, said he, who had sat for her 
 portrait to Vandyke in her youth, sat to Hudson, Rey- 
 nolds' master, in her old age. She complained of the 
 darkness of her complexion as rendered by Hudson, and 
 told that artist "That Vandyke*s complexions were very 
 different, as much too pale," in her opinion, " as Hudson's 
 were too dark." In passing through Vandyke's gallery at 
 Blackfriars, in which were many pale pictures, she asked 
 "why he had painted with such fresh, pale colors?" 
 
 "Because," said Vandyke, "I have to allow for the 
 darkening effect of time." 
 
 Of the truth of this story there could be no doubt, for 
 Hudson told it to Reynolds; Reynolds to Northcote his 
 pupil; Northcote to Haydon ; and Haydon to us. Poor 
 Haydon! for whose genius I feel great respect, and for 
 whose sad fate profound pity. I knew very little of him 
 personally, but I may tell here of a kind act of encourage- 
 ment to myself. I -had painted and exhibited at the Brit- 
 ish Gallery a little picture of " Dolly Varden " (of which 
 more afterwards, as it was the happy cause of a friendship 
 with Dickens, terminated only by his death); and on going
 
 FIRST ATTEMPTS AT "SUBJECT-PICTURES." 61 
 
 home one afternoon I found my mother in a great state of 
 excitement with an address-card in her hand. She showed 
 it to me without a word, and I read the name of B. R. 
 Haydon. He had left a message with our servant to the 
 effect that he would like to see me, after seeing " Dolly 
 Polly What's-her-name," as he called her, in the exhibi- 
 tion. He wanted to talk to me about the picture, " which 
 you must tell him I admired. Now, you won't forget, 
 there's a good girl." On the following Sunday I pre- 
 sented myself at Haydon's, and found him with two im- 
 mense cartoons before him, intended for the competition 
 for the decoration of the Houses of Parliament. One rep- 
 resented the expulsion from Paradise, the other the en- 
 try of the Black Prince into London, with King John of 
 France as a prisoner. Haydon did not remember my 
 name, and it was not till I mentioned the "Dolly" and his 
 call in Osnaburgh Street that he recovered from his sur- 
 prise at a strange young man calling upon him. He was 
 then most kind, gave me excellent technical advice, and 
 prophesied for me a prosperous career if I could but guard 
 myself against certain pernicious practices, that seemed 
 likely to be as popular then as other dangerous, foolish, 
 and ignorant views of the real end and aim of art are now. 
 I thought the cartoons very fine, and said so. " Glad you 
 like them," said Haydon; and then pointing to a figure of 
 the devil, who was drawn watching the expulsion of Adam 
 and Eve with an awful smile of satisfaction, "That is in- 
 tended for Satan; do you think it like him ?" 
 
 When the time comes for me to notice the cartoon com- 
 petition, I shall have to speak of Haydon again; but now 
 I must return to my own career. In the year 1840 I ex- 
 hibited my first Academy picture; the subject was "Mal- 
 volio, cross-gartered before the Countess Olivia." In the 
 same exhibition was Maclise's picture of the same subject, 
 now in the National Gallery of which it is, I think, an 
 ornament; where mine is, I know not, but it could scarcely 
 be considered an ornament anywhere. 
 
 I had no influence to aid me in getting the picture ex- 
 hibited, but my friend Williamson, the porter, promised 
 to let me know if I were successful, and when a pencil
 
 62 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 note arrived in Osnaburgh Street from the hand of Will- 
 iamson, saying simply, " Sir, you are hung safte" there 
 was joy among the Frith family, and we had oysters for 
 supper. 
 
 With a beating heart I waited for the opening of the 
 exhibition. I went hurriedly through the rooms, and 
 could see nothing of my picture. Presently I saw Will- 
 iamson, who read my anxiety in my face. " You're all 
 right, sir; come here and I'll show you;" and he took me 
 into the Architecture Room, and pointed out Malvolio's 
 yellow stockings at the tip-top of the room. 
 
 Could that dirty-looking thing, that seemed as if ink 
 had been rubbed all over it, be my bright picture ? There 
 was no mistake about that, but how changed ! To the 
 uninitiated it would be impossible to conceive the change 
 that appears to come over a picture when surrounded by 
 others in a public exhibition, and subject to the glare of 
 unaccustomed lights and the glitter of gold frames, with 
 the ruinous reflections from all sides. A story is told of 
 an artist who sent to the Royal Academy a half-length 
 portrait of an admiral; it was his first exhibit, and, being a 
 very excellent picture,, was placed on the line in one of 
 the best rooms, and flanked by pictures of academicians 
 on each side. In early days the royal academicians had 
 varnishing-days, but denied them to outsiders. One of 
 the academicians, who found himself, or rather his pict- 
 ure, to be the immediate neighbor of the admiral, was, or 
 thought he was, terribly damaged by the bright blue coat 
 and realistic gold epaulets of the naval warrior. All his 
 efforts to " paint up " to the destructive picture were un- 
 availing, so he took a full brush of glazing color and toned 
 down the admiral. When the author of that work cast 
 his eyes upon it on the opening day, he exclaimed to a 
 friend, "I have heard of the effect of the exhibition upon 
 pictures, but I will not believe the change in mine is pro- 
 duced in that way. JVb, by Jove! look here ; some of 
 those dashed R.A.'s have been at it! I can see the glaze 
 all over it." A formal complaint was made to the coun- 
 cil; the guilty R.A. acknowledged his crime, was repri- 
 manded, and a by-law was made, ordering that no
 
 FIKST ATTEMPTS AT "SUBJECT-PICTURES." 63 
 
 academician or other exhibitor should, under grievous 
 penalties, dare to paint on anybody's picture but his own. 
 I had never heard of the crime or the order arising out 
 of it until after I was an associate. At the request of 
 my friend Egg I was making some trifling alterations in 
 his picture, when one of the council came to me, and, per- 
 emptorily ordering me to stop, told me the story of " ton- 
 ing down the admiral." 
 
 All this time my profession was not providing me with 
 income enough to " pay for my washing," as my uncle put 
 it. Instead of living to see the days of my success, my 
 father had died before I was heard of as an artist. My 
 aunt, whose sight I must say was somewhat impaired, 
 could see " nothing whatever to admire in your pictures, 
 Master William;" and as to anybody buying one, I had 
 never, up to 1840, received a farthing for any of my 
 pictures. After my Liverpool fifteen -pound triumph, I 
 either gave them away to people who didn't want them, 
 but were too polite to refuse them, or I sold them to 
 people who forgot to pay even the modest sura demanded. 
 
 The " Madge Wildfire " became the property of an artist 
 
 friend, who never paid for it, because, as he said when I 
 
 remonstrated, " I couldn't sell it, and was obliged to 
 
 .change it for a piano for my sister, and the piano hasn't 
 
 got a note to its back." 
 
 The "Malvolio" was bought by a picture-dealer for 
 twenty pounds, and he became a bankrupt immediately 
 afterwards. 
 
 In short, if I hadn't been possessed of a dear old mother 
 who ministered to all my wants, I must have gone auction- 
 eering after all. "And a precious deal better for you, 
 sir," said my uncle, "than this ridiculous business of 
 yours." 
 
 Under these circumstances I thought it very fortunate 
 that I had another call for Lincolnshire portraits. Some 
 of those I had painted on my first visits were thought good 
 likenesses; sufficiently so, at any rate, to induce a demand 
 for more. This time I was more conscientious and care- 
 ful in my work than ever, and the result was a considera- 
 ble improvement all round.
 
 64 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 I found myself employed by a higher class of clients; 
 among them was a fox-hunting squire, a magistrate and a 
 hater of poachers, every one of whom when brought be- 
 fore him he would have hanged if he could. He was a 
 fine-looking old fellow, with a very handsome family of 
 sons and daughters. A domestic trouble had driven his 
 wife, a most lovely creature, away from her home. The 
 story went that she declared with many tears that she was 
 innocent of the sin imputed to her, and on her knees 
 prayed for blindness "if she were false in word or 
 deed." 
 
 The proofs of her guilt, however, were overwhelming, 
 and sbe was sent to Wales, where she lived many years, 
 and became totally blind! She was allowed at last to re- 
 turn and inhabit a little cottage in her husband's park, 
 where her family, now grown up, occasionally visited her, 
 but the squire never. Although she, being sightless, need 
 not have known of his visit, if he had chosen to pay her 
 one, nothing would induce him to go near her. At last 
 the inevitable hour came to her, as it will come to all of 
 us. I had heard she was dangerously ill, and, during one 
 of the last sittings for the portrait, as I was working away, 
 listening to the squire's stories, his eldest son came into 
 our temporary studio with very red eyes, and said some- 
 thing in an undertone to his father. 
 
 "No!" said the old squire, " I will not.?" and the son 
 left the room. 
 
 "Pray don't think of me or the picture, squire," said I. 
 " I have very little to do to finish the sitting, and can do 
 it almost as well without you, if you want " 
 
 " Did you see that boy ?" broke in the squire (the boy 
 was over thirty) ; " he has been crying, a great fellow like 
 that. And for what ? troubling himself about his mother, 
 who has done nothing all her life but trouble us. I go to 
 see her ! I'll see her But there, go on with your work;" 
 and before I had finished my work the poor woman had 
 died without her husband's forgiveness, for which, I was 
 told, she implored with bitter tears. 
 
 Soon after this my second " provincial tour " of portrait- 
 painting came to an end, and again I returned to the little
 
 FIRST ATTEMPTS AT "SUBJECT-PICTURES." 65 
 
 back parlor in Osnaburgh Street, this time determined to 
 rival my artist friends, who were all more or less success- 
 fully engaged in painting subject-pictures, exhibiting them 
 (when or where they could get them admitted), and some- 
 times, though not always, selling them.
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 MY FIRST SUCCESS. 
 
 THE Art Union had been established some little time, 
 and had been the means of assisting many young painters, 
 who without such aid would have been compelled to aban- 
 don their profession. Good and evil are mixed together in 
 all human institutions, and the Art Union of London is an 
 example of the truth of the rule. Subscribers to that lot- 
 tery are allowed to select their picture prizes, and the 
 consequence is that works of indifferent merit are often 
 chosen, and men are encouraged in the pursuit of a.rt who 
 ought never to have studied it at all. So much for the mis- 
 chief of the Art Union. For the other side, instances 
 could be shown of pictures of undoubted merit having 
 escaped from being returned unsold to their producers, by 
 enlightened selectors of Art Union prizes. For example, 
 Maclise's picture of the " Sleeping Beauty " was the chief 
 prize in the year 1 840. My admiration for Maclise, owing 
 much to youthful and, I fear, somewhat mistaken enthusi- 
 asm, scarcely stopped short of worship his power of draw- 
 ing, his prodigality of invention, the facility with which 
 he grouped crowds of figures, and the splendor of imagina- 
 tion displayed in all he did, carried me away captive, and 
 influenced my practice to its detriment. 
 
 Under happier circumstances I have always believed, 
 and still believe, that Maclise would have been one of the 
 greatest artists that ever lived, if his birth had been put 
 back two or three centuries, and he had been coerced as 
 the great masters were, and subjected to a seven years' 
 apprenticeship to one of the old Venetians. Then the re- 
 dundancy of his imagination and the facility with which 
 he produced its images would have been subjected to a 
 discipline that would have enforced a continual study of
 
 MY FIBST SUCCESS. 67 
 
 nature, and a constant copying from it, in everything he 
 would have been permitted to attempt. Instead of such 
 mediaeval training, after a perfunctory education at the 
 Royal Academy, the bright young fellow was left to his 
 own unaided and " Will-o'-the-wisp " efforts. His great 
 natural powers betrayed him ; he painted huge composi- 
 tions of figures without using models. His sense of color, 
 never very strong, was destroyed by his constant indul- 
 gence in the baleful practice of painting without nature 
 before him. His eyes, as he told me himself, saw the mi- 
 nutest details at distances impossible to ordinary vision. 
 He was evidently proud of his eyes, and he indulged them 
 to the utter destruction of " breadth " in his pictures. As 
 to color, he gave it up altogether; and when any reference 
 was made to the old masters or the National Gallery, 
 Maclise expressed his contempt in much the same words 
 as those of another mistaken clever brother R.A., who 
 would " like to burn them all from Moscow to Madrid." 
 
 I would not have attempted this autobiography if I had 
 not possessed myself with the hope of being of service to 
 my young brethren, either in the way of warning from my 
 own mistakes, or from those of others ; and I take Maclise 
 as a specially typical instance of the perversion of remark- 
 able powers. As a man, Maclise, whom I knew well in 
 after-life, was delightful in every way; very handsome in 
 person, and of a generous and noble disposition ; enthusi- 
 astic in his appreciation of contemporary work, free from 
 the slightest taint of envy of others, and universally re- 
 gretted when he died, after having scarcely passed middle 
 life. The last speech Dickens made in public was at the 
 Academy banquet following Maclise's death, when the 
 great writer, in a few pathetic and eloquent words, never 
 to be forgotten lamenting the untimely death of his 
 friend declared his belief, that if, instead of art, literature 
 had been Maclise's aim, a great or greater success than that 
 he had achieved in art would have attended him in letters. 
 
 I have said that my worship of Maclise resulted in some 
 damage to myself. Of course, I copied his faults. His 
 facility of design being beyond my power of imitation, I 
 fell back on his love of detail, and the absence of truth
 
 68 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 and nature in the coloring of his flesh; and these failings 
 I reproduced so successfully as to give me afterwards enor- 
 mous trouble to correct. I remember a young artist friend 
 saying to me: "Maclise is out and away the greatest artist 
 that ever lived. There isn't an old master fit to hold a 
 candle to him; and if I could only get some of his worst 
 qualities into my pictures I should be satisfied." 
 
 I confess I shared those foolish sentiments to a great 
 extent ; but I speedily found out my mistake a condition 
 of mind I heartily desire for some young painters who at 
 this time are worshipping false gods, with bodies of brass 
 and feet of clay; at whose shrine the chief high -priest is a 
 mountebank without the excuse of ignorance or want of 
 capacity to explain the prostitution of talents, if not genius, 
 to purposes so absurd as to make it a world's wonder how 
 any followers of such a craze can exist for a moment. 
 
 Until a young painter finds out his natural bent if he 
 have one he is apt not only to imitate the manner of his 
 favorite artist, but to try to paint similar subjects, illus- 
 trate the same book or poem, or in some way or other fol- 
 low in the revered footsteps. Strong-headed men avoid 
 this pitfall. I fell into it, and when Maclise painted men in 
 armor, I did a man in armor too. Maclise had done a lady 
 in a red jacket taking leave of a knight in armor one of 
 the finest things ever done in the world, I thought and I 
 immediately tried to do something like it. My man was 
 also a knight who, having alighted at an inn for refresh- 
 ment, and finding himself waited upon by a damsel in a red 
 jacket, proceeded to demean himself in a somewhat un- 
 gentlemanly, and therefore unknightly, fashion. He had 
 
 " Carved his meal 
 With gloves of steel," 
 
 and probably taken more Malvoisie than was good for him, 
 and forthwith made desperate love to the maid; who with 
 a smiling countenance listened to his raptures, expressed 
 by a hideous grin on his bearded face, as with one arm 
 round the red waist and the other raised on high, holding 
 the brimming cup, he vowed eternal constancy, or some- 
 thing of the kind. 
 
 I don't know what became of that great work. If the
 
 MY FIRST SUCCESS. 69 
 
 possessor should by chance read these lines, I hope he will 
 be induced to allow me to see my early friend once more. 
 In it I succeeded so well in reproducing nearly all Maclise's 
 worst qualities that a candid friend said on seeing "The 
 Knight and Maid of the Hostelry" as I christened the 
 picture "Hullo! you are coming Maclise over us. I'll 
 tell you what, old fellow, that thing will be sold for a bad 
 Maclise some day, and you will have an action brought 
 against you." 
 
 Armor, with its sheen and glitter, has always been in 
 favor with young painters, either as an important factor 
 in still life, or as an inspiration, often the sole inspiration, 
 in pictures of chivalrous character. I remember one, the 
 production of a young friend of Dickens, of whom I shall 
 have more to say hereafter. The picture represented a 
 very ancient and noble-looking knight, who had sunk down 
 at the foot of an old tree, overcome with the fatigue of 
 his journey from the wars, within what appeared to be 
 easy reach of his castle, the battlements of which were 
 visible among the trees. Some children, also apparently 
 of noble birth his grandchildren, perhaps were timidly 
 offering him some apples, the produce in all probability 
 of the orchard in which the old man was resting. I knew 
 Dickens took great interest in the young artist, and in 
 this his first work, and meeting him one day, I asked his 
 opinion. 
 
 " A capital picture," said Dickens, in his hearty way. 
 "I was delighted to see it. Armor beautifully done. 
 Apples too only I think the old boy was too far gone for 
 apples. It would require burnt brandy, and a good deal 
 of it, to bring him to." 
 
 The year following the exhibition of my "Malvolio" I 
 sent to the Academy a picture from " Kenilworth;" the 
 subject was an interview between Leicester and his Count- 
 ess Amy, when, at the end of one of the wicked earl's 
 stolen visits to Cumnor Place, he is anxious to free himself 
 from the lady's importunity, and in reply to her remon- 
 strance, " Did ever lady with bare foot in slipper seek boon 
 of brave knight, yet return with denial?" he says: "Any- 
 thing, Amy, that thou canst ask I will grant, except that
 
 70 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 which will ruin us both." All this simply because the 
 poor woman desired that her marriage should be no longer 
 kept secret. I had been to Knole House that delightful 
 hunting-ground for artists, now unhappily closed to us 
 and had made studies of King James's bed and other de- 
 tails for my picture, all of which I painted very carefully; 
 and the result was, that as human beings are more difficult 
 to render than chairs and bedsteads, my picture was more 
 admired for the still-life objects than for the living creat- 
 ures. Once more I figured in the Architecture Room, but 
 lower on the wall, and I entirely escaped the notice of both 
 critics and purchasers. What became of my Kenilworth 
 picture, or whether it was sold or given away the latter 
 most likely I cannot remember. 
 
 My delusion with regard to Maclise was soon over, so 
 far as imitation of his manner was concerned; but the ex- 
 ample set by him in illustrating " Gil Bias " and the 
 " Vicar of Wakefield " caused so many Vicars and Gil 
 Biases to blossom on the walls of the exhibitions from the 
 hands of many admirers, that the critics fell foul of us; and 
 Thackeray, who was the critic in Fraser of that day, de- 
 clined to give the name of either Gil Bias or the Vicar in 
 
 full, but always wrote of the latter as the "V r of 
 
 "W d," and warned us that if our servile conduct was 
 
 persevered in, he would never look at pictures of either 
 of those distinguished individuals, much less write about 
 them. 
 
 I now come to what I may call my first success, and the 
 subject was taken from the much-tormented "Vicar of 
 Wakefield," the scene being that in which Mrs. Primrose 
 makes her daughter and Squire Thornhill stand up to- 
 gether to see which is the taller, a transparent device 
 which, as the good old book says, she thought impenetra- 
 ble. To my intense delight this picture was hung upon 
 the line, that envied, coveted position which so many are 
 destined to long for, but never to occupy. I confess I was 
 as much astonished as I was delighted, for I had no inter- 
 est, not knowing a single member of the Academy. 
 
 Acting upon what I thought the wildest advice, I fixed 
 the price of a hundred guineas upon the picture, and it
 
 MY FIRST SUCCESS. 71 
 
 was bought on the Private-View day by an Art Union 
 prize-holder, Mr. Zouch Troughton, who is now my very 
 old friend. My cup was full. 
 
 " Never," said I to an artist friend, who I thought might 
 have congratulated me on my success, " will I be off the 
 line again !" 
 
 " Never be on it again, you mean," was the reply. " And 
 if you will take my advice, you will go as often as you can 
 to the exhibition and enjoy yourself, for you may never 
 have another chance." 
 
 As poor Haydon said to us in his lecture on the subject 
 of Public Criticism, "It is no doubt pleasant to read 
 printed praise attached to your name ; but if you live 
 long enough you will find your name in the papers in a 
 form that will make you wish it out again." 
 
 I was not long in experiencing the truth of this. One 
 criticism on the " Vicar of Wakefield " picture in a lead- 
 ing paper began thus: " Mr. Frith is a rising artist, and he 
 has already risen to the height of affectation," etc., etc. 
 This is all I can remember, but much more of similar 
 severity followed. 
 
 I would here advise all artists, young and old, never 
 to read art criticism. Nothing is to be learned from it. 
 Let me ask any painter if, when he wants advice upon 
 any difficulty in the conduct of his work, he would seek it 
 from an art critic ? No, I reply for him; he would apply 
 to an artist friend. But though, as I believe, no advantage 
 accrues in any case to an artist from public criticism, 
 much undeserved pain is often inflicted, and even injury 
 caused, by the virulent attacks that sometimes disgrace 
 the press. For very many years indeed, ever since I be- 
 came convinced of the profound ignorance of the writers 
 I have never read a word of art criticism. "That ac- 
 counts for your not painting better," I hear the critic say. 
 I think not; but I have no doubt saved myself from a 
 good deal of annoyance. 
 
 I have said before that I believe little or no envy of 
 each other's success exists among artists ; but my friend 
 who prophesied no more " line " space for me was an ex- 
 ception to the rule. If ever there was a disappointed
 
 V2 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 artist he was one, and be candidly showed his disappoint- 
 ment and envy on all available occasions. He was a por- 
 trait-painter, when he could induce anybody to sit to him, 
 and he sometimes painted tolerable portraits; but when 
 they failed he fell foul of Shakespeare and other poets. 
 He once told me of what he called a piece of rudeness 
 offered to him by a sitter, whose portrait was better-look- 
 ing than the original in everybody's eyes but his own. At 
 first the victim refused to pay, but yielded after pressure. 
 He then said to my friend: "Well, loads of my friends 
 have seen my likeness, and they say it is TOLERABLE and 
 it may be; a man can't judge of his own appearance but 
 I bargained for a GOOD picture, not a tolerable picture. 
 Plow would you like a tolerable egg ?" 
 
 I remember walking down Portland Place with my 
 friend, who had suffered from a long interregnum of sit- 
 ters, and, looking up at the statety houses, he said: " There, 
 just look at that place what tremendous rooms there 
 must be in it ! what walls for whole lengths ! And just 
 look at that old fellow coming out there's a picture! 
 and I can't get a single thing to do !" 
 
 There is no doubt that premature success sometimes 
 turns the heads of young artists. Everybody has heard of 
 " Single-speech Hamilton." That orator was a member of 
 Parliament, and once and once only he made a brilliant 
 speech. So remarkable was it, that his elevation to high 
 honor was considered to be assured. Single-picture paint- 
 ers crop up now and then I have seen several examples. 
 
 For myself, I can truly say my success acted as a spur 
 to further exertion, and so sure did I feel that I had a fair 
 field and no favor, that I instantly set about a large com- 
 position, consisting of all, or nearly all, the characters in 
 the " Merry Wives of Windsor," assembled in front of 
 Page's house Falstaff, sweet Anne Page, Slender, and the 
 fat man's followers. Millais sat for me for Mrs. Page's 
 little son, and I thought I was fortunate in realizing many 
 of the characters. The picture was large, elaborately fin- 
 ished, and it went to the Academy, followed by much 
 condemnation from friends, and a good deal of satisfac- 
 tion from myself.
 
 MY FIRST SUCCESS. 73 
 
 None but artists know the dreadful anxiety of those 
 weeks of waiting till the fate of many months of labor is 
 decided. I was anxious enough ; but as I knew I had im- 
 proved, I could not conceive the possibility of one effort 
 being thought worthy of one of the best places in the ex- 
 hibition, and another, after a year's experience, being only 
 thought deserving of the worst. Such, however, was my 
 unhappy fate. In the worst room's worst light hung my 
 unfortunate picture. Very high, opposite the wretched 
 little window of the dreadful Octagon Room, was thought 
 a sufficiently good position for Falstaff and his friends. 
 Again, if I had been quite dependent on my profession 
 for my bread I must have starved, and to this hour I feel 
 I was treated unjustly. 
 
 I well remember dear, kind Etty mounting some steps 
 to look at my work, and when he descended he pressed 
 my hand, and in his gentle voice he said, " Very cruel, 
 very cruel." 
 
 The subsequent fate of the picture should be related. 
 After the close of the R.A. Exhibition I sent it to Liver- 
 pool, where it must have been better seen, for it found a 
 purchaser for a hundred pounds. At my request the 
 owner allowed me to exhibit the picture again in London. 
 At that time the British Institution existed, and it was 
 mostly filled with pictures which had been previously seen 
 at the Academy. 
 
 Without a sanguine expectation of success I sent in my 
 work, and it was hung in a centre place on the line. When 
 I entered the gallery on the varnishing-day, one of the 
 three academicians who had condemned Falstaff to the 
 Octagon Room was looking at my work, and evidently 
 speaking of it to a friend of mine. 
 
 " What does the old wretch say ?" said I, as I drew my 
 friend on one side. 
 
 " Why, he says, if your picture had been in the state it 
 now is, it would have had a first-rate place at the Academy. 
 He says you have worked all over it, and improved it won- 
 derfully." 
 
 " And did you tell him it had never been touched since 
 he murdered it ?" 
 4
 
 74 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND EEMINISCENCES. 
 
 " Yes, I did, and he said he didn't believe a word of 
 that." 
 
 One of the greatest difficulties besetting me has always 
 been the choice of subject. My inclination being strong- 
 ly towards the illustration of modern life, I had read the 
 works of Dickens in the hope of finding material for the 
 exercise of any talent I might possess; but at that time 
 the ugliness of modern dress frightened me, and it was not 
 till the publication of "Barnaby Rudge," and the delight- 
 ful Dolly Varden was presented to us, that I felt uy oppor- 
 tunity had come, with the cherry-colored mantle and the 
 hat and pink ribbons. 
 
 It would be difficult to convey to the p'resent generation 
 the intense delight with which each new work of Dick- 
 ens was received; and I can easily believe the story that 
 was current at the time of the sick man, who, lying as was 
 thought on his death-bed, and listening apparently with be- 
 coming reverence to the warnings of his clergyman, was 
 heard to mutter as the divine left the room, " That's all 
 very well. Thank goodness, a new number of "Pickwick" 
 comes out on "Wednesday." 
 
 I found a capital model for Dolly, and I painted her in 
 a variety of attitudes. First, where she is admiring a 
 bracelet given her by Miss Haredale; then as she leans 
 laughing against a tree; then, again, in an interview with 
 Miss Haredale, where she is the bearer of a letter from that 
 lady's lover; and, again, when on being accused of a pen- 
 chant for Joe, she declares, indignantly, " She hoped she 
 could do better than that, indeed !" 
 
 These pictures easily found purchasers, though for sums 
 small enough. The laughing Dolly, afterwards engraved, 
 became very popular, replicas of it being made for Dickens' 
 friend, John Forster, and others. 
 
 It goes without saying that I had read all that Dickens 
 had written, beginning with the " Sketches by Boz ;" and 
 I can well remember my disappointment when I found 
 that the real name of the author was Dickens. I refused 
 to believe that such a genius could have such a vulgar 
 name; and now what a halo surrounds it ! 
 
 I had never seen the man, who, in my estimation, was,
 
 MY FIRST SUCCESS. 75 
 
 and is, one of the greatest geniuses that ever lived; my 
 sensations therefore may be imagined when I received the 
 following letter: 
 
 " 1 DEVONSHIRE TERRACE, YORK GATE, REGENT'S PARK, 
 
 "November 15, 1842. 
 
 "Mr DEAR SIR, I shall be very glad if you will do me the favor to paint 
 me two little companion pictures ; one a Dolly Vardcn (whom you have BO 
 exquisitely done already), the other, a Kate Nicklcby. 
 
 " Faithfully yours always, CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 "P.S. I take it for granted that the original picture of Dolly with the 
 bracelet is sold." 
 
 My mother and I cried over that letter, and the wonder 
 is that anything is left of it, for I showed it to every friend 
 I had, and was admired and envied by all. 
 
 And now came the fear that I might fail in again satis- 
 fying the author. 
 
 Kate Nickleby, too ! Impossible, perhaps, to please the 
 author of her being with my presentment of her but I 
 must try. And many were the sketches I made, till I 
 fixed upon a scene at Madame Mantalini's where Kate 
 figures as a workwoman the point chosen being at the 
 moment when her thoughts wander from her work, as she 
 sits sewing a ball-dress spread upon her knees. 
 
 Dolly Varden was represented tripping through the 
 woods, and looking back saucily at her lover. 
 
 The pictures were finished, and a letter was written to 
 say so. See me then in hourly and very trembling expec- 
 tation of a visit from a man whom I thought superhuman. 
 A knock at the door. " Come in." Enter a pale young 
 man with long hair, a white hat, a formidable stick in his 
 left hand, and his right extended to me with frank cordi- 
 ality, and a friendly clasp, that never relaxed till the day 
 of his untimely death. 
 
 The pictures were on the easel He sat down before 
 them, and I stood waiting for the verdict in an agony of 
 mind that was soon relieved by his cheery 
 
 " All I can say is, they are exactly what I meant, and I 
 am very much obliged to you for painting them for me." 
 
 I muttered something, and if I didn't look very foolish, 
 my looks belied my sensations.
 
 76 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 " Shall you be at home on Sunday afternoon ? I should 
 like to bring Mrs. Dickens and my sister-in-law to see how 
 well you have done your work. May I ?" 
 
 " By all means. I shall be delighted." 
 
 Sunday came, and Dickens with it. 
 
 I was standing at the house-door, when a carriage driven 
 by " Boz " drove up to it, the bright steel bar in front giv- 
 ing the " turn-out " a very striking appearance to one like 
 myself not at all accustomed to curricles. 'Tis enough to 
 say the ladies approved, and Dickens gave me a check for 
 forty pounds for the two pictures. 
 
 I hope I may be excused for telling in this place that 
 "Dolly" and her companion were sold at Christie's, after 
 Dickens' death, for thirteen hundred guineas. I am ig- 
 norant of the local habitation of either of the pictures at 
 the present time. That " Dolly," quite the best of the 
 series, was never engraved. " Kate Nickleby " was more 
 fortunate. An engraver applied through me to Dickens, 
 who readily consented to part with the picture for a " rea- 
 sonable time." 
 
 It appeared that a difference of opinion existed between 
 Dickens and the engraver as to the meaning of that phrase, 
 for after waiting for his picture for two or three years, I 
 received from Dickens the following evidence that his pa- 
 tience was becoming exhausted: 
 
 " Advertisement. 
 
 " To K e N y (the young lady in black). 
 
 " K N , if you will return to your disconsolate friends in 
 
 Devonshire Terrace, your absence in Ireland will be forgotten and for- 
 given, and you will be received with open arms. Think of your dear 
 sister, Dolly, and how altered her appearance and character are without 
 you ! She is not the same girl. Think, too, of the author of your being, 
 and what he must feel when he sees your place empty every day ! 
 " October 10, 1848." 
 
 The reading of Dickens' works has no doubt engen- 
 dered a love for the writer in thousands of hearts. How 
 that affection would have been increased could his readers 
 have had personal- knowledge of the man, can only be 
 known to those who, like myself, had the happiness of his 
 intimate acquaintance.
 
 MY FIRST SUCCESS. 77 
 
 Of Dickens' great rival, Thackeray, I had but slight 
 knowledge, only, indeed, sufficient to prejudice me strongly, 
 and I have no doubt foolishly, against him. Under his 
 pseudonym of Michael Angelo Titmarsb, Thackeray had 
 written a charming criticism of a picture of mine in Fra- 
 ser's Magazine, and as he had already given sufficient 
 proof in literary work that he was a giant among men, I 
 was very curious to see him, and, if possible, to make his 
 acquaintance. Between forty and fifty years ago a club 
 called " The Deanery " existed in Dean Street, Soho, the 
 members being chiefly literary men, artists, lawyers, and 
 such like, with a sprinkling of men of no special mark. 
 Among the latter was a friend of my own, who invited 
 me to dine with him on an evening when Thackeray was 
 pretty sure to be at the club. My friend expressed his 
 regret that the man I so much desired to see was not in 
 the dining-room, but he had little doubt of our finding 
 him afterwards in the smoking-room, to which we ad- 
 journed later in the evening. I may startle some of my 
 acquaintance by declaring that I am, and always have 
 been, a highly nervous, retiring, and modest person in- 
 deed, I often regret my timidity and if I had been more 
 impudent and self-assertive I should have been more suc- 
 cessfuT in the world. Like a wicked old lady, a friend of 
 Mulready's, who assured him, when drawing very near 
 the close of an erratic life, that if she had "only been 
 virtuous it would have been pounds and pounds in her 
 pocket !" I feel that though I might not have been more 
 virtuous I should have been more prosperous, if a kind of 
 panic, created by a knowledge of my ova shortcomings, 
 had not so often made me dumb when I ought to have 
 been more self-assertive. 
 
 My friend and I entered the Deanery smoking-room 
 and found a very convivial party ; all intimately ac- 
 quainted, seemingly, listening to a song from a gentle- 
 man called Mahony, who, under the name of Father Prout, 
 had made himself somewhat celebrated. By his side sat 
 a big man, to whom I was introduced, and I had the honor 
 of a hand-shake by the great Thackeray. I was very 
 young at the time, although I had just been elected an
 
 78 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 associate of the Academy, and I sat in a\ve-struck silence 
 listening to the brilliant talk of those men. Some one 
 called on Thackeray for a song, and he instantly struck 
 up one of his own writing, as I was told. I forget the 
 words, but I remember two individuals Gorging Jack 
 and Guzzling Jimmy who seemed to be the presiding 
 geniuses of it. No sooner had the applause accorded to 
 it subsided, than Thackeray turned to me and said, "Now 
 then, Frith, you d d saturnine young Academician, sing 
 us a song!" 
 
 I was dumb before this address, and far too confounded 
 to say anything in reply. Encouraged, perhaps, by my 
 proving myself such an easy butt, the attack was renewed 
 a little later in the evening : " I'll tell you what it is, Frith, 
 you had better go home ; your aunt is sitting up for you 
 with a big muffin." Again I was paralyzed, and shortly 
 after I went home. 
 
 After this I contented myself with admiration for the 
 works of the great author, without feeling any desire for 
 a more intimate acquaintance with the man. Of course, 
 I often met Thackeray afterwards, but I never gave him 
 an opportunity for renewing his playful attacks. I know 
 very well that Thackeray was much beloved by those who 
 knew him intimately, and I have often been abused by 
 some of his friends (notably by dear Leech) for rny ab- 
 surd anger at what was meant for a joke; but I submit 
 that such attacks on an inoffensive stranger were very 
 poor jokes, and even after the long lapse of time I feel 
 humiliated and pained in recalling them. 
 
 The very nature of an autobiography entails upon the 
 writer such a constant use of the first person singular as 
 to make his performance egotistical in the extreme, and 
 though I hope, in the course of my narrative, I shall have 
 a good deal to say of other people, I must, perforce, talk 
 much of myself and my own doings. 
 
 To resume, then. I felt my banishment to the Octagon 
 Room (a detestable closet, still to be seen at the National 
 Gallery in Trafalgar Square) so keenly, that a kind of de- 
 spair seized me, and I adopted the advice of my friends 
 and started for a trip up the Rhine with my friend Egg,
 
 MY FIRST SUCCESS. 79 
 
 taking Antwerp and Brussels en route to Cologne, pausing 
 at the former places, where we expected to find some of 
 the art-treasures of the world. Our anticipations were 
 fully realized, but I shall say little about them in this 
 place, for a second visit was made to the country of the 
 great Dutch and Flemish painters some years later (a full 
 account of which will be found in the succeeding pages 
 of these reminiscences), when I found that several years' 
 study had enabled me better to appreciate the powers of 
 great artists. 
 
 At Antwerp, Rubens is seen in all his glory. A terri- 
 ble sense of inferiority takes possession of all sensible 
 painters on seeing the works of the greatest men. To 
 approach them, much less rival them, seems utterly hope- 
 less. This depressing feeling has to be subdued; and then 
 a reverent study of the methods and principles displayed 
 in immortal works will improve all who study them with 
 intelligence. Mere copying is of little service, as it is 
 generally to use Sir Joshua's words but " industrious 
 idleness." 
 
 At the time of which I am speaking, the modern exhi- 
 bition in Paris, now called the Salon, took place in the 
 Louvre; the modern pictures being hung in front of the 
 old masters. The admirable drawing and, in many in- 
 stances, the great beauty and careful finish of the pict- 
 ures by some of the best French painters who in those 
 days exhibited among their less eminent brethren in- 
 spired me with a determination to go home and "do like- 
 wise." On my return, I began another composition from 
 the tabooed " Vicar of Wakefield," the subject being 
 "Thornhill relating his London adventures to the Vicar's 
 family," and a smaller picture of " Knox reproving Mary 
 Queen of Scots." The " Vicar" again took his place upon 
 the line, the "Knox" was a little below it, but in an ex- 
 cellent position; so, in spite of ray friend's prediction, I 
 was again on the line, and for the last eight-and -forty 
 years I have never been off it. In the same exhibition 
 with my "Vicar of Wakefield" and "John Knox" was 
 another subject from the "Vicar," and another "John 
 Knox;" the former being an exquisite picture called the
 
 80 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 " Whistonian Controversy" (by Mulready), and the other, 
 " Knox Reproving the Ladies of Queen Mary's Court" 
 (by Chalon). Thereby hangs a tale. 
 
 In the following summer, but while the exhibition was 
 still open, I was sketching in Stoke Pogeis Churchyard. 
 This place, being the supposed scene of Gray's " Elegy," 
 and the burial-place of the poet, is much frequented by 
 tourists; and one day when I was far advanced with an 
 oil-sketch of the ivy-covered church, a gentleman and 
 some ladies, after admiring the church, marched across 
 the graves and began to admire my representation of it. 
 The gentleman, who was what is called a " languid swell," 
 with Dundreary whiskers and a fashionable drawl, thus 
 addressed me: 
 
 " How very charming ! Look," he said to his lady 
 friends, "how delightfully the ivy is touched in !" And 
 then, again addressing himself to me, he said : " I feel 
 sure an artist who paints so well must be an exhibitor at 
 the Royal Academy. May I ask if I am right ?" 
 
 " Quite right," said I. 
 
 Then he said, in tones of affected apology: 
 
 " May I ask if you exhibit this year in the exhibition 
 now open ?" 
 
 " Yes ; I have two pictures in the exhibition." 
 
 " Then I must have seen them, of course ; would you 
 mind naming the subjects ?" 
 
 " Well, one is taken from the ' Vicar of Wakefield,' and 
 the other " but before I could say another word I was 
 stopped by a loud exclamation of delight at his having 
 the honor of speaking to the painter of the "Whistonian 
 Controversy." 
 
 " You remember that splendid work, dear Miss Some- 
 thing-or-other the obstinacy of the Vicar's opponent so 
 wonderfully done," etc., etc. 
 
 I allowed him to exhaust himself with admiration, and 
 then quietly told him he had made a mistake, and that 
 the " Whistonian Controversy" was by Mulready, R.A. 
 
 " But I understood you to say that your picture is from 
 the ' Vicar of Wakefield ?' " 
 
 " So it is, but from quite another part of the book. My
 
 MY FIRST SUCCESS. 81 
 
 picture represents Squire Thornhill relating his town ad- 
 ventures to the Vicar's family." 
 
 " Ha ! oh yes dear me -well now, I can't remember 
 seeing that. Did you see what this gentleman describes, 
 Miss So-and-so?" 
 
 " No ; we must have missed it somehow." 
 
 " And the second picture," said the gentleman, " you 
 were so kind as to er?" 
 
 " The second," said I, " was John Knox and " 
 
 " Oh !" exclaimed one of the ladies, " we saw that, and 
 thought it so beautiful !" 
 
 " Yes," said the gentleman, apparently quite relieved 
 and delighted to find that he had seen one of my works 
 at any rate. " It is, indeed, a charming picture. You 
 remember," turning to his friends, " how lovely we thought 
 the dancing ladies, contrasting so admirably with the im- 
 posing figure of Knox. Sir, I must congratulate you on 
 producing so great a work." 
 
 " I am really sorry," said I, "but you are wrong again; 
 the 'Knox' you speak of is painted by Chalon, R.A." 
 Again I described my own picture, and again the party 
 had to confess that by some strange mischance they had 
 overlooked my second contribution to the exhibition as 
 completely as they had the first. 
 
 The party took their leave of me, determined at least, 
 so they said to go again to Trafalgar Square on purpose 
 to see works which they really could not forgive them- 
 selves for having so stupidly missed. 
 4*
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 ELECTED AN ASSOCIATE. 
 
 A GREAT change has taken place since the year 1844, 
 when such men as Sheepshanks, Vernon, Miller, Gibbons, 
 and others were collecting works of modern art, influenced 
 by the love of it, and not by the notion of investment so 
 common in the last few years. Prominent among the 
 former class of purchasers was Mr. Gibbons, a Birming- 
 ham banker, whose acquaintance I made through the ex- 
 hibition of two pictures at the annual exhibition in that 
 town. On finding that both were sold, Mr. Gibbons com- 
 missioned me to paint him some subject from Sterne or 
 Goldsmith, and I suggested for illustration the well-known 
 verse in the " Deserted Village," which describes the vil- 
 lage parson leaving his church, when 
 
 " Children followed with endearing wile, 
 And pluck'd his gown to share the good man's smile." 
 
 The scene is in the churchyard, and many peasants and 
 their wives crowd round the clergyman, making a very 
 elaborate composition. The price of the picture was fixed 
 at two hundred pounds, a larger sum than I had received 
 for any picture at that time. Mr. Gibbons was an elderly 
 man in delicate health, with a great love of art, and very 
 considerable knowledge of it; in fact, a polished, well- 
 educated gentleman. He came to live in London, and 
 watched the progress of the " Village Pastor " with very 
 intelligent and, to me, most agreeable interest. If he dis- 
 approved of any detail he would " hint the fault and hesi- 
 tate dislike," always in the kindest spirit, and I generally 
 found his criticism serviceable. 
 
 The work advanced rapidly and I thought successfully, 
 and in due time made its appearance in Trafalgar Square, 
 where it was among the fortunate " liners."
 
 ELECTED AN ASSOCIATE. 83 
 
 I had not long made the acquaintance of one of the 
 most delightful of English landscape-painters, and meet- 
 ing him in the exhibition, he advised me to put my name 
 down for the degree of associate, an honor already in his 
 own possession. I well remember what wild folly the 
 idea seemed to me, and said: 
 
 "You are surely joking ; what chance have I of being 
 made an associate ?" 
 
 " Not any," said he ; " but I would advise you to put 
 down your name, so as to familiarize the Royal Academi- 
 cians with it." 
 
 "No, no!" said I; "it's too absurd." 
 
 " Well, then, I will do it for you," said Creswick, and 
 it was well for me he did. 
 
 The " Village Pastor " made a favorable impression on 
 the public generally, and many were the compliments I 
 received from the source most valued, namely, my brother 
 artists. 
 
 When an election takes place of either associate or 
 academican, great is the excitement among the aspirants ; 
 and rare, indeed, is it that the day of election is unknown 
 to any of those whose names are on the list from which 
 the choice is to be made. I can most truly say I was one 
 of the ignorant, for though Creswick had said he would 
 put down my name, I never gave the matter another 
 thought, so impossible did it seem to me that a very 
 young man who was but just before the public, not hav- 
 ing exhibited more than two or three pictures that had at- 
 tracted any notice should have the remotest chance of 
 success in the election for which I thought there must be 
 many more worthy candidates. 
 
 My profound astonishment, therefore, may be imagined 
 when one of the Academy porters, my old friend William- 
 son, called to tell me that I was made what he called " a 
 A.R.A." It could not be it was not to be believed. 
 
 " If this is a joke, Williamson," said I, feeling myself 
 turn very pale, " it is not a kind one." 
 
 " Joke, sir! Lord bless you, you was elected all right 
 night before last. I thought you must have heerd on it." 
 
 I think the porter had my diploma signed by Turner,
 
 84 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 pro president, with Howard's name as secretary attached 
 to it which he handed to me from a portfolio, but I am 
 not certain of that particular ; but what I am quite sure 
 of is, that in a few hours it was in my possession, making 
 " assurance doubly sure." 
 
 It was a custom at that time for all newly-elected mem- 
 bers to call upon the academicians to make the acquaint- 
 ance of those august individuals, and to respectfully thank 
 them for what was, in many instances, imaginary support. 
 This ceremony has not fallen into complete desuetude; 
 but its observance has occasionally led to embarrassment, 
 and much discomfort, to the newly-fledged associate. It 
 could not be pleasant, for instance, for a painter of great 
 ability, whose pictures had been the " observed of all ob- 
 servers " for some years, to be received by an old acade- 
 mician in the following fashion : " Yes, there was an 
 election last night I know, but I couldn't go; my doctor 
 won't let me go out at night. Ah! things are so altered; 
 my old friends are all gone. Well, I suppose I must con- 
 gratulate you. You are an architect, ain't you ?" 
 
 For myself, I had little to complain of; I had heard of 
 the danger of " thanking people for assistance that might 
 not have been afforded," and I therefore confined myself 
 to a few platitudes about "being unworthy of the honor, 
 but determined to prove my devotion to the interests of 
 art and the Academy," etc. One candid old gentleman, 
 who told me he had known Sir Joshua Reynolds, imme- 
 diately denied all complicity in my election. "Not, my 
 dear young man, that you may not deserve your good- 
 fortune I cannot say, for I have never seen any of your 
 work." Many of the Forty were either from home, or pre- 
 tended to be; but I caught Mr. H. W. Pickersgill, the well- 
 known and accomplished portrait-painter of that period, 
 and who then lived in Soho Square. He received me very 
 kindly, and in the middle of an eloquent exhortation as to 
 my future conduct, Mrs. Pickersgill entered the room. She 
 was a very handsome old lady, with a ravishing smile 
 and beautiful teeth so wonderfully beautiful as to raise 
 doubts as to their origin. I was instantly introduced to 
 her.
 
 ELECTED AN ASSOCIATE. 85 
 
 " This young gentleman, my dear, is Mr. Frith." 
 
 " Well," said Mrs. Pickersgill. 
 
 " Mr. Frith, ray dear, was elected an associate of the 
 Royal Academy the other evening." 
 
 " TPe//," replied the lady, " he is no better for that." 
 
 My election found me at work upon two pictures : one 
 being an illustration of Moliere's " Bourgeois Gentil- 
 homme," a commission from Mr. Gibbons; the other a 
 scene from Gray's "Elegy," which was also a commission 
 from Mr. Farrer, a Avell-known picture-dealer and connois- 
 seur of that day. I think neither of these pictures fulfilled 
 the expectations raised by the " Village Pastor," either in 
 my friends or myself; and I felt the imperative necessity 
 of immediately embarking on some subject of such im- 
 portance as should justify my election, by the manner in 
 which I should execute the work. 
 
 In the meantime I attended my first banquet at the 
 Royal Academy. The great dinner that takes place be- 
 fore the opening of the exhibition is generally considered 
 the public dinner of the year, and when it is understood 
 that those eligible to take part in that remarkable gather- 
 ing must either be persons of exalted rank, or great as 
 statesmen, military or naval heroes, ecclesiastical or legal 
 dignitaries, or eminent professors of science or literature 
 or (if last, by no means least) well-known patrons of art, 
 it is evident that an assemblage almost unique must be 
 the result. 
 
 It has been my good-fortune to assist at a great many 
 Academy banquets, but the first dwells still vividly in my 
 memory. Sir Martin Shoe, the then president, took the 
 chair ; with the great Duke of Wellington on his left, 
 some royal prince or duke on his right. The tables were 
 filled with distinguished persons, whose names were, of 
 course, familiar to me, and whose personal appearance I 
 was curious to become acquainted with, for in those days 
 photography did not make known to us, as it does now, 
 the faces and figures of nearly every celebrity. The as- 
 sembling of the guests among the pictures before the din- 
 ner was therefore watched with intense interest. 
 
 On this occasion political animosity seemed to sleep. I
 
 86 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 saw the prime-minister in friendly talk with the leader of 
 the opposition; well-known political antagonists of less 
 prominence chatted together. The Duke of Wellington, 
 catalogue in hand, was examining a picture, when the 
 Marquis of Anglesey, lame from the loss of his leg at 
 Waterloo, tapped him on the shoulder. Black -silk 
 breeches were occasionally worn at that time, and Sir 
 Martin Archer Shee, Sir Robert Peel, and several others 
 adopted the style of dress then fast dying out, but one 
 far more becoming than the trouser fashion that succeed- 
 ed it. 
 
 As the youngest member, I was placed very properly in 
 the worst position at the dinner-table, close to the door, 
 through which a cruel draught played ever and anon upon 
 me. But little did I think of such a drawback when, after 
 the toast of " The Army and Navy," the great duke rose 
 to reply. I can see him now, the gray head bent, in ac- 
 knowledgment of the thunder of applause that greeted 
 him, the broad blue ribbon of the Garter across the white 
 waistcoat, and then the thin, piping voice in which, in a 
 few well-chosen words, he replied to the toast. Other 
 speakers there were, of course, more to the manner born; 
 but none interested me like the " Prince of Waterloo." 
 
 The banquet took place in the large room of the pres- 
 ent National Gallery nearest to St. Martin's Church at 
 that time in possession of the Royal Academy. The prin- 
 cipal table, from which branch tables were projected, was 
 placed round the room, leaving space between it and the 
 pictures for the service of the dinner, and for the guests 
 if they were so minded to examine the pictures. I be- 
 lieve it is pretty well known that the great duke had no 
 sympathy with poetry or poets, and not unfrequently ex- 
 pressed his contempt for both. No wonder, then, that 
 quotations from the famous manuscript poem, called the 
 " Fallacies of Hope " (a work presumed to be the off- 
 spring of Turner's muse, and quotations from which were 
 appended to every picture he exhibited), puzzled the duke, 
 as they did everybody else. An academician, after try- 
 ing in vain to comprehend one of them, declared it was all 
 "fallacy and no hope." It was my lot to hear another
 
 ELECTED AN ASSOCIATE. 87 
 
 comment, from no less a person than the duke himself. 
 I was walking round the tables, reading the names of the 
 intended diners, when I suddenly came upon the Duke of 
 Wellington, who was standing in such a position between 
 the table and the pictures as to leave no space for me to 
 pass behind him, and I refrained from passing in front. 
 
 The picture he was studying was called " Rain, Steam, 
 and Speed," a rather eccentric representation of a train in 
 full speed on the Great Western Railway. Unperceived, 
 I watched the duke's puzzled expression as he read the 
 quotation from the " Fallacies of Hope." He then looked 
 steadily at the picture, and with a muttered "Ah! poetry!" 
 walked on. 
 
 Dickens, Thackeray, Macready, and Rogers were guests 
 upon the occasion of my first appearance at the Academy 
 banquet. I saw Rogers descend the stairs leaning on 
 Dickens' arm, a support much needed for a man who was 
 "so old," as Maclise said, "that Death seemed to have 
 forgotten him." 
 
 It was on that occasion also, I think, that Thackeray, on 
 returning thanks for literature, spoke of his own early de- 
 sire to be a painter, and his disappointment when, on taking 
 some sketches to Dickens in the hope of being employed 
 to illustrate one of his books, the great novelist " declined 
 his contributions with thanks." 
 
 There were some pictures in the exhibition illustrating 
 " Dombey and Son;" I told Dickens of them. " Yes," he 
 said, "I know there are; just go and see them, and tell 
 me what they are like. I don't like to be caught looking 
 at them myself."
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 THE "OLD ENGLISH MERBY-MAKING." 
 
 THOUGH my Moliere picture was not a sufficient im- 
 provement upon my previous work to add anything to my 
 reputation, it took the fancy of an eccentric gentleman 
 who successfully tempted Mr. Gibbons its first purchaser 
 to part with it, by offering him just three times the 
 sum he had paid for it. I must add that, out of this 
 tempting profit, Mr. Gibbons made me a present of fifty 
 guineas. 
 
 The other and still more inferior picture met with a 
 somewhat similar success, without any participation in the 
 profit by me. In the hope that the future would prove 
 that I had only receded in order to make a longer jump, I 
 immediately embarked on a large composition of an " Eng- 
 lish Village Festival" eventually christened "An Old 
 English Merry-making," now pretty well known through 
 a very beautiful engraving of it, executed by William 
 Holl. A large oak-tree occupies the centre of the picture; 
 lovers and dancers amuse themselves in its " checkered 
 shade." An old man is dragged by his children towards 
 the dancers, in spite of his evident protest " that his danc- 
 ing-days are over." Gypsy fortune-tellers and peasantry 
 playing bowls or drinking complete the scene. I put no 
 trust in fancy for the smallest detail of the picture. The 
 oak-tree is a portrait of a patriarch of Windsor Forest, 
 whom I recognized the other day unchanged in the slight- 
 est degree; could the tree have seen me, I am sure he 
 would not have known me again. It may be as justly 
 said of old oaks as Wilkie's monk said of the pictorial 
 treasures of his monastery, " They are the substance, and 
 we are the shadows." The cottages are studies from nat- 
 ure, and every figure in the picture is more or less a por-
 
 THE "OLD ENGLISH MEBBY-MAKING." 89 
 
 trait of the model who sat for it. The old woman sitting 
 at the tea-table by the cottage-door was a Mrs. King, who 
 followed the respectable calling of a washerwoman. She 
 was "no scholar," and hearing me repeat some lines one 
 day when she was sitting, she said, 
 
 "Them's beautiful words." 
 
 "I should rather think they are; why, they are Shake- 
 speare's." Then, seeing that she did not seem much wiser 
 by the information, I said, "You know who Shakespeare 
 was, don't you ?" 
 
 " Yes, sir " then, after a pause " he was something in 
 your line, wasn't he ?" 
 
 With the exception of the old gypsy who is telling the 
 fortune of a young person on the left of the composition, 
 I had not much difficulty in finding appropriate models. 
 I used my wife's sisters and some friends rather remorse- 
 lessly, but, I think, with good effect. 
 
 I found an old gypsy in the street, and stopped her. 
 She had something to sell I forget what and I offered 
 to be a purchaser, but she must deliver the goods at my 
 house. She came, accompanied by a small gypsy grand- 
 daughter. The articles were chosen and paid for. 
 
 "Now, good lady and gentleman, let the old gypsy tell 
 your fortunes." 
 
 " After a while," said I, and I then proceeded to disclose 
 my purpose. The old woman thought I must be joking. 
 Who could want a likeness of her ? If it had been " a 
 long time back" it would have been different; she wasn't 
 bad-looking then, and so on. " Well," said I, " come into 
 my studio, and I will explain matters to you." In one 
 corner of the painting-room stood a full suit of armor 
 helmet, plume, and lance. The lay-figure, also, was in full 
 evidence, unfortunately. "Here you are look!" said I, 
 showing her the picture; "this is a gypsy telling the fort- 
 une of this young maiden; and what I want is Hear- 
 ing a rustling behind me, I turned round, and saw the old 
 woman in full retreat towards the door, walking back- 
 wards as if in the presence of royalty, her eyes fixed with 
 a terrified stare on the man in armor. " W'hat's the mat- 
 ter?" said I. "Don't be foolish ; that is not a man, it's
 
 90 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 only a suit of armor; there's nothing to be frightened 
 at." 
 
 At that moment she bumped against the door, turned 
 and opened it, and fled up the street, the little girl (her 
 granddaughter) after her, as terrified as herself. Fortu- 
 nately her address had been secured, and after many vis- 
 its, munificent offers of reward, and incredible difficulty, 
 she was induced to sit, but only on the understanding that 
 "the steel man and the other horrid thing" were banished 
 from the studio. 
 
 Having had very little practice in landscape-painting, I 
 found great difficulty in the background of the picture. 
 The large tree I managed pretty well, having made a 
 careful study of it; but the bits of distance and the grass 
 and sky bothered me terribly. Ores wick, who had be- 
 come my intimate friend and who was good-nature per- 
 sonified offered to mend the distance for me, and the re- 
 sult of his doing so was very satisfactory. 
 
 When the picture was shown (according to a custom 
 common to the present time witness "Show Sunday") 
 to many of my friends and others whom I scarcely knew, 
 Mr. Creswick came among the rest, and went close to the 
 picture to see how his work had prospered, when a man 
 near him said, sotto voce, pointing to Creswick's own touch- 
 es, " What a pity it is, Mr. Creswick, that these figure- 
 painters don't study landscape more! Look how bad 
 that is!" 
 
 Though my own ignorance of architecture, of animal 
 life, and of landscape has on several occasions forced me 
 to seek the assistance of my friends, I have always done 
 so with great regret and a sense of humiliation; and I 
 would strongly advise any youngster who may read this 
 to provide himself in early life with the knowledge which 
 I neglected to obtain. And I hope that supposititious per- 
 sonage will, at the same time, bear in mind that he must 
 be as determined as I was to do nothing from fancy, but 
 " seek until he finds " the object, dead or living, required 
 for his work. I have never forgotten a conversation be- 
 tween two students who were drawing behind me in the 
 Antique School of the Academy. Said one to the other,
 
 THE " OLD ENGLISH MERBY-MAKIXG." 91 
 
 " Who did you get to sit for Nell Gwynne in your pict- 
 ure of Charles II. and that lady ?" 
 
 "Miss Truman," said his friend. "You know her? 
 Sits in the Life. A doosid good model." 
 
 "Yes, I know her," said the questioner. "Thought 
 you'd had her. More like her than Nell Gwynne, ain't it ? 
 And the king who sat for him ?" 
 
 " Oh," was the reply, in a rather conceited tone, " I did 
 him from nothing." 
 
 "And you've made him very like," said the candid 
 friend. 
 
 The "Old English Merry-making" was hung in one of 
 the angles of the middle room in Trafalgar Square, and 
 was very successful. Previous to its going to the exhibi- 
 tion it was sold to a picture-dealer for three hundred and 
 fifty pounds; since then it has changed hands many times, 
 and is now an heirloom in a large collection in the north. 
 If I were to repeat some of the flattering things that were 
 said of my work I should lay myself open to the charge of 
 a performance on my own trumpet a proceeding very 
 foreign to my disposition and if I mention one instance 
 of generous praise it is more for the purpose of opposing 
 a common error into which those who knew little or noth- 
 ing of the great Turner were in the habit of falling. I 
 have heard him described as surly, miserly, and ill-nat- 
 ured; as a man who never said an encouraging word to 
 young men, and who was always a severe critic. I know 
 nothing of the truth or falsehood of the miserly charge; 
 but I do know that Turner's treatment of young men and 
 his kindness in expressing his opinion of all contemporary 
 work were in exact opposition to the general notion of his 
 disposition. When the "Merry-making" was being ex- 
 hibited I was one of a large party at dinner at Vice-chan- 
 cellor Sir James Wigram's. All present were older and 
 superior to myself, and I was startled out of my usual 
 silence by Lee, R.A., who called to me from the other end 
 of the table, asking if I knew what Turner had said of my 
 picture. 
 
 " No, sir," said I, feeling myself turn red and pale alter- 
 nately.
 
 92 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 "He says it is beautifully drawn, well composed, and 
 well colored." 
 
 It is perfectly well known that the severest criticism 
 Turner was ever heard to make was upon a landscape of a 
 brother academician whose works sometimes showed signs 
 of weakness. Turner joined a group who were discussing 
 a certain picture's shortcomings, and, after hearing much 
 unpleasant remark, from which he dissented, he was forced 
 to confess that a very bad passage in the picture, to which 
 malcontents drew his attention, "was a poor bit." 
 
 If I write anything in these pages that I cannot vouch 
 for I always warn my readers; and I am not certain wheth- 
 er Turner said to the gentleman who is usually called the 
 great art critic, "My dear sir, if you only knew how diffi- 
 cult it is to paint even a decent picture, you would not say 
 the severe things you do of those who/27." But this was 
 attributed to him. 
 
 Another story of the great art critic is to the following 
 effect: In the exercise of his high calling, friendship for a 
 painter was not permitted to bias the critic's judgment of 
 his pictures; and though David Roberts, R.A., was the 
 intimate personal friend of the critic, his works found so 
 little favor with the brilliant writer that, in one of the an- 
 nual notices of the exhibition, they received a very savage 
 castigation. Feeling, perhaps, that Roberts might find it 
 difficult to reconcile an attempt to do him a serious injury 
 with the usual interpretation of the term friendship, the 
 critic wrote a private note to the artist, explaining his ac- 
 tion on the hypothesis of a self-imposed duty to the public, 
 and concluded his note by the expression of a hope that 
 severe criticism would not interfere with the sincere feel- 
 ing of friendship which the writer hoped would always 
 exist, etc. To this Roberts replied, that the first time he 
 met the critic he would give him a sound thrashing and 
 he ventured to " hope that a broken head would not inter- 
 fere with the sincere feeling of friendship which he hoped 
 would ever exist," etc. 
 
 When Turner overpraised my picture I had never spoken 
 to him, and had seen him only on the varnishing-days at 
 the Academy. At that time they extended generally to
 
 TUB "OLD ENGLISH MEBRY-MAKING." 93 
 
 nearly a week, luncheon being served daily in the council- 
 room. Upon my first attending those luncheons they were 
 but slightly inferior in interest to the banquet to me, for I 
 saw gathered round the table the greatest artists of the 
 country, venerable figures most of them; in my eyes an 
 assembly of gods. To listen to the talk of such men, to 
 smile at their jokes, though never to presume to join in 
 their conversation, was happiness enough for me. I can't 
 say I find associates so modest in these days; no doubt 
 they have less reason for diffidence than I. As each, to 
 me, strange face joined the table, Creswick, or Edwin 
 Landseer who had introduced himself to me told me 
 the name of its owner, and in this way I made my first 
 acquaintance with the outward and visible forms of the 
 academicians. 
 
 On one occasion the luncheon was half over, when a 
 new-comer arrived in a condition of considerable excite- 
 ment. 
 
 " Why, Reinagle," said Turner, as the late arrival pre- 
 pared to take a seat by the great landscape-painter, 
 " where have you been ? You were not in the rooms this 
 morning." 
 
 " Heen, sir ?" said Reinagle (who was what is vulgarly 
 called " half-cracked ") ; " I have been in the City. I have 
 invented a railway to go up and down Cheapside. Omni- 
 buses will be done away with. I shall make millions, and" 
 looking round the table " I will give you all commis- 
 sions." Thou, looking aside at Turner, who sat next to 
 him, "And I will give you a commission if you will tell 
 me which way to hang the picture up when I get it." 
 
 "You may hang it just as you please," said Turner, "if 
 you only pay for it." 
 
 Turner's extraordinary knowledge made him an admira- 
 ble critic, though, as I said before, never a severe or un- 
 kind one; and he was always ready to share his knowl- 
 edge with those who could profit by it. After he had 
 said to me more than once, " Now, young gentleman, a 
 glass of brown sherry " people took wine with one an- 
 other in those days I ventured upon enough familiarity 
 to ask him to look at my pictures, and many a time I have
 
 94 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 benefited by his wonderful knowledge of light and shade; 
 and though I confess the drawing of the figures in his pict- 
 ures is often funny enough, he was quick to see and point 
 out errors in the action and drawing of mine, and more 
 than once he has taken his brush and corrected a piece of 
 foreshortening that had mastered me. 
 
 Turner was, without doubt, the greatest landscape- 
 painter that ever lived ; but so mysterious were some of 
 his last productions, so utterly unlike nature, to my eyes, 
 that I should almost be inclined to agree with Reinagle, 
 that they would look as well the wrong way up as the 
 right way. Strange as it may sound, it is absolutely true 
 that I have heard Turner ridicule some of his own later 
 works quite as skilfully as the newspapers did. For ex- 
 ample, at a dinner when I was present, a salad was offered 
 to Turner, who called the attention of his neighbor at the 
 table (Jones Lloyd, afterwards Lord Overstone) to it in 
 the following words : "Nice cool green that lettuce, isn't 
 it? and the beetroot pretty red not quite strong enough ; 
 and the mixture, delicate tint of yellow that. Add some 
 mustard, and then you have one of my pictures." It was, 
 and always will be, a puzzle to me how a man whose ear- 
 lier works are the wonder and admiration of all who see 
 them, could have reconciled himself to the production of 
 beautiful phantasmagoria, representing nothing in the 
 "heavens above, or on the earth beneath." And what is 
 still more wonderful is that people can be found to admire 
 and buy them at such enormous prices. 
 
 An erroneous notion prevailed that Turner occasionally 
 had painted the whole of some of his pictures during var- 
 nishing-days. To those who know anything of the time 
 required to produce a picture the idea is absurd ; but I 
 have seen great effects in the way of change and comple- 
 tion produced by Turner in a very short time, and that, 
 sometimes, to the injury of neighboring works, as the fol- 
 lowing anecdote will prove : In one of the angles of the 
 middle room there hung, in one of the exhibitions, a long, 
 narrow, delicately-colored picture by David Roberts "A 
 View of Edinburgh ;" and next to it, in immediate juxta- 
 position, was a picture which Turner called " Masaniello
 
 THE "OLD ENGLISU MEBRY-MAKIXG." 95 
 
 and the Fisherman's Ring," with the inevitable quotation 
 from the " Fallacies of Hope." When first placed on the 
 wall, Masaniello's queer figure was relieved by a pale gray 
 sky, the whole effect being almost as gray and quiet as 
 Roberts' picture. Turner was a very short man, with a 
 large head, and a face usually much muffled " to protect 
 it from the draughts" for which the rooms were cele- 
 brated. Both he and Roberts stood upon boxes, and 
 worked silently at their respective pictures. I found my- 
 self close to them, painting some figures into a landscape 
 by Ores wick. I watched my neighbors from time to time, 
 and if I could discover no great change in the aspect of 
 " Edinburgh," there was no doubt whatever that " Masa- 
 niello " was rapidly undergoing a treatment which was very 
 damaging to its neighbor without a compensating improve- 
 ment to itself. The gray sky had become an intense blue, 
 and was every instant becoming so blue that even Italy 
 could scarcely be credited with it. Roberts moved un- 
 easily on his box-stool. Then, with a sidelong look at 
 Turner's picture, he said, in the broadest Scotch, 
 
 " You are making that varra blue." 
 
 Turner said nothing, but added more and more ultra- 
 marine. This was too much. 
 
 "I'll just tell ye what it is, Turner, you're just playing 
 the deevil with my picture, with that sky ye never saw 
 such a sky as that !" 
 
 Turner moved his muffler on one side, looked down at 
 Roberts and said, 
 
 " You attend to your business and leave me to attend 
 to mine." 
 
 And to this hour "Masaniello" remains now in the 
 cellars of the National Gallery with the bluest sky ever 
 seen in a picture, and never seen out of one. 
 
 I may add another anecdote of Turner, for the truth of 
 which I can vouch. In Rathbone Place there used to be 
 a print-shop, kept by a man whose name I forget ; but he 
 was well known as a very superior person to the ordinary 
 printseller of that period, having a thorough knowledge 
 of his business and a great love of art in all its forms. He 
 was, of course, therefore, a great admirer of Turner, whose
 
 96 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 " Liber Studiorum " he appreciated ; and whenever one of 
 that wonderful set of engravings could be found the Rath- 
 bone Place connoisseur bought it if possible. In some way 
 or other a fine plate from the " Liber " series came into his 
 possession, much damaged by stains and rough usage. 
 Feeling that it could scarcely be further injured, he placed 
 it in his shop-window. In passing one day Turner saw 
 the damaged print, bounced into the shop, and fell foul of 
 the printseller. 
 
 "It's a confounded shame to treat an engraving like 
 that !" pointing to the window. " What can you be think- 
 ing about to go and destroy a good thing for it is a good 
 thing, mind you !" 
 
 " I destroy it !" said the shopman, in a rage. " What 
 do you mean by saying I destroyed it ? and who the devil 
 are you, I should like to know ? I didn't ask you to buy 
 it, did I? You don't look as if you could understand a 
 good print when you see one. I destroy it! Bless my 
 soul, I bought it just as it is, and I would rather keep it 
 till Doomsday than sell it to you ; and why you should 
 put yourself out about it, I can't think." 
 
 " Why, I did it," said Turner. 
 
 " Did what ! did you spoil it ? If you did, you de- 
 serve " 
 
 " No, no, man ! my name's Turner, and I did the draw- 
 ing, and engraved the plate from it." 
 
 "Bless my soul !" exclaimed the printseller. " Is it pos- 
 sible that you are the great Turner ! Well, sir, I have 
 long desired to see you ; and now that I have seen you, I 
 hope I shall never see you again, for a more disagreeable 
 person I have seldom met." 
 
 Until Mr. Ruskin opened the eyes of the public to Turn- 
 er's merits his pictures rarely sold, and when they did sell 
 they only fetched small prices. Mr. Munro, of Novar, at 
 whose house in Hamilton Place I once met Turner at din- 
 ner, possessed several of his pictures, for each of which he 
 had paid, as he told me himself, two hundred pounds ; 
 among them was that magnificent picture of the " Grand 
 Canal at Venice " which was purchased by Lord Dudley, 
 after Mr. Munro's death, for something under eight thou*
 
 THE "OLD ENGLISH MERRY-MAKING." 97 
 
 sand guineas. Others of his works, from the Bicknell 
 and Munro collections, fetched correspondingly large 
 sums. 
 
 Mr. Munro, a Scottish laird, was also an artist of some 
 ability, and the possessor of many fine old masters, as well 
 as of modern works. Turner lived in Queen Anne Street, 
 and at the back of his house he had built a large gallery, 
 and had completely filled it with unsold works, numbers 
 of which now form part of the collection in the National 
 Gallery. 
 
 I can never forget the woe -begone appearance of the 
 long gallery to which Turner had consigned his pictures. 
 The walls were almost paperless, the roof far from weath- 
 er-proof, and the whole place desolate in the extreme. 
 
 " Though the very look of the place was enough to give 
 a man a cold," said Munro to me when I met him one 
 Sunday afternoon, " I found Turner an hour ago crouch- 
 ing over a morsel of tire in the gallery, with a dreadful 
 cold upon him, muffled up and miserable." 
 
 "Yes, here I am," said Turner, " with all these unsala- 
 ble things about me. I wish to Heaven I could get rid 
 of them ; I would sell them cheap to anybody who would 
 take them where I couldn't see them any more." 
 
 " Well," said Munro, " what will you take for the lot ?" 
 
 " Oh, I don't know ; you may make me an offer if you 
 like." 
 
 Munro told me he took but a few minutes to look at the 
 pictures and make a mental calculation, and then he offered 
 to write a check for twenty-five thousand pounds for the 
 whole of them. Turner's bright-blue eyes glittered for a 
 moment. He turned to the fire and seemed absorbed in 
 thought, and then, addressing Munro, he said, 
 
 " Go and take a walk, and come back in an hour, and I 
 will give you an answer. Thank you for the offer." 
 
 " It is now about time to go back to Queen Anne Street," 
 said Munro, " so I wish you good-day." 
 
 A short time after this conversation I again met Mr. 
 Munro. 
 
 " Well," said I, " am I to congratulate you on the pur- 
 chase of the Turners ?"
 
 98 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 " No," replied Munro. " When I got back to the old 
 man, his first words were, 
 
 " ' Hullo ! what, you here again ? I am very ill ; my 
 cold is very bad.' " 
 
 " Well," said Munro, " have you decided ; will you ac- 
 cept my offer ?" 
 
 " No, I won't I can't. I believe I'm going to die, and 
 I intend to be buried in those two " (pointing to the " Car- 
 thage " and " Sun rising through Mist," which now hang 
 near the Claudes in the National Gallery, being placed in 
 their proximity by Turner's especial request). "So I 
 can't ; besides, I can't be bothered good-evening." 
 
 It is recorded that Turner expressed to Chantrey his 
 determination to be buried in these two famous pictures. 
 Chantrey's comment on this morbid intention was : " In- 
 deed. Well, if that bright idea is carried out we will dig 
 you up again, and unroll you as they do the mummies." 
 
 For two or three years after I was elected associate a 
 dinner took place when the exhibition closed, at which 
 any exhibitor for the year could be present, provided he 
 was introduced by a me'mber and was willing to pay a 
 guinea for the privilege. The modern soiree is now given 
 in lieu of those dinners, but those dinners were very pleas- 
 ant meetings. The R.A.'s seemed to lay aside a little of 
 their dignity, and most of them were very courteous if 
 sometimes slightly patronizing to the outsiders. Those 
 who could sing or tell a good story and some of them 
 could do both willingly added to the general hilarity. 
 Edwin Land seer sang delightfully, and was one of the 
 best story-tellers I ever knew. We had speeches, too, 
 and on one "never-to-be-forgotten occasion a speech from 
 Turner. I fear a written description will give but a faint 
 notion of that memorable oration, the only one he was 
 ever known to deliver. The stammering, the long pauses, 
 the bewildering mystery of it, required to be witnessed 
 for any adequate idea to be formed. In writing I fear it 
 is impossible to convey it. It was not unlike the most 
 incomprehensible of his later pictures, mixed up with the 
 "Fallacies of Hope." He looked earnestly at the guests 
 before he began, and then spoke as follows : " Gentlemen,
 
 THE "OLD ENGLISH MERRY-MAKING." 99 
 
 I sec some " (pause, and another look round) " new faces 
 at this table Well do you do any of you I mean 
 Roman history " (a pause). " There is no doubt, at 
 least I hope not, that you are acquainted no, unacquaint- 
 ed that is to say of course, why not ? you must know 
 something of the old ancient Romans." (Loud ap- 
 plause.) "Well, sirs, those old people the Romans I al- 
 lude to were a warlike set of people yes, they were 
 because they came over here, you know, and had to do a 
 good deal of fighting before they arrived, and after too. 
 Ah ! they did ; and they always fought in a phalanx 
 know what that is?" ("Hear, hear," said some one.) 
 " Do YOU know, sir ? Well, if you don't, I will tell you. 
 They stood shoulder to shoulder, and won everything." 
 (Great cheering.) " Now, then, I have done with the Ro- 
 mans, and I come to the old man and the bundle of sticks 
 JEsop, ain't it ? fables, you know all right yes, to 
 be sure. Well, when the old man was dying he called his 
 sons I forget how many there were of 'em a good lot, 
 seven or eight perhaps and he sent one of them out for 
 a bundle of sticks. ' Now,' says the old man, ' tie up those 
 sticks tight,' and it was done so. Then he says, says he, 
 'Look here, young fellows, you stick to one another like 
 those sticks ; work all together,' he says, ' then you are 
 formidable. But if you separate, and one go one way, 
 and one another, you may just get broke one after an- 
 other. Now mind what I say,' he says " (a very long 
 pause, filled by intermittent cheering). "Now," resumed 
 the speaker, " you are wondering what I am driving at " 
 (indeed we were). " I will tell you. Some of you young 
 fellows will one day take our places, and become members 
 of this Academy. Well, you are a lot of sticks" (loud 
 laughter). " What on earth are you all laughing at ! 
 Don't like to be called sticks? wait a bit. Well, then, 
 what do you say to being called Ancient Romans ? What 
 I want you to understand is just this never mind what 
 anybody calls you. When you become members of this 
 institution you must fight in a phalanx no splits no 
 quarrelling one mind one object the good of the arts 
 and the Royal Academy."
 
 100 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 It will be seen that Turner had an idea which he desired 
 to impress upon us, and it was not till he got to the end of 
 his speech that we could imagine, as he said himself, what 
 he was "driving at." Turner died in 1851. He had been 
 ailing for some time, and had gone to Ramsgate in the 
 hope of improving his health; a slight change for the bet- 
 ter took place, owing, as Turner thought, to the skill of a 
 local doctor, and the sick man went back to his lodgings 
 in Chelsea, where his illness returned upon him with great 
 virulence. The Ramsgate practitioner was sent for, and 
 without a moment's delay he went to the bedside of the 
 dying painter, whose condition he saw instantly was hope- 
 less. 
 
 " Well, doctor," said Turner, " you can cure me if any- 
 body can. What's the verdict ? Tell me the truth." 
 
 "I am afraid I must beg you to lose no time in any 
 worldly arrangements you desire to make." 
 
 "Wait a bit," said Turner; "you have had nothing to 
 eat and drink yet, have you ?" 
 
 "No; but that's of no consequence." 
 
 " Yes, it is. Go down-stairs and you will find some re- 
 freshment; and there is some fine brown sherry don't 
 spare it and then come up and see me again." 
 
 The doctor refreshed himself and then returned to his 
 patient. 
 
 "Now then," said Turner, "what is it? Do you still 
 think so badly of my case ? Wasn't that good sherry ?" 
 
 "I grieve to say I cannot alter my opinion." 
 
 Turner put his hand out of bed, pressed that of the doc- 
 tor, turned his face to the wall, and never spoke again. 
 Later in the day he died, his death making a vacancy in 
 the Academy ranks which I was elected to fill how un- 
 worthily, in comparison with my predecessor, no one knows 
 better than I. 
 
 The art patron is often a strange creature; he places, 
 very justly, but little reliance on his own judgment. "He 
 knows what he likes," but whether the object of his liking 
 is worthy of that distinction or not is a matter about which 
 he is alarmingly uncertain. It too often happens that until 
 a picture has received the " hall-mark " of the picture-dealer
 
 THE "OLD KNGMSII MERRY-MAKING." 101 
 
 the collector is not satisfied; but after that he is often 
 ready to pay for his ignorant incredulity in the form of a 
 great advance on the price for which he might have ac- 
 quired the work. To illustrate this from my own experi- 
 ence: a distinguished artist friend of mine painted a large 
 picture, for which he asked fifteen hundred pounds. When 
 the work was nearly finished, one of the Manchester mer- 
 chant princes called to see it, admired, and inquired the 
 price. 
 
 " Too much," said the collector; " give you twelve." 
 
 " No you won't," said the artist. 
 
 " Don't put yourself out." 
 
 " I am not put out; but I should just like to ask you, if, 
 when a shopkeeper asks you a price for an article, you 
 make a point of offering him a good deal less than he 
 asks?" 
 
 " Yes, very often," was the reply. " Won't you accept 
 my offer?" 
 
 " Certainly not." 
 
 A few days later the collector called again, and repeated 
 his offer, which was again declined. On one of the " show " 
 days the picture was instantly purchased by a great firm 
 of picture-dealers for fifteen hundred pounds, and sold be- 
 fore it was seen by the public for three thousand pounds 
 to the man who had refused to pay the artist his own more 
 modest price. 
 
 Then there is the collector who is always ready to buy 
 something out of his reach. 
 
 "My dear sir, how I regret my folly in not possessing 
 myself of your beautiful picture of last year ! Could you 
 not make me a copy of it ?" 
 
 "I fear not, for the owner of the picture objects to 
 copies." 
 
 This conversation would take place in the presence of 
 the picture of the year, which might be at that moment 
 unsold, to be repeated in almost similar words the year 
 after. 
 
 Is it to be wondered at, then, that artists prefer the 
 dealer, who knows his own mind, to the patron who does 
 not? Turner, on the other hand, detested dealers; he
 
 102 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 would have none of them. And a story is told of one 
 well-known picture merchant, who was determined 
 though he was aware of Turner's dislike to the fraternity 
 to see the famous gallery in Queen Anne Street. For- 
 getting or perhaps not knowing that his card must be 
 given to the servant before admission could be obtained, 
 or believing, possibly, that the maid merely took it as a 
 matter of form, he was proceeding leisurely up-stairs into 
 the gallery, when he found himself pulled backwards by 
 his coat-tails, and on looking round saw the irate face of 
 the great artist ; who, without a word, pointed to the front- 
 door, through which the dealer made an ignominious re- 
 treat.
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 PINNER-PARTY AT LORD NORTHWICK*S. 
 
 AMONG the patrons and lovers of art, the late Lord 
 North wick was a conspicuous figure; his gallery at Chel- 
 tenham was filled with very questionable old masters, and 
 some few good modern ones. When I saw his collection, 
 in 1846, I cannot recall a single fine ancient picture; and 
 the two modern ones I remember best were Maclise's 
 "Strongbow" (now in the Dublin National Gallery) and 
 my old friend Ward's picture of the " Fall of Clarendon " 
 a work I had the great satisfaction of recommending 
 successfully to Lord Northwick. This nobleman was one 
 of those who never give commissions without knowing 
 for what sum the order may make them responsible; and 
 as it is almost impossible for a painter to say at what 
 value he can safely estimate his work until it is completed, 
 a commission from Lord North wick was not greatly cared 
 for in times when purchasers were plentiful; and I attrib- 
 ute a dislike to myself, which I very soon discovered in 
 the old gentleman, to my refusal to name a sum, from a 
 small sketch that I showed him, for a large picture which 
 was to be painted from it. His dislike, however, did not 
 prevent his inviting me to stay a few days at Thirlstane 
 House, Cheltenham, accompanied by my friends Frost (an 
 admirable painter of poetic subjects) and E. M. Ward, both 
 afterwards Royal Academicians. Ward was a well-read 
 man, an admirable talker, and, unfortunately, a wonderful 
 mimic; for in the old lord was found food for mimicry al- 
 most impossible to resist, and it is to be feared that some 
 of our attempts for I plead guilty to attempts, inferior 
 though they were when compared with such a master in 
 the art as Ward must have been overheard by the ser- 
 vants, who were all greatly attached to their master; if so,
 
 104 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 the coolness shown in the end to all of us was not to be 
 wondered at, and I must say it was well deserved. 
 
 When a young man, Lord Northwick had been placed 
 at the court of Ferdinand of Naples, in the position of at- 
 tach'e in the suite of the English ambassador during the 
 great French war; when he became also the intimate friend 
 of the King and Queen of Naples, and of Sir William and 
 Lady Hamilton. 
 
 I well remember, after a dinner-party at Thirlstane 
 House, Ward's loudly-expressed regret that a shorthand 
 writer had not been there, so that the many anecdotes we 
 were told might have been preserved. Alas, for the frail- 
 ness of memory ! How much do I deplore now that I can 
 remember so little of the scenes described to us, in which 
 Lord Nelson, for one, figured so often ! Lord North wick 
 did not believe that the friendship for Lady Hamilton 
 which Nelson professed extended beyond the bounds of 
 ordinary friendship, and nothing made him so angry as 
 any suggestion to the contrary. 
 
 " Poor dear Lady Hamilton!" he would say, in his shrill 
 voice. " A truer wife, a warmer friend, or a better woman 
 never breathed. Why, if she had not prevailed upon the 
 King of Naples to victual the English fleet entirely by 
 her influence the Battle of the Nile could not have been 
 fought; and it is to the eternal disgrace of this country 
 that the poor dear creature was allowed to die in destitu- 
 tion." 
 
 As a sample of what has been lost, I will repeat, as well 
 as I can recall it, Lord Northwick's account of the execu- 
 tion of Caracciolo. 
 
 " Though an admiral in the service of King Ferdinand," 
 said the old lord, " he deserted his colors and assisted the 
 French, and he was justly condemned to death. Of course, 
 Nelson could have saved him " (this in reply to a guest at 
 the table), " but why should he ? I see good reason why 
 he shouldn't. On the day fixed for the execution, Carac- 
 ciolo asked to be shot. He was refused, and hanged at 
 the yard-arm of a ship that he had commanded. I was 
 dining on board the' Agamemnon with Nelson; the other 
 guests were Ferdinand, the queen, and the Hamiltons. I
 
 DINNER-PABTY AT LOBD NORTHWICK's. 105 
 
 knew the execution was imminent, but not the precise 
 time fixed for it. We were at dessert when a gun was 
 fired. At that instant Lady Hamilton filled her glass, and, 
 standing up, said in solemn tones, ' So perish all the ene- 
 mies of Naples !' Nelson motioned me to the cabin-win- 
 dow. I looked out and saw the body of the traitor Carac- 
 ciolo swinging from the yard-arm some hundreds of yards 
 away. ' I am d d glad that fellow has got his deserts!' 
 said Nelson." Lord Northwick saw by the shocked coun- 
 tenance of some of his guests that Nelson's remark had 
 surprised and disgusted them. " Oh, you are shocked at 
 Nelson's swearing. It was nothing. He always swore at 
 everything and anything never opened his mouth with- 
 out an oath coming out of it. If it was a fine day, it was 
 
 ' a fine day.' Was he quite well ? ' Yes, he was ' 
 
 (strong adjective) 'well,' and so on. And if his oaths, 
 when he spoke of the French, could have taken effect, the 
 whole nation would have gone to the devil." The old lord 
 continued: "The king and queen remained that night on 
 board the Agamemnon, and next morning, when Ferdinand 
 was shaving in his cabin, we were startled by hearing him 
 call out in a loud and agitated voice, ' Vieni qui, vieni qniT 
 The king was standing by the cabin-window, ghastly pale, 
 and unable to speak. He pointed to something in the sea. 
 I looked out, and under the window lay the body of Carac- 
 ciolo, his face upturned, the eyes wide open, looking at 
 me. I shall never forget that sight. 
 
 " Poor dear Lady Hamilton ! the last time I saw her 
 was at Frascati's gambling-rooms in Paris. She was play- 
 ing furiously. Nelson sat next to her. He was fast asleep, 
 with his head on her shoulder." 
 
 " Did you ever see Bonaparte, my lord ?" said Ward. 
 
 " Only once. I was at a reception at the Tuileries when 
 he was first consul. He spoke to me, but I don't remem- 
 ber what he said a commonplace remark, no doubt." 
 
 It seemed strange to us that " poor dear Lady Hamil- 
 ton" should have been so completely forgotten by the 
 devoted friends she possessed, according to Lord North- 
 wick, none of whom, so far as we could learn, took any 
 notice of her after Nelson's death. Certainly Lord North- 
 5*
 
 106 MY AUTOBIOGBAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 wick never did, as the last time he saw her Nelson was 
 alive, though asleep. 
 
 Lord Northwick showed us every engraving that had 
 been executed from great numbers of pictures painted 
 from Lady Hamilton ; many lovely heads by Romney 
 among them ; and many a sigh heaved the old gentleman 
 as he produced them. 
 
 There is no truth, I think, in the story often repeated 
 to me, that Lady Hamilton ever sat in the Life School of 
 the Royal Academy. Wilkie met her in society once or 
 twice, when she posed with drapery in imitation of antique 
 statuary. He expressed his disappointment with her ap- 
 pearance, which he described as fat and vulgar, with man- 
 ners to match. 
 
 At the time of our visit to Cheltenham, the corn-law 
 question was raging with great fury, and Lord Northwick 
 made such long and tiresome speeches to us on the subject 
 that we often wished him in the House of Lords, where 
 his eloquence, strange to say, was never heard. He almost 
 wept over the imminent ruin of the farmers, and the pos- 
 sible reduction of all rents; and his words, "Protection to 
 native industry," repeated again and again in a singing 
 tone, enabled Ward to reproduce the very voice of the 
 speaker, as he proved on many a winter's evening when, 
 in reply to " Come, "Ward, let us have a protection speech 
 from Lord Northwick," he would improvise, how admi- 
 rably! giving us the sentiments as well as the manner of 
 the noble protectionist. After we had been some days at 
 Cheltenham, we were joined by a young artist named Hus- 
 kisson, who had painted some original pictures of consider- 
 able merit, and also some copies from old masters and 
 others, of extraordinary exactness. Huskisson was a very 
 common young man, entirely uneducated. I doubt if he 
 could read and write; the very tone of his voice was dread- 
 ful. He never could have heard of English grammar; and 
 though it might be supposed that he would be ill at ease 
 at a dinner-party at Thirlstane House where nearly every 
 guest, male or female, had handles to their names he was 
 always perfectly self-possessed, and, judging from occa- 
 sional bursts of laughter which followed some of his re-
 
 DINNKK-PAKTY AT LOUD NOBTUWICK's. 107 
 
 marks, he greatly entertained his high-born neighbors at 
 the table. 
 
 In the midst of a silence that will sometimes prevail at a 
 dinner-party, Lord Northwick, who sat at some distance 
 from this rough specimen of our profession, called to him, 
 and said: 
 
 " Mr. Huskisson, was it not a picture-dealer who bought 
 your last ' Fairy ' picture ?" 
 
 " No, my lord ! no, my lord !" replied Huskisson. " It 
 were a gent." 
 
 I looked at the faces of some of the guests, but not even 
 a smile was visible; instead there appeared to me expres- 
 sions of a kind of tender interest in the strange young 
 man. Within a year of our visit, Huskisson died, much to 
 my regret, for I feel sure, in his case, death cut short a 
 brilliant career. A picture by him, full of poetic fancy, 
 was engraved for the Art Journal. Scarcely any one who 
 may read these lines will remember the young man. I 
 fear his performances were too few to " keep his memory 
 green." 
 
 We left Cheltenham in a carriage-and-four for another 
 house belonging to Lord Northwick, called, I think, North- 
 wick. On the way we called on Lord Ellenborough, who 
 had just returned from governing India: he was from 
 home. As we drove through the grounds, we passed great 
 quantities of laurels, and Ward inquired if those were the 
 laurels Lord Ellenborough had gained in India. If looks 
 could kill, Ward would have died in that carriage, for the 
 old lord not only bestowed a murderous one upon the 
 punster, but he added: 
 
 "Mr. Ward, you have painted pictures of Dr. Johnson, 
 and I presume you are acquainted with the sentiments of 
 that great man in respect of puns." 
 
 Said Ward: 
 
 "Oh, yes! I know, my lord; but that was because he 
 couldn't make a pun himself." 
 
 "I differ from you, sir; Dr. Johnson could say anything 
 or do anything. The last thing he would have uttered 
 would have been a poor witticism at the expense of a 
 friend of his host."
 
 108 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 "Well, but, my lord, I beg pardon ; I don't think what 
 I said could be called a pun." 
 
 " Sufficiently like one, sir, to be very objectionable." 
 
 At Northwick there was a very old butler, older in ap- 
 pearance than his master; he had been in the family all 
 his life indeed I was told that he had accompanied Lord 
 Northwick in his first pony-rides, events which must have 
 happened at least seventy or eighty years before our visit. 
 The meeting of master and servant was interesting, even 
 touching. 
 
 " Don't let that old chap catch you taking off my lord," 
 said I to Ward. " I don't think he would approve." 
 
 Though the old butler was very feeble, he insisted on 
 placing the dishes on the table at dinner. All went well 
 so long as the burden was light, but a haunch of venison 
 proved beyond the old man's strength ; the dish a heavy 
 silver one slipped from his fingers, and the venison fell 
 upon the floor. 
 
 "He is too old," Lord Northwick whispered to me. " I 
 can't bear to tell him so, dear old man. He is forever 
 dropping something or other. It is a pity, though ; I 
 should have liked you Londoners to have tasted that 
 venison." 
 
 Although the venison was denied to us, we had a dish 
 cooked from the furry covering of the deer's horns, made 
 into a rich mess, the like of which I had never seen before, 
 nor have I since, and devoutly do I hope I never shall see 
 it again; taste it, I never would. One more feeble pun, 
 and I take leave of Lord Northwick. Frost ate some of 
 the strange compound just described, and when his trouble 
 was over, he whispered to me, "This is not cheap and 
 nasty, but deer and nasty."
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 ON SUBJECTS. 
 
 MY own reading lay chiefly in books suggestive of sub- 
 jects for pictures Sterne, Goldsmith, Moliere, Cervantes, 
 and the Spectator taking the lead of all others. Shake- 
 speare inspired me with terror as well as admiration. 
 
 It was vain for me to hope to rival Leslie, and therefore 
 dangerous to come into competition with the painter of the 
 " Dinner at Page's House," the " Autolycus," and " Per- 
 dita," now in the Sheepshanks Gallery at South Kensing- 
 ton. I have never meddled with Shakespeare without 
 regretting my temerity, for though I have painted several 
 pictures from different plays, I cannot recall one that will 
 add to my reputation. From the Spectator, however, I 
 did better, "Sir Roger de Coverley and the Saracen's 
 Head," an admirable subject, proving one of the best of 
 my pictures drawn from books. The incident may be 
 briefly described. An old servant of Sir Roger's becomes 
 the landlord of an inn, and to do honor to his master he 
 has the knight's head painted and put up for a sign. 
 
 Sir Roger, hearing of this compliment, sends for the 
 man, and tells him the honor is more than he deserves, or, 
 indeed, than any one deserves, under the rank of a duke, 
 and the sign must be altered; and he, Sir Roger, will be 
 at the " charge of it." Accordingly an artist is procured, 
 who, by the addition of a terrible frown and general wild- 
 ness of aspect, transforms the knight's likeness into a 
 Saracen's head. 
 
 When the alteration is completed, Sir Roger, accom- 
 panied by his friend the "Spectator" (Addison), pays a 
 visit to the inn, and the sign is produced for the inspection 
 of the visitors. Then, says the " Spectator," " I could not 
 forbear discovering greater Expressions of Mirth than or-
 
 110 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 dinary upon the Appearance of this monstrous Face, under 
 which, notwithstanding it was made to frown and stare in 
 a most extraordinary manner,! could still discover a distant 
 Resemblance of my old Friend. 
 
 " Sir Roger, upon seeing me laugh, desired me to tell 
 him truly if I thought it possible for People to know him 
 in that Disguise. I at first kept my usual Silence; but 
 upon the Knight's conjuring me to tell him whether it 
 was not still more like himself than a Saracen, I com- 
 posed my Countenance in the best manner I could, and 
 replied, ' That much might be said on both sides? " 
 
 I found many w r ould-be purchasers for this picture it 
 eventually became the property of a Mr. Andrews, of 
 York, who had made a fortune in the railway mania so 
 prevalent in 1847. 
 
 With the best intention possible, Mr. Andrews, who was 
 a great friend of Hudson, the Railway King, induced me 
 to take shares in a certain line. The property of the 
 Company was destroyed for a time by the panic that affect- 
 ed all railway interests; and I had the misfortune of see- 
 ing the shares of twenty-five pounds each, upon every one 
 of which eight pounds ten had been paid, quoted in the 
 Times at half a crown a piece. Mr. Andrews formed a 
 small collection of pictures, mainly under my advice; he 
 was ruined, and his pictures were sold at Christie's, when 
 a good profit was made upon them, but far from sufficient 
 to satisfy his creditors; and this truly honorable and most 
 amiable man died broken-hearted. 
 
 The Spectator inspired me with a subject for a large 
 picture of a much more important character than the 
 "Saracen's Head." Readers of Addison will remember 
 the paper in which Sir Roger has to deal with a charge of 
 witchcraft against a certain Moll White, who is accused 
 of causing dire mischief to all and sundry of Sir Roger's 
 tenants, and of "making maids spit pins." And she was 
 brought before the knight to answer for her crimes. 
 
 My intention was as my first sketch proved to repre- 
 sent Sir Roger himself, Moll White, and a sick virgin, on 
 the precise lines of the Spectator's paper; but further re- 
 flection led me to amplify the theme, and I finally deter-
 
 ON SUBJECTS. Ill 
 
 rained to take the incident in the Spectator as a peg upon 
 which I might hang a story of deeper interest. So, in an 
 old English mansion with oriel windows and tapestried 
 walls, I placed a lovelorn damsel, bewitched, indeed, by a 
 handsome young forester in Lincoln green, instead of by a 
 frightened old woman, who is vehemently accused by the 
 mother of the girl of having caused the change in her daugh- 
 ter's health and spirits, so alarming to her friends, notably 
 to her old grandfather, to whom she clings for protection 
 when she finds herself in the presence of the grave magis- 
 trate a type of the Elizabethan nobleman who listens to 
 the outpouring of the mother in dignified silence. 
 
 A clerk writes down the evidence; the magistrate's 
 daughter leans on her father's chair, interested in the 
 scene; while her little child steals a fearful glance at the 
 dreadful witch. The real cause of the mischief stands at 
 a little distance, twisting his hat, uncertain whether to re- 
 veal himself, and still more uncertain that his doing BO 
 would save the old woman from the pond or the stake. A 
 black cat, the witch's familiar, is held above her head; and 
 additional evidence is furnished by a woman at the room 
 door, who brings a sick child whose illness can only be 
 owing to the devilries of the old woman. 
 
 This picture and the " Saracen's Head " were my con- 
 tributions to the Exhibition of 1848. "The Old Woman 
 Accused of Witchcraft " was bought by Mr. Miller, of 
 Preston, for five hundred guineas. Horrocks and Miller's 
 " Long Cloth " is known, I believe, throughout the world. 
 An intimacy, such as so frequently exists between artist and 
 patron, arose between Mr. Miller and me. I spent many 
 happy hours with him at Preston. He was one of the tru- 
 est gentlemen, and the warmest lover of art for art's sake, 
 that I have ever known. He died long ago, while com- 
 paratively a young man, leaving his collection intact in the 
 possession of his widow. 
 
 Though I was so fortunate as to be the first of the band 
 of rapidly-rising artist friends to receive the honors of the 
 Academy, E. M. Ward, Egg, Stone, Phillip, and others 
 were running " neck and neck " with me. 
 
 Ward's admirable picture of the " South Sea Bubble,"
 
 112 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 now in the National Gallery, secured the painter's election 
 as an associate the year following my own. 
 
 Egg painted an excellent picture of " Queen Elizabeth 
 Surrounded by Ladies and Courtiers." "Whether apocry- 
 phal or not, the subject was one well suited to pictorial 
 art. It is said that the queen had banished looking-glasses 
 for many years; but one day, towards the close of her life, 
 her curiosity got the better of her fears, and she sent one 
 of her ladies for a mirror. Judging from the expression 
 of the withered old face, as it was turned away from the 
 sad sight reflected in the glass, all illusion had vanished, 
 and a terror-stricken conviction that every trace of youth 
 had flown was at last as palpable to the old queen as it 
 had long been to everybody else. This picture greatly 
 added to Egg's reputation. It was purchased by Mr. 
 Miller, and hangs at this moment as a companion to my 
 " Witch " in the collection at Preston. 
 
 Egg continued to produce pictures of great excellence, 
 the best, perhaps, being " Peter the Great's First Sight of 
 Catherine " (afterwards empress), a subject which I found 
 and presented to Egg an act of generosity, I confess, 
 much repented of afterwards, for it was one I should dear- 
 ly like to have ventured upon myself; indeed, I had made 
 many pen-and-ink sketches of the composition, and what 
 " amazing devil of generosity " as Dickens said, when I 
 told him of my gift of the subject to Egg prompted such 
 a disinterested act of good-nature I cannot tell. Egg and 
 I were fellow-students at Sass's Academy, and fast friends 
 through life through his life, I should say, for he died in 
 his prime, but not until he had attained the full honors of 
 the Royal Academy. I shall have something to say later 
 on of charming meetings at Ivy Cottage (Egg's house), in 
 Black Lion Lane (now Queen's Road), Bayswater, where 
 at delightful dinners I met Dickens over and over again, 
 immortal John Leech, Mark Lemon, John Forster (after- 
 wards biographer of Dickens), O'Neil, Webster, Phillip, 
 Mulready, Stone, Mr. Justice Hawkins then so gentle and 
 quiet that I can scarcely credit the fiery judge with being 
 the same man and many others, most, indeed, nearly all, 
 of whom have since "joined the majority."
 
 ON SUBJECTS. 113 
 
 John Phillip afterwards called Phillip of Spain, from 
 the many wonderful subjects he drew from that country 
 came to London a very raw Scotch lad, and became a 
 student, of the Academy, where I first made his acquaint- 
 ance, and where he very soon gave proof of great natural 
 genius. He was a protege of Lord Panmure, and pupil of 
 Mr. T. M. Joy, a portrait-painter and intense admirer of 
 Sir Thomas Lawrence. Philip caught the fever, painted 
 with great facility before he could draw, and produced 
 portraits so like the work of Lawrence that they might 
 easily have been mistaken for indifferent pictures by that 
 fashionable genius. I have an unfinished one of myself 
 that would prove the truth of this; and in the likeness 
 done of Egg, Philip managed to include all Lawrence's 
 faults and many of his merits. It would be impossible to 
 conceive greater contrasts than would be afforded by a 
 comparison of Philip's earliest works with his latest. He 
 was, at one time, tainted with Pre-Raphaelitism. His first 
 pictures displayed a grasp of character, but color one of 
 the charms of his later works was conspicuous by its ab- 
 sence. It was only after the second visit to Spain that 
 Phillip's real power showed itself. Then came, year after 
 year, up to the day of his death, pictures of extraordinary 
 beauty; which, in spite of the caprice of fashion, will be 
 eventually considered glories of the British school. Though 
 the claims of Phillip for academic honors were long de- 
 layed, he took the lead, in my opinion, of all the young 
 men, except Millais (not excepting myself, of course), who 
 were added to the academic ranks in my time. 
 
 Frank Stone became an associate somewhat late in life, 
 and died before the higher honor (recently so worthily 
 attained by his son Marcus) reached him. It was impos- 
 sible to know Stone intimately without loving him; for 
 myself, I can say that I never knew any man for whom I 
 had so warm an affection. No fair-weather friend was he, 
 but true as steel when friendly countenance might be sore- 
 ly needed. Still, I confess, there were drawbacks to the 
 enjoyment of Stone's society. It was enough for any one 
 to advance an opinion for Stone to differ from it. The 
 first time I dined with him at Dickens', having then had
 
 114 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND EEMINISCENCES. 
 
 little or no experience of his peculiarity in that respect, I 
 foolishly got into an argument with him something about 
 Waterloo and finding there was no hope of agreement, 
 and that we were boring everybody present, I allowed 
 him to settle the matter in his own fashion; but he was 
 not satisfied. 
 
 " Well," said he, " are you convinced ?" 
 
 " What about ?" said I. 
 
 " Why, that you have been making a series of state- 
 ments for which you have no foundation in fact." 
 
 " Yes, if you like," I replied. 
 
 After dinner Dickens took me on one side, and inquired 
 if I had known Stone long. 
 
 " No, a very short time." 
 
 " I thought so. Now let me give you a little piece of 
 advice; a better fellow than Stone never lived, but he is 
 always in the right about every earthly thing, and if you 
 talk till Doomsday you will not convince him to the con- 
 trary, so I advise you not to try any more;" and I never 
 did.
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 PICTURE-SEEING IN BELGIUM AND HOLLAND. 
 
 EGG, Stone, and I went to Belgium and Holland for 
 a few days, for the sole purpose of picture - seeing, and 
 then the constant intercourse made Dickens' advice a little 
 difficult to follow; but we got on very well until the 
 money question cropped up. I was the only one of the 
 party who spoke French. All arrangements and all pay- 
 ments, therefore, were made by me a settlement being 
 effected by my informing each of my fellow-travellers 
 of the extent of his indebtedness to me at the end of every 
 three or four days. Stone insisted on a detailed account 
 of every item. This I declined to give him, when he thus 
 addressed me: 
 
 "My dear Frith, if you think my desire for details 
 arises from any doubt of your honesty you ought to be 
 ashamed of yourself; but I really must insist on knowing 
 exactly how the money has gone." 
 
 My answer was: 
 
 " My dear Stone, I will not give you a detailed account 
 of the way in which I have spent your money; but I will 
 tell you what you are indebted to me at the end of our 
 time." 
 
 " That will not do for me," was the reply. 
 
 " Won't it ?" said I, a happy thought having struck me. 
 " Then just listen to this : I will tell you what you owe 
 me, and you may pay it or not, just as you like." This 
 settled the matter, and my little bill was met. 
 
 The following extracts from letters written at this time 
 to my mother may interest : 
 
 " BRUGES, Sunday, Jiify 7, 1850. 
 
 " You may remember when Egg ai;d I went up the Riiinc some years 
 ago, we passed through Bruges and Antwerp, and were then told there
 
 116 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 were some fine old pictures in a convent by one of the very early Flemish 
 painters. This artist flourished the sword as well as the pencil, and he 
 was seriously wounded at the battle of Nancy ; he was taken to the hos- 
 pital of the nunnery, and lay at the point of death for many months. At 
 last the care and good treatment of the worthy nuns prevailed, and his 
 wounds healed. To show the strength of his gratitude, he painted and 
 presented to them several of his largest and best works all Scriptural 
 subjects, of course and they have remained in the possession of the sis- 
 terhood ever since, much to their profit ; for the exhibition has proved so 
 attractive, and has existed for so long, that the convent is the richest in 
 Belgium. 
 
 "We were now 1850 informed that there was another collection of 
 pictures well worth a visit, but it was only to be seen after service. So 
 after dinner we got a man to show us the way, and very soon we pulled 
 the convent bell, but to no purpose. It wanted still some twenty min- 
 utes to the proper hour (so a woman screamed out for our informa- 
 tion), and there was nothing for it but to wander about and kill the 
 time. When we rang again, the large doors opened no one could see 
 by whom ; we entered, and they closed behind us in the same mysterious 
 manner. 
 
 "Across a courtyard, and there was another bell to ring; this time the 
 door-opener was visible enough in the form of a young nun, very pretty, 
 the meekest, mildest-looking creature. She stood looking down with her 
 hands crossed while we walked in. Without a word she motioned us to 
 the room where the pictures were, shut the door upon us, and vanished; 
 and so nipped in the bud some most elegant speeches that were brewing 
 for her entertainment. A single glance sufficed to show that we had been 
 deceived ; for the collection displayed, in that holy place, every vice of 
 which a picture could be guilty. There were a good many, but they were 
 bad without exception. There was nothing to stop for ; but how to get 
 away from them ! the doors were shut, and there was nothing for it but 
 patience, and the hope that the pretty nun would reappear. At last Egg 
 discovered one picture not quite so bad as the rest, and he called Stone 
 and me to look at it. How long we had been studying it I can't tell, but 
 happening to look round, I was not a little startled at an apparition be- 
 hind me, in the shape of an old, ugly, grim nun, standing as silent as a 
 statue. How she came there puzzles me to this moment. I was so taken 
 aback that I forgot my French, and spoke to her in English, though what 
 I said I know no more than she did. Her head shook slowly, implying, 
 I suppose, that the study of the English language had been neglected in 
 her education. She then turned quietly round in a dreadfully ghostlike 
 manner, and stalked away. In less time than I take to write about it, 
 another apparition presented itself; but this time it was our pretty nun 
 again, who immediately informed us, with the smile of an angel, that she 
 spoke a little English, but very ' leetel.' 
 
 " Stone (who, being by far the best-looking of the trio, did all the gal- 
 lantry during the journey) here struck in with the elegant speech he had 
 prepared some time before ; but his ideas Uidn't flow in their usual lira-
 
 PICTURE-SEEING IN BELGIUM AND HOLLAND. 117 
 
 pid course, which somewhat surprised me, till I saw that the old nun had 
 followed her pretty sister very closely, and had fixed her leaden eyes upon 
 poor Stone, to the utter destruction of his fine speech. 
 
 " The pretty nun and her body-guard accompanied us into the chapel, 
 which smelt overpoweringly of incense. There were the cushions that 
 seemed as if they had just been knelt upon ; the wax candles, the offer- 
 ings, etc. The old nun instantly went down on her knees, pulled out a 
 little black book, and prayed fervently, as if she felt she had no time to lose. 
 The pretty nun told us in the most charmingly simple manner that they 
 never went out, they knew nothing about the world, they spent their time 
 in teaching poor children ; and that their chapel was dedicated to ' The 
 Assumption of the Blessed Virgin.' I shall never forget her way of pro- 
 nouncing the last few words ; there was a timid solemnity about her broken 
 English inexpressibly charming. As soon as the old nun (who I forgot 
 to tell you had a beard) saw we were leaving the chapel, she made an end 
 of her prayers, shut up the little black book, and followed us closely. 
 There was nothing more to see, so I prepared to pay, and at the door I 
 put a franc, the usual sum given, into the pretty nun's hand. She turned 
 very red, and I saw there was something wrong. The old nun, who had 
 her leaden eye on everything, gave her a nod ; and then she came up to 
 me and said in her pretty way that each person must pay half a franc, and 
 as there were three of us, I had given too little. ' It was for the poor 
 children,' she said. So instead of another half-franc, we gave her a whole 
 one, and so came away. . . ." 
 
 "GHENT, July, 1850. 
 
 " After Bruges we went to Ghent, where there are many pictures, and, 
 as a city, it is particularly interesting. The people at the hotel at Bruges 
 recommended us to a hotel at Ghent, and as we had been uncommonly 
 well treated at the former place we followed their advice, and the con- 
 sequence was we were located in the best hotel in the place. Ghent, as 
 you perhaps know, is the principal town of Flanders, and tens one of the 
 richest cities in the world, famous for its manufactures of all sorts, es- 
 pecially cloths, and for the vigorous stand constantly made by the mer- 
 chants against unpalatable taxes and against what they justly considered 
 the misgovcrnment of the counts of Flanders. Many times were they 
 defeated, and as often had to send the principal offenders, with ropes 
 round their necks and only covered by their shirts, to beg for mercy from 
 such men as Charles the Bold, and also from the Spaniards, who then held 
 all the Low Countries. The most beautiful remains of domestic archi- 
 tecture to be found in Ghent are the houses built by the Spaniards. I 
 could fancy I traced something Moorish in some of the Spanish buildings. 
 The wicked Duke d'Alva, who united in his disposition the most ferocious 
 cruelty with the most intense religious bigotry, has left his mark on Ghent 
 to the present moment, for he sent a cannon-ball bang through the cen- 
 tre of the principal bell at the top of the famous Bell Tower. One of the 
 scenes of Taylor's play of 'Philip Van Artevclde' is laid in the Bell Tower 
 of Ghent. This last-named person wad one of those who, possessing great
 
 118 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 powers, occasionally raise themselves above their fellows, and suffer in 
 consequence. Van Artevelde did more to raise Ghent to its commercial 
 prosperity than all the rest of the merchants put together. He was made 
 chief magistrate, and of course became odious to many on account of his 
 success; and his enemies at last persuaded the people that he intended 
 to sell them to the King of England ; and one day, when he had returned 
 from England, his house was stormed, and he was torn to pieces. His 
 house still exists, and there is a tablet recording his destruction. Of all 
 the commissioners, as they are called (persons who are hired by strangers 
 to show the sights of the town), the one at Ghent was the most intelli- 
 gent. He was exceedingly angry if we didn't admire all that he showed 
 us. His knowledge of pictures was small, and, therefore, he occasionally 
 directed our attention to great rubbish, and his rage when we found fault 
 was laughable. However, he certainly took us to one picture ' St. Ba- 
 von,' by Rubens that we praised to his heart's content. We told our 
 commissioner our principal object was pictures, and that he must take us 
 where there were the best. He told us, with a knowing look, he would 
 show us the finest in the world, and great was his disgust when we turned 
 up our noses. I couldn't understand him, as he spoke Dutch to the man 
 who had charge of them ; but I never saw contempt stronger on anybody's 
 face in all my life: he evidently thought we were affecting a taste for 
 pictures, knowing nothing about them. Our friend had but one arm (the 
 left one), and we were curious to know how he had lost its fellow. It ap- 
 pears he was unable to restrain his curiosity during the Revolution (at the 
 time of the separation of Belgium from Holland), and he must needs go 
 among the crowd who were being driven backwards and forwards by the 
 soldiery. Seeing many people killed about him, he thought he was not in 
 a particularly safe position, and the sooner he got to his own home the 
 better. After one of the charges by the military, he found himself within 
 a few yards of his own door. It was shut, of course ; he raised his right 
 arm to ring the bell, when whiz ! bang ! came a ball and shattered it 
 ' So I was obliged to ring with my left hand, sir,' concluded our irritable 
 friend. There is a very remarkable religious establishment in Ghent 
 called the Great Beguinage ; it is quite a little town surrounded by water. 
 You enter through a sort of half-fortified gateway, and there are streets 
 and squares, all in miniature proportion, like any town. The place con- 
 tains more than six hundred nuns, all living alone in separate houses; 
 they have left their worldly names outside the gates, and are known by 
 the names of different saints, adopted according to their fancy, and painted 
 over every door. They have a beautiful chapel, in which they may be 
 seen any evening by strangers ; it is only by attending the chapel that you 
 can see them assembled, otherwise your knowledge is limited to an occa- 
 sional sight of a solitary nun as she walks quietly through the little streets 
 to her own home, returning, perhaps, from some sick person's bed in the 
 town. They have their property at their own separate disposal, and they 
 can leave the convent if they are so inclined. This is a very singular 
 regulation, and it is their boast that, though they have existed as a body 
 many hundreds of years, there has never been an instance of secession.
 
 PICTURE-SEEING IN BELGIUM AND HOLLAND. 119 
 
 The 'Grand Bcguinage' is the only religious establishment that was not 
 molested by Bonaparte. He considered it so well calculated to do good, 
 and its laws framed on so excellent a plan, that he showed the good nuns 
 the light of his countenance, and never interfered with their quiet du- 
 ties. . . . 
 
 " I must not forget to tell you of an incident that took place the night 
 we slept at Ghent. The day had been close, sultry, and oppressive, not a 
 breath of air stirring, and I think it was pretty well midnight before we 
 went to bed. We generally managed to get our bedrooms together, or as 
 nearly so as might be ; and it happened that Stone and I were placed near 
 each other. The partition that separated the rooms was thin, and we 
 could talk comfortably through the walls. When our candles were ex- 
 tinguished, we found our rooms as light as day with the moonlight We 
 both got up, opened our windows, and leaning out we paid the lovely 
 night many compliments. It was certainly exquisite our windows over- 
 looked the inn garden the trees and walks, and the white statues look- 
 ing charming in the moonlight. Perhaps we talked rather loud ; whether 
 we did or not, somebody heard us, for I was in the middle of a lovely 
 speech to the moon (which Stone was laughing at, by-the-bye), when the 
 head of a woman with a night-cap on it was poked out of the window be- 
 neath me, and a vixenish voice said, in unmistakable English, 'Perhaps 
 you will be good enough to remember there are other people in the hotel 
 besides yourselves, and they are not fond of such noises in the middle of 
 the night as you are making.' The vixenish face disappeared, and down 
 went the window. Stone finished his laugh at my speech rather louder 
 perhaps than the lady liked, and wishing her a very good-night, we went 
 to bed." 
 
 "BRUSSELS, 1850. 
 
 " We had received such unfavorable accounts of the pictorial treasures 
 at Brussels that we should have passed over that place altogether but for 
 the fact of our having accepted letters of introduction to two of the most 
 famous artists of Belgium, Messrs. Galluit and Geefa, whose acquaintance 
 we were very desirous of making. See us then, immediately after our 
 arrival at 'Belgium's capital,' hiring a carriage and a commissioner a 
 horrible rascal, by the way determined to sec everything as quickly as 
 possible. First of all to Mr. Gallait, who lived in the outskirts of the town ; 
 a long and wearisome journey. Our horses seemed to have been in tho 
 employment of an undertaker, and no whipping would prevail on them to 
 quicken their funereal pace. And the long, regular streets ! up one, down 
 another, all so much alike that I could fancy we were continually going up 
 and down the same hot street for a punishment. At last the gates of 
 Brussels were passed, and we reached Mr. Gallait's, whom we fortunately 
 found at home. If one might judge of the prosperity of the artists in Bel- 
 gium by the style in which Gallait seems to vegetate, it would appear that 
 the sooner one takes up one's bed and goes to Brussels the better ; but tho 
 great painter's account of the patronage he has received, and the evident 
 comfort iu which he lives, do not agree in the least ; for he told us that
 
 120 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 since he had been working in Belgium, for nine years, he had sold but two 
 pictures to private buyers, the State being the patron how unlike Eng- 
 land ! Gallait's house is large and splendidly appointed, with a lovely gar- 
 den and the best studio I ever saw. He is a remarkably handsome man, 
 very dark, with a long, black beard. Not a word of English could he utter, 
 so I was obliged to be spokesman. We had not come at a good time, he 
 said, for he had little to show us chiefly portraits, but those very good 
 and very English in the style of painting. When our queen was in Bel- 
 gium she gave Gallait two commissions, which he executed, and the two 
 pictures are now at Windsor. There were many small pictures and 
 sketches in his room unsold, " malheureusement" as he said. We went 
 from Gallait's to the Palais de Justice, where is a colossal work by him 
 the abdication of one of the kings of Spain in favor of his son which 
 raised the painter still higher in our estimation. Our next visit was to Mr. 
 Geefs, the sculptor, and mighty polite he was, speaking capital English. 
 A voluble, energetic little chap ; it was quite pleasant to talk to him. His 
 chief work is an immense group, composed of several figures, to com- 
 memorate those who fell in the Revolution. It is placed in a square called 
 4 the Place of the Martyrs,' over the bodies of the martyrs aforesaid. To 
 examine it, you must descend into a kind of vault, where may be read in 
 letters of gold the names of those ' slain in the defence of liberty,' as the 
 old soldier custodian expressed it. There were vast numbers from all 
 parts ; their places of abode inscribed after each name. Some from Italy, 
 some from Ireland, and one or two Englishmen among them. We felt the 
 policy of thus ' provoking the silent dust with honor's voice,' especially 
 with such people as the Belgians, many of whom would almost sacrifice 
 their lives for the sake of a corner among those gilded names. Imagine 
 the powerful incentive on future occasions, when they know that if they 
 fall their families will be provided for, and their names go down to an ad- 
 miring posterity in letters of gold. 
 
 " ' Now remember,' said Stone, being dreadfully out of temper with our 
 commissioner, who wanted to take us to sec lace-making and nonsense of 
 that sort ' remember, I say, that pictures are our object, and as we have 
 very little time, you will be good enough to take us only to places where 
 pictures are to be seen.' 
 
 '" Very well, gentlemen ; very well,' was the invariable reply ; and as 
 invariably did he propose botanical gardens, or crockery-shops, or a sala- 
 mander ' a very rare beast ' that was to be seen a few miles away. The 
 conviction came upon us that he got a fee from the proprietors of these 
 different objects of attraction, and we told him so by way of stopping his 
 proposals ; but nothing would do he was the most persevering wretch I 
 ever met with. We had been told of a large collection of modern Belgian 
 and French pictures belonging to a merchant, a Mr. Van der Something. 
 So without more ado we ordered our commissioner to take us to what 
 seemed to plain English comprehension a large establishment in the gro- 
 cery business. We walked into a large shop, and were told by an old lady 
 
 who was serving behind t"he counter Mrs. Van der , I have no doubt 
 
 that if we would do her the honor to give ourselves the trouble to walk
 
 PICTURE-SEEING IN BELGIUM AND HOLLAND. 121 
 
 ' down there,' waving her hand gracefully towards an avenue of tea-chests, 
 orange-boxes, etc., etc., we should arrive at ' the picture-gallery. 1 We fol- 
 lowed her directions, and without losing our way among the groceries, we 
 
 reached the pictures and Mr. Van der himself, who was playing the 
 
 part of showman to some ladies and gentlemen who seemed in raptures 
 with the pictures. 'And is this,' we all exclaimed, ' a display of the choic- 
 est pictures that the Belgian school can produce ? if so, we may be justly 
 proud of our own.' But what were we to say to the picture-loving grocer, 
 who was all agape to catch our praise, and praise we could not? Wo 
 made a shabby excuse of being pressed for time, and so left him with a 
 firm conviction on his mind that we were three English fools who neither 
 cared for pictures nor understood them. 
 
 "'Now, gentlemen,' said the commissioner, 'there is only the Museum 
 where there are pictures, not good ones ' (there was nothing to pay there, 
 so our friend could receive no bribr); ' so you will perhaps have time to go 
 and see the lace-making; it is really ' 
 
 " ' Confound both you and the lace ! Why the devil don't you cease to 
 bother us !' said Stone. 
 
 " ' Very well, gentlemen ; very well.' 
 
 " So to the Museum we went, and found a very large and indifferent 
 collection, scarcely a good picture in the lot ; some real Rubens, but very 
 poor ones. There is really nothing that one remembers with pleasure. 
 This finished our picture-seeing, and we were nearly finished ourselves with 
 the intolerable heat and dust. 
 
 " ' Now, then, drive to the hotel as fast as these undertaker's horses of 
 yours will go.' 
 
 " ' Very well, gentlemen very well ; but there is a salamander to be 
 seen in the garden of ' 
 
 " ' D n the salamander and you too !' said Egg. 
 
 " ' Very well, gentlemen.' 
 
 " And to the hotel we went, and soon after found ourselves at the sta- 
 tion, attended by our commissioner, whose services were required to look 
 after the luggage. I think the fellow felt he had not made an agreeable 
 impression upon us, for as we were sitting in the train on the point of 
 starting for Antwerp, he put his ugly face in at the window, and said : 
 
 " ' I beg pardon, gentlemen, but if you should come to Brussels again, 
 I would advise you by all means to see the salamander : you have not such 
 a thing in ' 
 
 " We all three gave him our blessing, and in the midst of ' Very well, 
 gentlemen very well,' we left for Antwerp." 
 
 ANTWERP, Auguti, 1850. 
 
 " Stone not being well, Egg and I started early on our pictorial pilgrim- 
 age. Antwerp, of all Belgian towns, is richest in the pictures of Rubens. 
 In Antwerp he lived, and there he died ; his body lies in the church of St 
 Jacques, under the high-altar of a little chapel in one of the side aisles. 
 One of his finest pictures decorates the altar, the subject being a holy 
 family with attending saints. The handsomest of Rubens' wives repre- 
 6
 
 122 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 sents the Virgin ; the great painter himself is contented to play the in- 
 ferior part of St. George, while his children disport themselves as cherubim 
 of ravishing beauty. There can be no doubt that Rubens greatly honored 
 Antwerp, and in these latter days Antwerp has returned the compliment 
 by placing a large statue of him in the Place Vert, by calling streets and 
 hotels after him, and by placing the chair in which he sat, wreathed with 
 immortelles, in the Museum, where his works glow with colors that seem 
 as fresh after two hundred years as if they had just left the artist's palette. 
 Rubens was certainly one of the greatest geniuses the world has ever pro- 
 duced, and the rapidity with which his pictures were painted if we may 
 believe tradition is almost as wonderful as the pictures themselves. It is 
 said that the altar-piece at St. Jacques was begun and finished in six 
 weeks ! I am not disposed to dispute this, for granting the work to be an 
 almost miraculous performance, it is very likely to have been produced in 
 a miraculously short time. To such powers as this man possessed, noth- 
 ing seems impossible in the form of pictorial achievement. I had seen the 
 two grand pictures in the cathedral some years ago, and I am happy to say 
 I am more able to appreciate them now than I was then. Sir Joshua Rey- 
 nolds tells us that when he visited Antwerp seventy years ago, he lost much 
 time in going from church to church in quest of Rubens' pictures. We 
 were more fortunate, for though some of the finest are in the positions in 
 which Reynolds saw them, great numbers have been moved and now form 
 part of the national collection in the Museum." 
 
 The following gives my impressions of our journey to 
 Rotterdam en route to the Hague: 
 
 " I will now continue my account of our wanderings. We left Antwerp 
 with regret, and having the choice of going to Rotterdam, en route to the 
 Hague, either by sea or by canal, we preferred the latter. The trip, all 
 the way from Antwerp, is the pleasantest that can be imagined ; there is 
 the usual nuisance of the examination of luggage on the frontier of Hol- 
 land as a slight drawback. The steamer stopped opposite a dirty-looking 
 fishing town, and a couple of important functionaries belonging to the ex- 
 cise came on board and made themselves as unpleasant as possible. How- 
 ever, they found nothing contraband, so we were allowed to proceed on 
 our journey. Dordrecht or, as it is commonly called, Dort was the 
 birthplace and residence of Cuyp, one of the great luminaries of the Dutch 
 school. The scenes of most of his works lay by and on the rivers and 
 canals about Dort, and after seeing so many of this great painter's works, 
 it was quite curious to meet at almost every turn of the river some spot 
 that seemed familiar to us ; and it was not till we remembered that we 
 were in the locality of so many of Cuyp's pictures that we could persuade 
 ourselves that we had not often visited the places that we now saw for the 
 first time." 
 
 Here end the extracts from the letters written when the 
 impressions they record were fresh. I think I must have
 
 PICTURE-SEEING IN BELGIUM AND HOLLAND. 123 
 
 written much about the Hague, so rich is that place in 
 pictorial treasures. If I did, the letter has been lost; but 
 as I have visited the Hague since, and my notes on the 
 pictures may be found elsewhere in these reminiscences, 
 the lost letter is of no consequence.
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 SERVICE OF ART IN DETECTION OF CRIME. 
 
 STONE painted charming pictures, which were engraved 
 and very popular; notably a pair, "The First Appeal" 
 and "The Last Appeal." Love was the theme of these 
 and of most of Stone's work. The two " Appeals " were 
 bought by Mr. Baring, and were injured in a fire that 
 took place at that gentleman's house. "The Last Ap- 
 peal " caught fire first, and much of the paint was burned 
 from the canvas, " The First Appeal " being but slightly 
 injured. On hearing of the fate that had befallen the 
 pictures, Douglas Jerrold is reported to have said, " Dear 
 me, ' The Last Appeal ' was ' the first to peel.' " 
 
 Stone was one of the Dickens Theatrical Company, and 
 played many good .parts admirably; his handsome face 
 and fine figure, conspicuous off the stage, were of great 
 service to him upon it. He told me of one of Jerrold's 
 sarcastic sayings, perfectly indifferent to its application to 
 himself. Stone had replaced his chimney-pot hat by a 
 travelling-cap, during one of the hot and dusty journeys 
 of the company to Manchester. The hat was so placed as 
 to make it the receptacle of much dust and dirt. 
 
 "Look here," he said to Jerrold, "my hat is half full of 
 rubbish." 
 
 " It is used to that," was the reply. 
 
 I never sought Jerrold's acquaintance. I was afraid 
 of him, for I dreaded his tongue. I was mistaken, no 
 doubt, in estimating his character by the seeming brutal- 
 ity of some of the sarcasms he uttered, for those who knew 
 him intimately all agreed in declaring Jerrold to be one 
 of the kindest-hearted men living. Compton, the actor, 
 agreed in this, but told me of an instance of Jerrold's ready 
 wit, which, to the ordinary mind, scarcely bears out the
 
 SERVICE OF ART IN DETECTION OP CRIME. 125 
 
 amiable theory. Jerrold was roving about the West End 
 in search of a house that he had been commissioned to 
 hire for the season for a country friend. Compton met 
 and accompanied him into a house, and in one of the 
 rooms was a large mirror that reflected the visitor from 
 top to toe : 
 
 "There," said Compton, pointing to his own figure, 
 " that's what I call a picture." 
 
 " Yes," said Jerrold, " it only wants hanging." 
 
 I must now return to Ivy Cottage, where Egg lived for 
 many years. At the corner of what is now Queen's Road 
 stood an inn called the Black Lion; from that hostelry, 
 and extending down the only part of the ground then 
 built upon, was a high hedge, which enclosed Ivy Cottage 
 and the garden surrounding it. The house was very old 
 and very picturesque, and had long been the residence 
 of the eminent engraver Reynolds, known as one of the 
 best translators of his great namesake's works. Reynolds' 
 workroom became Egg's studio; it was approached through 
 the dining-room, in which so many of my happiest even- 
 ings were spent. Mulready, whose art needs no eulogy 
 from me, became a frequent guest. It was some time, how- 
 ever, before he could be induced to accept Egg's oft- 
 repeated invitations. I knew Mulready very well, and one 
 day Egg begged me to try to discover Mulready's reason 
 for so constantly declining his invitations. 
 
 " The truth is," said Mulready, " I don't want to meet 
 Leech, who, I understand, constantly dines with you all." 
 
 " May I ask why, sir ?" said I. 
 
 " Yes, I will tell you. You know the postage envelope 
 that I designed, and which has been so mercilessly crit- 
 icised well, Leech caricatured it. I don't mind a bit 
 about that; but what I think I have a right to object to is 
 the insult offered to me by a little bottle in the corner of 
 the caricature with a leech in it. lie implies that I am a 
 leech, a blood-sucker, in respect of the remuneration I have 
 received for my art generally, and no doubt, also, for that 
 confounded postal envelope in particular. Now, you know 
 that my prices have never been extravagant," etc. 
 
 I was so amazed that any one could be ignorant of
 
 126 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 Leech's usual manner of signing his drawings that I could 
 scarcely find words to reply, and still more difficult was it 
 to refrain from annoying the old artist by laughing in his 
 face. Suffice it to say that I made the matter clear to 
 Mulready, and obtained from him an eager promise to ac- 
 cept Egg's next invitation. Leech was present at the 
 dinner first attended by Mulready, when he heard with 
 amused astonishment, from Mulready himself, of his mis- 
 understanding of the leech in the bottle. The two artists 
 became great friends. 
 
 Mark Lemon, then editor of Punch, was a constant 
 guest at Egg's dinners. He was occasionally accompa- 
 nied by a friend whose society was delightful until he had 
 taken the quantity of wine that usually makes ordinary 
 people jovial; he then became quarrelsome, unless Dickens 
 happened to be a guest, when the august presence gen- 
 erally saved Egg's wine, and ourselves from unpleasant- 
 ness. 
 
 Lemon always watched the approach of inebriety, and 
 
 on one occasion he said to me : " Look at B , he is 
 
 trying to peel an apple with the nutcrackers; so I shall 
 have to carry him off very soon." 
 
 When Hans Christian Andersen was staying with Dick- 
 ens, Lemon was invited to meet the celebrated Dane at 
 dinner; and on the occasion Lemon was more than usually 
 entertaining, so much so as to cause Andersen to say : 
 " Ah, Mr. Lemon, I like you; you are so full of comic." 
 
 At one of Egg's dinners Mulready told us of an advent- 
 ure with a highwayman in nearly the following words : 
 
 " I have lived somewhere or other in Bayswater all my 
 life; and when I was a student at Somerset House, about 
 the year 1805, 1 always walked along what is now called 
 the Bayswater Road, down to the Strand and back again 
 no omnibuses in those days, and hackney-coaches were be- 
 yond my pocket. One bright moonlight night I had pro- 
 ceeded about as far as where the town-end of Westbourne 
 Terrace is now nothing but a country lane then; not a 
 house of any kind near when a man came out of the shad- 
 ow thrown by a large tree-, and, producing a pistol, ad- 
 dressed me in the usual robber fashion with
 
 SERVICE OP ART IN DETECTION OF CRIME. 127 
 
 " ' Your watch and money, please.' 
 
 " * I am a poor artist,' said I. ' See, these are my draw- 
 ings. I haven't got a watch; I have never been able to 
 buy one.' 
 
 " ' Your money then, and be quick !' 
 
 " All this time I was watching the fellow's face by the 
 moonlight; it was very white, and I think he was more 
 frightened than I was. I gave him all the silver I had 
 about me; he then said 'Good-night' civilly enough, and 
 started off towards London. 
 
 "I made the best of my way home, and before I went 
 to bed I drew the man's face very carefully, and very like 
 him, as the sequel will prove. The next morning I went 
 to Bow Street with my drawing, in the hope that it might 
 be recognized by the officers there, as being like some one 
 known to them; but no. Several of them examined it 
 carefully, and attentively listened to my story; but the 
 face, they said, was new to them. 
 
 " ' If you will leave the likeness here, sir,' said the chief 
 ' runner,' ' we may perhaps come across the person it rep- 
 resents.' 
 
 "That event very soon happened; for, if my memory 
 serves me, a fortnight had scarcely passed before I had a 
 call from the Bow Street officer, who told me he believed 
 my friend was caught; 'could I go with him at once? he 
 had a coach at the door.' We rumbled away to a watch- 
 house somewhere near Southwark Bridge. We entered 
 the room, and found a man dressed like a sailor toasting 
 a red herring over the fire. He turned at the noise made 
 by the opening of the door, and I recognized my thief. I 
 walked up to him and said: 
 
 " ' How do you do ?' 
 
 "'Pretty well, thank you, sir. Shall be better when I 
 have put this herring out of the way.' 
 
 " 'Ah ! if you had confined yourself to putting herrings 
 out of the way it would have been better for you,' said the 
 officer. 
 
 " ' Oh, gammon ! I am innocent of that,' replied the 
 sailor. 
 
 " ' What is he supposed to have done now ?' said I.
 
 128 MY AUTOBIOGEAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 " Why, sir, only murdering the toll-keeper on South- 
 wark Bridge and robbing tlus place.' 
 
 " ' Do you remember me ?' said I. 
 
 " ' No, sir ; I never saw you before.' 
 
 " ' What ! not on a moonlight night in the Oxford 
 Road?' 
 
 " ' Couldn't have been me, sir never was in the Oxford 
 Road in my life.' 
 
 "The murder was proved as easily as I could have 
 proved my charge against the man, and he was hanged." 
 
 Mulready was fond of attending trials of great criminals. 
 He showed me drawings of many whose crimes and names 
 are forgotten. I think it was about 1824 when Mr. Will- 
 iam Weare was murdered by Thurtell. The circumstances 
 connected with that crime are so well known as to render 
 any recapitulation of them by me unnecessary. Mulready 
 was in court during the trial, when he drew likenesses of 
 Thurtell and his accomplices Hunt and Probert, and found 
 his sketch-book serviceable for a strange purpose. 
 
 A portion of Weare's skull had been broken by Thur- 
 tell's pistol into several small pieces, which the surgeon, 
 who was giving evidence, vainly tried to piece together, 
 so as to fit them into that part of the skull that had es- 
 caped fracture. Seeing that the surgeon's nervousness 
 rendered him quite incapable of obeying the judge's order, 
 Mulready offered his services; and on the back of his 
 sketch-book he fitted together the pieces of bone " as you 
 would a puzzle " he said to me and handed them to the 
 jury. Thurtell was hanged, and his body consigned to 
 the surgeons. We had casts which had been taken from 
 different parts of him at Sass's school, to help us in our 
 anatomical studies. All new students were introduced 
 to Thurtell's eyelashes, which had adhered to the plaster 
 when the cast was taken, our practice being to rub the 
 new-comer's nose into them. 
 
 I may give one more instance of the service art has 
 been in detecting crime. My friend O'Neil, in passing a 
 public-house opposite Kensington Church, was robbed of 
 his watch. He was ascertaining the time by gas-light, 
 when a man snatched it from him after a very short strug-
 
 SERVICE OP ART IN DETECTION OP CRIME. 129 
 
 gle, sprang into a gig that was standing at the door, and 
 drove off. The time for observation was very short, but 
 it was long enough to enable O'Neil to fix the man's face 
 in his mind, and also upon paper when he got home. 
 
 The police were presented with the copy, and requested 
 to look out for the original; who was soon after arrested 
 and committed for trial. O'Neil's drawing was produced, 
 and considered, together with his sworn recognition, suffi- 
 cient proof of the man's guilt, in spite of a very able de- 
 fence by his counsel, who ridiculed the drawing mercilessly, 
 declaring it was as much like Julius Csesar as the prisoner 
 at the bar. 
 
 " The man was convicted," said O'Neil, " and the sen- 
 tence was no sooner passed than there came a message 
 from that impudent barrister asking me to let him keep 
 the drawing, as he considered it such a capital likeness of 
 the man." 
 
 It was possible to see into Ivy Cottage from the top of 
 an omnibus, or any vehicle higher than the hedge that 
 separated the house from the Queen's Road; and it was 
 also easy to see tempting objects to thieves, for the side- 
 board in the dining-room, with much valuable silver upon 
 it, was plainly visible. Whether Egg's riches were dis- 
 covered in the way I have pointed out or not, was never 
 known; but one night the house was burglariously entered, 
 and silver of the value of more than a hundred pounds was 
 carried off. Egg made a sketch of the scene that his din- 
 ing-room presented on the morning after the robbery, lie 
 drew himself standing in his dressing-gown, ruefully con- 
 templating some heaps of salt which the thieves had emp- 
 tied on to his red-velvet easy-chair out of the silver salt- 
 cellars. 
 6*
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 THE "COMIXG OF AGE." 
 
 I MUST now take leave of Ivy Cottage, and return to 
 more personal matter. The success that had attended the 
 pictures of the "Merry-making" and "The Old Woman 
 Accused of Witchcraft " encouraged me to further effort 
 in the direction of large compositions. 
 
 Fear of modern-life subjects still possessed me. The 
 hat and trousers pictures that I had seen attempted had 
 all been dismal failures; and I felt sure, or thought I did, 
 that unless a subject of tremendous human interest could 
 be found such an interest as should make the spectator 
 forget the dresses of the actors in it modern life was im- 
 possible; and as no such subject presented itself, I took 
 refuge in bygone times ; and, during my seaside holiday 
 in 1848,1 made a sketch for a picture to be called "Com- 
 ing of Age," the period being about that of Elizabeth. 
 The scene is laid in the quadrangle of an old English 
 mansion. On steps leading to the house stands the young 
 heir, listening to an address of congratulation read by an 
 old man, who may be parish clerk. Groups of villagers, 
 tenants, and others surround the reader, several of whom 
 bring gifts. An armorer presents a helmet decked with 
 flowers; a falconer's boy is in charge of two dogs (deer 
 and blood hounds) ; an old woman, who may have been 
 the young lord's nurse, with clasped hands invokes a bless- 
 ing upon him; and in the background peasants and neigh- 
 bors are regaling on an ox roasted whole, that affords a 
 satisfactory piece de resistance. Some noble relatives of 
 the young heir stand behind him. 
 
 My authorities for the background were Hever Castle, 
 and Heslington Hall-, near York. This picture has been 
 well engraved, and therefore may be so familiar to my 
 reader as to make further description of it needless.
 
 TOE "COMING OF AGE." 131 
 
 After the much greater difficulties of finding appropriate 
 models, costume is one of the most troublesome details 
 that a painter has to contend with. Many visits to the 
 Print-room of the British Museum may be paid in vain. 
 The authorities are difficult to find, and when found, and 
 the masquerade-shop is rummaged, only to discover tinsel 
 and theatrical absurdities in the shape of dresses that no 
 human creature ever wore at any time, except on the 
 boards of a minor theatre, the artist's trouble may be 
 imagined. In these days there are persons learned in an- 
 cient dress, whose assistance to the painter is very valua- 
 ble, and to be acquired at a reasonable price ; but when 
 the " Coming of Age " was painted no such advantage 
 existed, and the dresses for my picture had to be made 
 from the best authorities I could find. I was so fortunate 
 as to see an ox roasted whole a ceremony that was ad- 
 vertised to take place at the opening of a cattle-market at 
 Islington. 
 
 I think neither sight nor smell were altogether pleasant, 
 and the company was doubtful. I stood on a bench, from 
 which I could sketch the huge roast, and at my feet stood 
 a youth of somewhat criminal aspect. He was occupied 
 innocently enough, when two men made their way through 
 the crowd, one of whom seized the lad's hands, while the 
 other instantly handcuffed him. I can hear now the click 
 of the handcuffs and the lad's " Wot's this for ?" and the 
 thief-takers' reply : " You know what it's for, and you 
 come along." 
 
 I find by my diary that the "Coming of Age " was be- 
 gun on one of the last days in September, 1848, and fin- 
 ished in April, 1849; and if some of my young student 
 friends could see my diaries for the last five-and-forty 
 years, they would see a record of incessant work no day, 
 literally, without a line that I do believe would surprise 
 them. My work has never been interrupted, I am thank- 
 ful to say, by illness, and I never allowed it to be inter- 
 rupted by anything else. 
 
 In my early days I worked on Sundays following the 
 example of those about me in spite of the remonstrances 
 of my good mother, who used every argument she could
 
 132 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 think of to prevent my persisting in doing what she knew 
 to be wicked; and being fully persuaded that even world- 
 ly success could never attend such doings, she finished a 
 homily one day by telling me that if I " persisted in work- 
 ing on the Sabbath, I should never be worth a farthing as 
 long as I lived." 
 
 In reply I said: "My dear mother, I don't defend work- 
 ing on Sunday for a moment; but with respect to the 
 curse of poverty following such doings, you must remem- 
 ber Sir Joshua Reynolds always painted on Sundays, and 
 he died worth seventy-three thousand pounds in the three 
 per cents." 
 
 " That has nothing whatever to do with it," replied my 
 mother. 
 
 This has always struck me as a delightful example of 
 the logical faculty in the female mind. 
 
 In the production of a work of art, friendly or un- 
 friendly criticism is of great value, but few advantages 
 are more difficult to secure. Men paint in various styles, 
 and the ordinary habit is for one's critic to be unable to 
 identify himself with the intention of the friend whose 
 picture he has to criticise. He cannot help you along the 
 road you have chosen, because his own course of treat- 
 ment would have been altogether different. Hence, some 
 of the greatest artists I have known have been useless as 
 critics ; while other and very inferior painters, having 
 both inclination and power to place themselves, as it were, 
 on one's own standpoint, have been of infinite service. 
 There are two kinds of critics : one may be too good-nat- 
 ured, and the other too severe I have gained and greatly 
 suffered by the latter. I always know when I have been 
 successful by the savage way in which my friend attacks 
 me. All lay criticism is, in my opinion, almost useless. 
 There are exceptions, no doubt; and I recall one as I 
 write, in the person of one of the smallest men conceiva- 
 ble Peter Powell. Peter was the intimate friend of 
 Washington Irving, Stewart Newton, R.A., and C. R. 
 Leslie, R.A. In the autobiography of the last-named 
 justice is done to the humorous side of Powell's charac- 
 ter ; his critical powers are not mentioned.
 
 TUB "COMING OP AGE." 133 
 
 I made Peter's acquaintance while I was painting the 
 " Coming of Age." He often saw the picture, and it was 
 the better for his visits. As he sat behind me one day, he 
 told the following story. I should premise that Powell 
 was a clerk in the War Office, and during his usual holi- 
 day he joined a party of friends on an excursion to Switz- 
 erland, via the Rhine, leaving his mother (with whom, 
 being unmarried, he constantly resided) at his house in 
 London. From all I heard, the affection that commonly 
 exists between son and mother was on Powell's side of 
 extraordinary tenderness; and though what I am about 
 to relate may seem to prove that a man of remarkable 
 common-sense may be subject to superstitious terrors, the 
 simple way in which Powell told his story, and my knowl- 
 edge of his perfect truthfulness, leave no doubt in my 
 mind that the events happened as he related them. 
 
 The party had reached Basle, having fully enjoyed the 
 beauties of the Rhine; and, after a very fatiguing day, 
 Powell retired to bed and was immediately sound asleep. 
 How long he had slept he had no means of knowing, when 
 he was awoke by what appeared to be the sound of his 
 own name. At first he gave a dream credit for an illu- 
 sion, and was composing himself for a second sleep, when, 
 as it seemed, close to his ear, his name was repeated, and 
 in the unmistakable voice of his mother. Further sleep 
 was now out of the question. Powell rose from his bed, 
 struck a match, and by its light he ascertained the precise 
 time twenty-one minutes past three ! He lighted candles, 
 dressed, and tried to read till daylight. There were no 
 telegraphs, nor indeed railways, at the time of these 
 events; and the uncertainty of the travellers' movements 
 made communication by post almost impossible. Though 
 Powell had hitherto laughed at the stories of the dead 
 speaking to the living, to announce the time of their de- 
 parture from this world, his experience of this night 
 might prove the truth of what is so commonly believed : 
 and so completely did this idea possess him that further 
 participation in a pleasure-trip was out of the question, 
 and, in spite of the earnest entreaties of his friends armed 
 with all the usual arguments used in such cases he deter-
 
 134 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 mined to return home as fast as post-horses could take him, 
 and learn the worst. 
 
 " Never in my life," said Powell, " did I suffer so terri- 
 bly. My mother had always been more than a mother to 
 me she was the cleverest, best of women. I thought the 
 journey would never end; but end it did at last, and with 
 a beating heart I went towards my home, henceforth to 
 be desolate. The servant started and turned pale when 
 she opened the door; I could not speak, but rushed past 
 her, and, scarcely knowing what I did, I flung open the 
 sitting-room door, and found my mother reading the ' Pil- 
 grim's Progress.' She started like the servant, but with- 
 out turning pale ; on the contrary, I never saw her looking 
 better, as she took me in her arms and said: 
 
 " ' Good gracious, Peter ! what has brought you back 
 so soon ? and what is the matter with you ? What are 
 you crying for ? Do tell me what has brought you back 
 before your holiday is half over !' 
 
 " ' You did !' said I, when I could recover myself; 'you 
 called me !' 
 
 " And many a laugh the dear old lady and I had over 
 my spoiled holiday, and my stupidity in spoiling it. But, 
 mind you, nothing will ever convince me that 1 was asleep, 
 or dreaming, or suffering from indigestion, or that I did 
 not distinctly hear my mother's voice." 
 
 Admission to the ranks of the Royal Academy carries 
 with it many advantages. Among the most valuable, and 
 sometimes the most abused, is the right to " the line " for 
 eight works; and though that privilege has been curtailed 
 in the present day by a sort of arrangement that no mem- 
 ber shall claim to have more than four pictures conspicu- 
 ously placed, certain favored individuals sometimes the 
 least deserving are permitted to ignore the salutary reg- 
 ulation and parade their enfeebled powers, to the injury 
 of the exhibition and to their own discomfiture. In my 
 early days, the associates were seldom allowed to exhibit 
 in the Large Room at all, and scarcely ever given more 
 than one place upon the line; nearly all my own smaller 
 pictures, including " Sir Roger do Coverley and the Spec- 
 tator," "The Good-natured Man" now in the Sheep-
 
 THE "COMING OP AGE." 135 
 
 shanks Gallery and many others, were hung near the 
 floor, or in dark and secluded corners. The " Coming of 
 Age " was very kindly placed in one of the much-coveted 
 angles of the Middle Room; the Press notices, then eager- 
 ly read by me, were on the whole favorable. Thackeray, 
 advocating the more frequent illustration of modern life, 
 asked, in a review of the exhibition, " Why, when a man 
 comes of age, should it be thought desirable that he should 
 come of the age of Elizabeth ?" and another critic sug- 
 gested that it would have been better if such an ill-drawn, 
 idiotic youth as Mr. Frith represents had been cut off in 
 infancy, and so been prevented from " coming of age " 
 at all. 
 
 Between the production of such large compositions as 
 the " Merry-making," " Witchcraft," and " Coming of 
 Age " pictures, many small works were painted, and 
 among them was one called "A Gleaner," a half-length 
 of a girl carrying a sheaf of corn. I cannot claim the 
 entire design of this little study, for it was arranged part- 
 ly by Frederick Tayler, the then president of the Water- 
 Color Society, who, being ambitious to try his hand in oil- 
 colors, had come to me for some friendly lessons in a part 
 of the art with which he was unfamiliar. Though ham- 
 pered by a strange method, he succeeded in producing a 
 charming study, which was immediately bought by Mr. 
 Jacob Bell; and if the great demand for his water-color 
 drawings would have allowed him time for different prac- 
 tice in oil, I have no doubt that my old friend my very 
 old friend, for he survives at the ripe age of eighty-seven 
 would have rivalled his own excellence in water-colors. 
 
 My little " Gleaner " became the property of a Mr. G , 
 
 of Birmingham, who dealt in wearing-apparel as well as 
 pictures. My price, thirty guineas, was cheerfully paid. 
 Before the picture left me it was seen by a Mr. Birt, who 
 was forming a collection of small pictures, and by his sug- 
 gestion I repeated the subject, but changing the half-length 
 into a representation of the entire figure, with a background 
 of Scottish mountain scenery. Before beginning the sec- 
 ond picture I wrote to Mr. G , asking his permission, 
 
 as I felt bound to do, and he replied that he would consent
 
 136 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 on the condition of his having the refusal of the proposed 
 picture. The background became of such importance in 
 the new work that I feared to undertake it, and I proposed 
 to Creswick that he should assist; to this he consented for 
 "a consideration." The picture was finished; Mr. Birt 
 saw it, and offered what appeared to me the monstrous 
 sum of a hundred and fifty guineas for it. After many 
 struggles between my modesty and my avarice, and after 
 hearing from many friends that I should be a bigger fool 
 than I looked which I was assured was impossible if I 
 
 asked Mr. G a lower price than another was willing 
 
 to pay, I accordingly wrote to Mr. G , and received 
 
 the following reply: 
 
 "DEAR SIR, If I read your note correctly, and you ask the sum of 150 
 guineas for the picture of the ' Gleaner,' I beg to decline it. 
 
 "Yours, etc., J. G ." 
 
 I was not surprised, and Mr. Birt was pleased or he 
 said he was when he paid the largest price I had then 
 
 received for so small a work. I can imagine Mr. G 's 
 
 disappointment if he heard years afterwards that he had 
 neglected a good investment; for at the sale of Mr. Birt's 
 pictures the " Gleaner " fetched seven hundred guineas. 
 This picture, after passing through several hands, is now 
 in the possession of Mr. Fender, in Arlington Street. 
 
 I hope in noticing strange instances of the caprices of 
 value of my own works, I shall not lay myself open to a 
 charge of vainglorious boasting; nor will I allow the fear 
 of such an accusation to prevent my naming any instance 
 that may occur to me which I think may illustrate the 
 great demand for certain kinds of art, the production of 
 others' as well as of my own hard-worked brush. 
 
 It was during the varnishing-days of the year in which 
 the "Coming of Age" was exhibited that I first saw Sir 
 William Allan, the intimate friend of Walter Scott and 
 Wilkie. At luncheon-time a little gray old gentleman 
 made his appearance, and was received with cheers. 
 
 " Who is that ?" said I to Maclise. 
 
 " That's Wullie Allan," was the reply. 
 
 Wilkie had been dead some years, and there was much
 
 THE "COMING OF AGE." 137 
 
 talk of him and his early life in London, deeply interest- 
 ing to me. A great deal of it has escaped my memory, 
 but the following anecdote, told by Mulready, may enter- 
 tain others as it did me: 
 
 After the death of Wilkie's father a Scottish minister 
 his mother and sister came to London and charged 
 themselves with the care of Wilkie's home in Norton 
 Street, where the eminent painter was producing year by 
 year the works on which bis great reputation will mainly 
 rest. Mulready was his fellow-student sometimes his 
 model, as in the "Duncan Gray" and so intimate as to 
 be a constant guest in Norton Street. Mrs. Wilkie's 
 health began to fail from the time of her arrival in Lon- 
 don, and she became at last so seriously ill that recovery 
 seemed almost hopeless. Mulready was constant in sym- 
 pathy with Wilkie's anxiety, calling most days to make 
 inquiry. Norton Street now, I think, called by another 
 name was then so quiet that study could be pursued with 
 comfort. Street-musicians found no encouragement, and 
 pretty generally tried their fortune elsewhere. Great was 
 Mulready's surprise then, on entering the long street one 
 afternoon, to hear the distant sound of bagpipes. Strange, 
 for not a piper was to be seen ; and stranger still, the sound 
 grew louder and louder as Mulready approached Wilkie's 
 door, when it became evident that the performer was play- 
 ing inside the house. Mulready knocked, not without the 
 fear that his knocking might be drowned by the music, 
 and Wilkie opened the door. Speech was impossible, and 
 Mulready was taken into the parlor, where a Highlander 
 was playing for dear life. When the music ceased Wilkie 
 said : " Well, ye see the mother is not so well to-day. She 
 said she would like to hear the music again, for she is aye 
 fond of the pipes." 
 
 My second picture in the Exhibition of 1849 was taken 
 from " Don Quixote," and represented the immortal Don 
 at dinner with the duke and duchess. Don Quixote's hesi- 
 tation to yield to the duke's invitation to take the head of 
 the table a position always offered to an honored guest 
 drew from Sancho a story which he thought appropriate 
 to the occasion.
 
 138 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 "Then thus" (quoth Sancho), "both of them being 
 ready to sit down, the husbandman contended with the 
 gentleman not to sit uppermost, and he with the other 
 that he should, as meaning to command in his own house; 
 but the husbandman, presuming to be mannerly and cour- 
 teous, never would, till the gentleman, very moody, lay- 
 ing hands upon him, made him sit down perforce, saying, 
 ' Sit down, you thresher ! for wheresoe'er I sit, that shall 
 be the table's end to thee.' And now you have my tale; 
 and, truly, I believe it was brought in here pretty well to 
 the purpose. Don Quixote's face was in a thousand col- 
 ors, that jaspered on his brow." Don Quixote, Part II., 
 chap. xxxi. 
 
 This picture was a commission from Mr. Frederic Huth, 
 in whose house in Palace Gardens it still remains, sur- 
 rounded by companions of great excellence; notably a 
 magnificent Constable, an exquisite Wilkie, and good 
 pictures by many of our best painters. 
 
 It is always agreeable to be able to note instances of 
 liberality, as well as intelligent critical supervision, during 
 the execution of a work; and in my commission from Mr. 
 Huth I experienced both. When I produced my sketch 
 my employer asked me to name a price for the picture 
 that would be satisfactory to me, and on my hesitating he 
 named one himself, much in excess of what I should have 
 demanded. To name a price for a picture before it is be- 
 gun is always difficult, and even dangerous, to one party 
 concerned or the other. Wilkie used to say, "No man 
 can tell how a picture will turn out. You should never 
 name your price till your work is done; it may prove to 
 be worth more than you imagined or less. It is just im- 
 possible to work up to a precise sum. Besides, ye ought 
 to be thinking of money as little as possible." I think I 
 succeeded in some respects very well in my " Quixote " 
 picture; the Sancho and the Chaplain being thought suc- 
 cessful, the Don less so, from the extreme almost insur- 
 mountable difficulty of giving to his figure the dignity 
 that his appearance, the lank jaw and attenuated form, 
 are so apt to destroy; and it is only in such hands as 
 Leslie's that the difficulty disappears. On the whole,
 
 THE "COMING OP AGE." 139 
 
 my reputation was advanced by the exhibition of the two 
 pictures. 
 
 It was about this time that I painted, in conjunction 
 with my friend Ansdell, a picture called "The Keeper's 
 Daughter." The subject was simple enough a pretty 
 girl feeding dogs in a Highland cottage Ansdell being 
 responsible for the animals, I for the figure and the rest 
 of the picture. H. T. Ryall, to whom we owed the com- 
 mission for " The Keeper's Daughter," was an engraver 
 of the first rank; his finest work, perhaps, being a transla- 
 tion of Wilkie's " Columbus." The print from our joint 
 performance was successful, and the picture, having served 
 its purpose, was disposed of by its proprietor; under what 
 circumstances I never knew. A few years after the pict- 
 ure had disappeared, I was taken by a friend to see a large 
 
 collection belonging to a Mr. F , a retired tanner, who 
 
 had a mansion at Blackheath. I was warned that Mr. 
 
 F had been the victim of a certain dealer, from whom 
 
 nearly all his pictures had been bought at a cost of many 
 thousand pounds, and that some of them were spurious. 
 Mr. F received my friend and me with great polite- 
 ness, and before he showed us his collection, he so seri- 
 ously begged for our candid opinion as to give rise to the 
 idea in my mind that, from some cause or other, doubts of 
 the pictures' excellence or originality, or both, had taken 
 root in his mind. Every room was filled with pictures, 
 and the staircases were lined with them. One of the first 
 to be noticed was of an Italian boy, with hurdy-gurdy and 
 white mice, in which the hand of a member of the British 
 Artists in Suffolk Street was easily traced, and I named 
 him. 
 
 "Oh, no !" said Mr. F ; "that is by Eastlake, your 
 
 president, you know." Anything less like Eastlake's work 
 it would be impossible to imagine. "I paid a large sum 
 for that picture, because it is a subject not often attempted 
 by Eastlake." 
 
 The vilest daubs were shown us as genuine Wilkies, Tur- 
 ners, Websters, etc. Two red herrings hanging against a 
 realistic deal-board were by Turner; a Holy Family by 
 Webster, and so on ; indeed, all the pictures were as
 
 140 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 curiously unlike, in the subjects peculiar to each artist, 
 as they were in manner of production. After going 
 through a series of terrible examples of bad art, Mr. 
 F said: 
 
 "Now I will show you a picture by an unknown painter; 
 I bought it in Wardour Street as a Landseer. Here it is; 
 you shall judge for yourselves. I know it is not a Land- 
 seer, and I think you will agree with me that, great as 
 Landseer is, he never equalled my ' Daniel in the Lions' 
 Den.'" So saying, our collector uncovered a picture so 
 vile as to make us wonder that ignorance could be so great 
 
 as to find merit in such a thing. " There," said Mr. F , 
 
 "I think you will agree with me that Landseer never 
 painted such a picture as that." 
 
 "I agree with you, sir," said my friend; "Landseer 
 could not paint such a picture to save his life." 
 
 We saw many Landseers, every one spurious. 
 
 "Now," said Mr. F , pointing to a mahogany box, 
 
 "I have here a Landseer which I only show to particular 
 friends." He unlocked the case, and lo ! my " Keeper's 
 Daughter !" " I gave twelve hundred guineas for that, 
 and I consider I got it at a bargain." 
 
 This was too much. Silence would have been crim- 
 inal. 
 
 "Sir," said I, "you have been cheated; that picture is 
 the joint production of myself and Mr. Ansdell." 
 
 " Oh, come now you don't mean to say that !" in ac- 
 cents of alarm. 
 
 "Indeed, I must say it; and, after much consideration, 
 I feel it to be a duty to tell you that scarcely a picture in 
 your house is painted by the artist whose name is attached 
 to it." 
 
 " Why, I have got a warranty with lots of them !" 
 
 " Get your money back then, if the law will give it to 
 you," said I. 
 
 Mr. F was silent for some moments; he then said: 
 
 "All the Landseers, do you say?" 
 
 "Yes," said I; "all." 
 
 " Do you think Mr. Landseer would come here and con- 
 firm that?" said Mr. F .
 
 THE "COMING OF AGE." 141 
 
 " I am sure he would; and if you desire it, I will speak 
 to him immediately on the matter." 
 
 To end the story, Landseer went to Blackheath, accom- 
 panied by his brother Charles, when he endorsed our opin- 
 ions, of course so far as his own supposititious doings were 
 concerned. But, after all, there was a Landseer in the col- 
 lection, in the shape of an old lion, the size of life, which 
 was used as a chimney-board at Charles Landseer's house, 
 and painted by that artist, but elevated in the Blackheath 
 collection into a splendid position on the walls, with the- 
 advantage of a superb frame and a curtain before it. Mr. 
 
 F had not confined his admiration for art entirely to 
 
 modern specimens. A few ancient pictures, or what he 
 thought such, had a room to themselves. Among the rest 
 were three pictures a Quentin Matsys, a Vandyke, and a 
 Wouvermans. It cannot be denied that merit and origi- 
 nality in works of art are matters of opinion, more or less 
 valuable according to the taste and knowledge of those 
 who are for the moment in the judgment-seat; but it 
 sometimes happens that opinion may be backed up by in- 
 controvertible proofs. Mr. F 's Quentin Matsys, for 
 
 instance, contained several figures dressed in the costume 
 of George II., and as the great Dutch painter lived some 
 hundreds of years before George IL, the picture could not 
 be his work. The Vandyke represented Charles II. in 
 
 about the fiftieth year of his age. Mr. F produced 
 
 documents tracing the descent of the portrait from the 
 time of Vandyke, with the names of the noble owners 
 whose different collections it had adorned. 
 
 " I fear, sir," said I, " that I can prove to you that it is 
 impossible that Vandyke can have painted that pict- 
 ure." 
 
 " Can you ?" said Mr. F , who had become a little 
 
 irritable. " I should like to see you do it." 
 
 "You shall," said I. "Now tell me, how old does 
 Charles look in that picture ?" 
 
 "How old?" said Mr. F ; "what on earth can that 
 
 have to do with it? How old? well, I should say pretty 
 nearly fifty." 
 
 " Just so," said I. " Well, then, as Vandyke died when
 
 142 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 Charles II. was twelve years old, he could not have paint- 
 ed the king when he was fifty." 
 
 The Wouvermans was a bad modern copy of a well- 
 known picture in the National Gallery. Mr. F as- 
 sured us that all good judges considered his picture the 
 original, and that in the National Collection a copy.
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 SUBJECTS FROM GOLDSMITH, SMOLLETT, AND MOLIERE. 
 
 THE Sheepshanks Collection, now at South Kensington, 
 was founded by one of a class of collectors extinct at this 
 time. Mr. Sheepshanks was a sleeping partner in a cloth 
 firm at Leeds. His London residence was at Rutland 
 Gate, where, in a charming gallery, the greater part of 
 his collection was displayed. Like all people possessed of 
 art treasures, Mr. Sheepshanks was annoyed by the impor- 
 tunity of strangers, whose requests to see his house and 
 his pictures were always refused, and not always in the 
 language of Lord Chesterfield. Being a bachelor, and, 
 though early in life, a very hospitable one, the expense of 
 his household could not have been great, nor could the 
 prices of his pictures, for he told me that he never pos- 
 sessed an income of more than fifteen hundred a year; and 
 out of that, to use his own words, "I have always paid 
 my way, and paid for my pictures, too." Mr. Sheep- 
 shanks may, I think, be considered to have been some- 
 what irascible. The sight of a card even if it bore the 
 name of a friend offered by strangers as a ticket of ad- 
 mission was treated with contempt. I happened to be in 
 the gallery with him one day, when his servant presented 
 the Duchess of - 's card, accompanied by that of one of 
 the most eminent R.A.'s. 
 
 " And there's a lot of ladies," said the girl. 
 
 "Is Mr. ," naming the R.A., " with them ?" 
 
 "No, sir." 
 
 " Then tell them to go to the ; no, I don't mean 
 
 that. Say what you like. Pictures not shown. Say any- 
 thing, only don't let them in." He then turned to me and 
 said, " Now, would you believe it ? I've told that man a 
 thousand times that I should be delighted to see his friends,
 
 144 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 but he must come with them. How do I know where peo- 
 ple may pick up other people's cards ? He is as careless a 
 fellow as ever lived. He may drop his address-cards as 
 likely as lose other things, as he constantly does." 
 
 When in the humor Mr. Sheepshanks would name the 
 prices that his pictures had cost him. I am afraid to trust 
 to my memory for many instances; but I can well recol- 
 lect the astonishment with which I heard of the incredi- 
 bly small sums for which he had acquired some of the 
 most wonderful of Landseer's works. One of the largest 
 "The Departure of the Highland Drovers" was a 
 commission from the Duke of Bedford for 500. When 
 the picture was finished the duke said he was veiy poor, 
 and if Landseer could find another purchaser he (the noble 
 patron) would be glad to resign "so beautiful a work." 
 Another neglect of a good investment; for, undoubtedly, 
 if " The Departure of the Highland Drovers " were sold 
 now it would bring quite as many thousands as the hun- 
 dreds for which the duke might have purchased it. Mr. 
 Sheepshanks always chuckled when he told how, having 
 heard of the duke's wish, he took immediate steps to grat- 
 ify him. The exquisite " Jack in Office," " The Shepherd's 
 Chief Mourner," "The Tethered Ram," etc., were all 
 bought for ludicrously small prices; and any exclamation 
 from a bystander to that effect was sure to elicit from 
 Mr. Sheepshanks a somewhat petulant explanation : " Well, 
 I always give what is asked for a picture, or I don't buy 
 it at all; never beat a man down in my life. Never sold 
 a picture, and I never will; and if what I hear of the prices 
 that you gentlemen are getting now is true, I can't pay 
 them, so my picture-buying days are over." 
 
 And over they were in 1850, when I had the honor of 
 receiving Mr. Sheepshanks' last commission, and the pleas- 
 ure of executing it in the form of the " Scene from Gold- 
 smith's ' Good-natured Man,' " now at the South Kensing- 
 ton Museum. As this picture can be seen by anybody, I 
 may be spared the somewhat unpleasant task of talking 
 about my own work. The picture represents Mr. Honey- 
 wood introducing 'the two bailiffs to Miss Richland (his 
 fiancee) as his friends, and vainly endeavoring to make
 
 SUBJECTS FROM GOLDSMITH, SMOLLETT, ETC. 145 
 
 them conduct themselves as gentlemen. The following 
 is the dialogue, in Goldsmith's words: 
 
 "HoNEVwocD. Two of my very good friends, Mr. 
 Twitch and Mr. Flanigan. Pray, gentlemen, sit without 
 ceremony." 
 
 "Miss HIGHLAND. Who can these odd-looking men be? 
 I fear it is as I was informed. It must be so (aside)." 
 
 The year 1850 found me embarked on another large 
 composition "Hogarth before the Governor of Calais." 
 I forget in what book I found the anecdote of Hogarth's 
 adventure at Calais, where he was arrested as a spy in the 
 act of sketching the " Gate* at Calais " for the background 
 of his famous picture of that name; but the truth of the 
 arrest is well established, for he has represented himself 
 as sketching the gate with the hand of 'a French soldier 
 touching his shoulder. He was taken before the governor, 
 who informed him that " if peace had not been signed be- 
 tween France and England a few days previously he would 
 have been hanged on the ramparts." 
 
 My diary for 1850 presents the usual record of foggy 
 days and disappointing models ; in short, difficulties with- 
 out number more or less successfully battled with. As I 
 could not have Hogarth to sit for me, I had to keep a bright 
 lookout for some one resembling him. After much search- 
 ing and delay I found a suitable model, not unlike the great 
 moralist in body, but in mind as opposite as the poles. For 
 the French soldiers I was fortunate, for I discovered two 
 individuals whose political views were so much at variance 
 with the established government at that time in power in 
 France as to necessitate a precipitate flight from that coun- 
 try to this, and whose faces matched their principles, and 
 suited me exactly. I must acknowledge that they pre- 
 dicted pretty accurately the career of Napoleon III., than 
 whom (according to them) no such villain ever existed. 
 "A republic no! Monarchy thousand thunders, no! A 
 general division of property and begin again that, mon- 
 sieur, is the panacea, the only substantial equality and fra- 
 ternity." I painted the governor's clerk from an old man 
 who assured me that his grandfather was at the execution 
 of Charles I. He made the matter clear to me at the time, 
 7
 
 146 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 but I have since found a difficulty in working out the prob- 
 lem; the old model was nearly ninety in 1850. He be- 
 longed to a very long-lived family, whose representatives 
 must have been remarkable in many ways, for they were 
 always born when their fathers were at least eighty years 
 old. Granting the truth of this, it is just possible that a 
 boy of ten (my model's grandad) might have sat on his 
 father's shoulders, so that he could look over the heads of 
 the soldiers who surrounded Charles's scaffold, and have 
 seen that sovereign's obstinate head severed from his body. 
 I leave my readers to work out this little sum. 
 
 I have said elsewhere that associates' pictures were sel- 
 dom if ever allowed to enter the Holy of Holies of the 
 academicians the "Large Room" in Trafalgar Square. 
 Before "Hogarth" and "Louis XVI. in the Temple" 
 Ward's chef-d'oeuvre were hung in that envied locality, 
 I can only remember one example to the contrary Red- 
 grave's " Poor Governess." If the veteran R.A.'s could 
 have heard the ribald comments of some of the associates 
 on what we called their dog-in-the-manger monopoly, how 
 we declared the " Big Room " to be fast becoming a hos- 
 pital for incurables, some of us would have been longer in 
 becoming academicians than we were. I can well remem- 
 ber my difficulty in keeping my temper when I was told 
 by one of the oldest and most incompetent of the R.A.'s 
 that a pretty storm had been raised by my picture being, 
 " most improperly " placed in the Large Room. " Hogarth " 
 was a commission from a Lancashire worthy, who repudi- 
 ated his order, and the picture was transferred to a firm of 
 publishers, by whom an engraving from it was produced, 
 without much success either as a print or a publication. 
 
 Smollett's "Roderick Random" suggested one of the 
 best of my smaller productions; it was called "A Stage- 
 coach Adventure," and represented the interior of a lum- 
 bering vehicle that required three days to go from York 
 to London, and was named " the York and London fast 
 coach, the Highflyer." The passengers represented were 
 a Quaker and his family, a British officer, and a lady with 
 her daughter. One great difficulty of the subject arose 
 from the necessity for removing one side of the coach, in
 
 SUBJECTS FROM GOLDSMITH, SMOLLETT, ETC. 147 
 
 order to show the occupants, thus causing the coach to 
 resemble too much, perhaps, the interior of a small room. 
 Through the coach-window appeared the masked face of 
 an ugly highwayman, who, with pistol thrust forward, 
 made his usual demand. The Quakeress screams and 
 throws herself back in the coach; the Quaker hides his 
 pocket-book under the cushions; the mother of the young 
 lady the vis-d-vis of the Quakeress offers her purse to 
 the robber; and the young lady falls, fainting, on to the 
 shoulder of the captain, who is paralyzed with fright. 
 The motto from "Macbeth" which I quoted in the cata- 
 logue, " What ! a soldier, and afeard !" seemed very ap- 
 propriate. 
 
 Among my friendly critics on many occasions was 
 George Cruikshank, and it was on discussing the " Stage- 
 coach Adventure" that he told me of one of his own. 
 When a little boy he was placed at a school at Edgeware, 
 and on one occasion, after spending his Christmas holidays 
 at home, he was returning in a post-chaise in charge of 
 his father, when they were stopped by a highwayman. 
 Among other Christmas gifts which the boy was taking 
 to school was a long tin trumpet. Cruikshank's father, 
 alarmed by the galloping of a horse, had looked from the 
 window of the chaise and pretty well assured himself of 
 the character of the rider ; he then turned to the boy and 
 said : " Now, George, the moment we are stopped you 
 poke that, trumpet broad end out of the window." The 
 boy did as he was bid. The highwayman mistook the 
 trumpet for a blunderbuss, turned, and rode back as rapid- 
 ly as he had come. I have the illustrious artist's word for 
 what will appear to most people incredible, namely, that 
 this incident took place in what is now called the Edge- 
 ware Road. I cannot resist relating another adventure of 
 Cruikshank's, for the truth of which I think I can safely 
 vouch. For many years before his death Cruikshank was 
 not only " a total abstainer " himself, but a persistent ad- 
 vocate of that principle by pen and pencil on all occasions 
 in season and out of season. His wonderful series of 
 designs called " The Bottle," and his picture in the Nation- 
 al Gallery called the " Worship of Bacchus," are sufficient
 
 148 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 proofs of his advocacy by the pencil. His many pam- 
 phlets speak for his pen ; while his Exeter Hall speeches 
 and chair-taking have again and again proved the sincerity 
 of his convictions. It was very late one night after at- 
 tending a temperance meeting, that, on letting himself into 
 his house in the Hampstead Road, Cruikshank saw the 
 figure of a man carrying a bundle disappear through a 
 door leading into his garden. All the household were 
 asleep. There could be no doubt of the character of the 
 man with the bundle, who was clambering over the wall 
 into the neighboring garden, when Cruikshank caught him 
 by the leg. The artist was a powerful man, which the 
 burglar soon discovered, as he resigned himself into the 
 hands of his captor. Fortunately a policeman happened 
 to be passing the house ; the thief was given into his 
 charge, and the three walked off towards the station. I 
 have said that Cruikshank not merely never lost an op- 
 portunity of enforcing his principles, but he constantly 
 made one ; and on the walk to the police station he lectured 
 the burglar somewhat as follows : " Now, my friend, this 
 is a sad position to find yourself in. It's the drink, my 
 friend, the drink. Ah! I can smell it. Now look at me," 
 pausing for a moment under a gaslight. " You see before 
 you a man who for the last twenty years has taken nothing 
 to drink stronger than water." 
 
 The burglar looked up at the ai'tist and growled : " I 
 wish to God I had known that ; I would have knocked 
 your d d old head off !" 
 
 "The fool thought I had weakened myself by leaving 
 off alcoholic drinks. The reverse the very reverse is the 
 fact ; for let me tell you," etc., etc., etc. And so dear old 
 George would lecture as long or longer than he could 
 get a listener. 
 
 Cruikshank labored under a strange delusion regarding 
 the works of Dickens and Ainsworth. I heard him an- 
 nounce to a large company assembled at dinner at Glas- 
 gow that he was the writer of " Oliver Twist." Dickens, 
 he said, just gave parts of it a little "literary touching 
 up;" but he, Cruikshank, supplied all the incidents as well 
 as the illustrations. " Mind, sir," ho said to me, " I had
 
 SUBJECTS FROM GOLDSMITH, SMOLLETT, ETC. 149 
 
 nothing to do with the ugly name Dickens would insist 
 on giving the boy. I wanted him called Frank Steadfast." 
 He also wrote the " Tower of London," erroneously cred- 
 ited to Ainsworth, as well as other works commonly un- 
 derstood to have been written by that author. My in- 
 timacy with Cruikshank enables me to declare that I do 
 not believe he would be guilty of the least deviation from 
 truth, and to this day I can see no way of accounting for 
 what was a most absurd delusion. Dickens was very fond 
 of Cruikshank, but he found him occasionally troublesome ; 
 he would see, or fancy he saw, a resemblance to an old 
 lady friend of his in one of the characters in " Chuzzlewit " 
 or "Nickleby," or some other of the serials then in course 
 of publication, when he would say to Dickens, " I say, 
 look here : Mrs. So-and-so has been to me about " Mrs. 
 Nickleby, perhaps " and she says you are taking her off. 
 I wish you would just alter it a little ; the poor old girl is 
 quite distressed, you know," etc., etc. This Dickens told 
 me, and added : " Just imagine what my life would be 
 if George was making the drawings for ' Dombey ' instead 
 of Brown, who does what I wish and never sees resem- 
 blances that don't exist !" 
 
 I now turn with reluctance to my own doings. I am 
 indebted to lithography for three of the most faithful 
 transcripts that have been made from pictures of mine. 
 They are the work of an old student friend, Maguire, 
 whose life as a lithographer was cut short by photography, 
 a science, I suppose I must call it, which bids fair, in tho 
 modern shape of photogravure, to destroy line and all 
 other styles of engraving as effectually as it has put a 
 stop to lithography. When Charles Landseer, who made 
 better puns than pictures, said of photography on its first 
 appearance that it was a foe-to-graphic art, he little 
 thought how completely his prophecy would be realized. 
 I have suffered so dreadfully from translations of my 
 pictures by photogravure that I hold the method in ab- 
 solute abhorrence, though I admit that I have seen satis- 
 factory reproductions of other works by this process. 
 
 My second subject from Moli&re, also taken from the 
 " Bourgeois Gentilhomme " (which, with the banquet-scene
 
 150 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 from that play and " Sir Roger do Coverley and the Spec- 
 tator," were those referred to as so beautifully litho- 
 graphed by Maguire), represented the reception of the 
 belle Marquise and the Marquise Dorante by the Bour- 
 geois, previous to the banquet so inopportunely inter- 
 rupted by Madame Jourdain. He is shown as going 
 through his three bows ; and, finding himself after the 
 second a little too near the lady, he is saying, with back 
 still bent : " Un peu plus loin pour la troisi&me, madame." 
 A lackey is at the door of the dining-room, through which 
 preparations for the banquet may be seen. I received a 
 hundred and sixty pounds for this picture, but at what 
 price it was acquired by Mr. Newsham, of Preston, I have 
 no means of knowing. At the death of that gentleman 
 the picture passed, with the whole of his fine collection, 
 into the possession of the Corporation of Preston, as a free 
 gift to the people of that town. At the South Kensington 
 Museum there are small copies of the Moliere pictures in 
 the Jones Collection. 
 
 A beautiful girl, to whom I did but scant justice in my 
 picture from Moliere, was one of three sisters who were 
 all favorite models at that time. The career of the proto- 
 type of the belle Marquise was not a little singular. She 
 disappeared from artistic circles with the disregard, com- 
 mon to her sisterhood, for the necessities of those who 
 had relied on being able to finish their work from the 
 model who had sat for its commencement. Inquiry was 
 fruitless. She had left her lodgings, and no trace behind 
 her. I found myself in the stalls of the Haymarket 
 Theatre at one of the last appearances of Macready, and 
 in taking the usual indolent survey of the dress-circle 
 through an opera-glass, I was stopped in the front row by 
 the sight of a face that I knew so well, and an eye that 
 when it caught mine indulged itself in something very 
 like a wink. Sure enough, it was the belle Marquise ; but 
 instead of the homely cotton in which she was formerly 
 dressed, the latest and most extravagant fashion had been 
 called into play. Diamonds glittered on neck, arms, and 
 head she was transformed indeed. After a sidelong 
 glance at a distinguished-looking middle-aged man at her
 
 SUBJECTS FROM GOLDSMITH, SMOLLETT, ETC. 151 
 
 side, the Marquise bestowed a little nod and Bmilc upon 
 me, and then resumed the aristocratic bearing that became 
 her so admirably. I dare say I shall surprise my readers 
 when I tell them that the noble-looking middle-aged man 
 was indeed a nobleman who had married our model. I 
 discovered the name of the bold aristocrat afterwards, and 
 
 had the pleasure of reading the name of Lady among 
 
 those of the happy people who were presented at court. 
 
 In speaking of Macready, I am reminded that it was 
 about this time that great actor quitted the stage. In the 
 early part of these pages I have said that no such acting 
 as Macready's King John and Charles Kemble's Faulcon- 
 bridge can be seen on the present stage ; and while main- 
 taining that opinion as regards a special play, and the re- 
 markable combination of genius in the representation of 
 it, I must not allow myself to forget that we have a trage- 
 dian who, as an "all-round man," is a far greater actor 
 than Macready. In a few characters such as Virginius, 
 William Tell, Rob Roy, and some others, Macready was, I 
 think, unapproachable ; but to compare his Hamlet or Shy- 
 lock with Irving's rendering of these characters would be 
 disastrous for Macready. That Macready had multi- 
 tudes of admirers and " troops of friends " was manifested 
 by the attendance of about six hundred men who gathered 
 round him on the occasion of a banquet inaugurated 
 chiefly by Dickens given to him on his retirement from 
 the stage. The company was composed of representatives, 
 more or less eminent, of science, literature, and art, to say 
 nothing of numbers of Macready- worshippers from various 
 ranks of life. In a letter to my mother, under date March, 
 1851, 1 record my impressions in the following extract : 
 
 " I assisted, as ihc French say, at the Macready banquet last night. A 
 great many of my friends were going, so I joined them. We had capital 
 places close to Bulwcr Lytton who was in the chair provided for us by 
 Dickens, who had the management of the affair. He made an admirable 
 speech ; Thackeray also spoke well and very humorously. Macready, who 
 speaks other people's words much better than his own, made rather a 
 halting business of his oration. In returning thanks lie said his heart was 
 fuller than the glass which he held that might easily have been the case, 
 for the glass which he held was empty ! I was close to Charles Kemblc, 
 who spoke right well. I never saw such a sensation as when he rose to
 
 152 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 reply to the drinking of his health. I feel sure that most of the people 
 there thought that the Kemble line had passed away years ago ; and when 
 the old man rose, feeble and bent, but with the old stately bearing, and in 
 the sounding and dignified, though somewhat shrill, voice peculiar to the 
 Kembles, responded most happily to the toast, the row was deafening. 
 Every man rose glasses, napkins, even decanters, were shaken and waved 
 about ; the company seemed to have taken leave of their senses. 
 
 " My dinner cost me a guinea and a headache, besides a fight, or nearly 
 one, for my hat and coat. Just fancy six hundred people all struggling at 
 the same time at a small table to get their hats and go away. The waiters 
 were all drunk, and that happy condition was no assistance to them in 
 their efforts to distribute the hats to their owners ; indeed, to judge from 
 the maudlin way they tumbled and reeled about, one might fancy that they 
 had been shipwrecked on a sea of hats and coats, and were in despair of 
 ever reaching dry land. Every gentleman had been furnished with a 
 ticket or number for his hat, and if you can imagine three or four hun- 
 dred people screaming out different numbers, and the tipsy waiters smiling 
 at them, and in the most soothing tones requesting them to have patience, 
 you will understand what I had to go through. As to Stone, the last I 
 saw of him was the upper part of his body; he was clinging to a pillar 
 with one arm, and holding out his ticket with the other, kicking at the 
 same time with both legs at the people behind him. Stone's treatment of 
 his fellow-guests was not agreeable to them ; there was a terrific row, a 
 few policemen made a dash into the crowd Stone disappeared ; I saw no 
 more and thus endeth the Macready banquet."
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 THE HANGING COMMITTEE. 
 
 I NOW approach the time when the desire to represent 
 every-day life took an irresistible hold upon me. My first 
 venture in modern-life subjects took the shape of a small 
 picture of a mother and child. The child was kneeling, 
 saying its prayers in its mother's lap, with the wandering 
 attention so common to children. The gray - and - black 
 dress of the mother and the white night-gown of the child 
 made a sufficiently agreeable arrangement of negative col- 
 ors. The heads were characteristic, though as was af- 
 terwards said in excuse for the failure as a publication 
 too like portraits. The picture was beautifully engraved 
 by Stocks ; but the finest engraving will not avert failure 
 if the subject represented does not satisfy the many-head- 
 ed, whose likings and dislikings are equally incomprehen- 
 sible. A little study, done from a good-looking girl who 
 was in my service as housemaid, had a great success as an 
 engraving. I painted the girl not only in her habit as 
 she lived, but in her habits also, for she was carrying a 
 tray with a bottle of wine on it. The whole thing was 
 simple enough. The picture was bought by Jacob Bell, 
 who convinced that there was what he called "copy- 
 right" in it succeeded in extracting forty guineas from 
 a well-known publisher, who, differing in opinion from 
 Well as to the value of the copyright, immediately trans- 
 ferred it, at a great loss, to another and more adventurous 
 printseller. Bell presented me with the copyright money, 
 and I heard with pleasure that the picture was placed in 
 the hands of Frank IIoll, afterwards A.K.A., an admira- 
 ble engraver and most worthy man. IIoll produced an 
 excellent print from the little picture. I approved and it 
 was published, after being without my knowledge chris- 
 7*
 
 154 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 tened "Sherry, sir?" What a thorn in my side did that 
 terrible title become ! I dined out frequently, and dread- 
 ed the approach of the servant with the sherry, for the 
 inevitable "Sherry, sir?" rang in my ears, and reminded 
 my neighbor at table of my crime. "A pretty thing 
 enough, that servant-girl of yours ; but how you could 
 give her such a vulgar title I can't think." This was 
 dinned into my ears so frequently that I determined I 
 would try to get the obnoxious words changed into some 
 less objectionable. I went to the publisher and unbur- 
 dened my mind. " Change the title !" said he ; " why, 
 it's the name that sells it. We offered it before it was 
 christened, and nobody would look at it ; now it sells like 
 ripe cherries, and it's the title that does it." 
 
 Before devoting myself to more elaborate compositions 
 from modern life I determined to try to realize a scene 
 that had always struck me as admirably adapted to picto- 
 rial representation, namely, the quarrel of Pope and Lady 
 Mary Wortley Montagu, or, rather, the cause of the quar- 
 rel, for it is said that, in a moment of passion, Pope de- 
 clared his love for the beautiful Lady Mary, who received 
 the vows of the poet with astonishment that resolved it- 
 self into irrepressible laughter. 
 
 By any one acquainted with the character of Pope 
 and who is not? the fearful blow that such treatment 
 would be to a man so sensitive may be imagined ; and the 
 ample revenge he allowed himself to take in after-years be 
 somewhat excused. Admirers of Pope objected to the sub- 
 ject as placing the poet in a humiliating position. Leslie, 
 I remember, spoke to me strongly on that point ; but the 
 picture was done, and hanging on the Academy walls, 
 when the objectors opened fire ; so repentance, which I 
 confess I felt, came too late. The truth was, I could not 
 resist the dramatic effect of the two figures the consum- 
 ing rage of Pope, contrasted by the cruel laughter of the 
 lady. My admiration and respect for Pope should per- 
 haps have prevented me from exposing so great a man to 
 ridicule and humiliation. Mea culpa! mea culpa! 
 
 Of all the authorities, and they were many, that I con- 
 sulted for the likeness of Pope, the bust by Roubillac is
 
 THE HANGING COMMITTEE. 155 
 
 the only one that conveys the man : there he is with 
 features worn by suffering, but showing the intellectual 
 strength that must have distinguished such a man. The 
 portrait by Jervas in the National Collection, though in- 
 teresting as giving a more or less correct rendering of the 
 " shape and make " of the man, conveys no idea to my 
 mind of his intellectual power. Reynolds said that no 
 man could put more into a picture than there is in him- 
 self ; if that be so, there was not much in Jervas, most of 
 whose portraits are examples of what I once heard a paint- 
 er say of a likeness of a strong-minded man : " The fel- 
 low," meaning his brother artist, " has made a likeness of 
 So-and-so, certainly, but he has managed to knock out his 
 brains." There are many so-called likenesses of Lady 
 Mary, but they differ from each other nearly as much as 
 do those of her namesake, the Queen of Scots. In Mr. 
 Gibbons' collection there is a beautiful picture by Sir 
 Joshua that is called Lady Mary ; but I doubt if the dates 
 will serve, for Sir Joshua could scarcely have painted the 
 beloved of Pope in the prime of her loveliness. In Mr. 
 Gibbons' picture the original could not have exceeded 
 her thirtieth year, when Sir Joshua was a young and un- 
 known man. 
 
 In my picture I fear I cannot claim much resemblance 
 to the beautiful original, though my lady is handsome 
 enough to be the cause of love in Pope or anybody else. 
 An incident occurred in connection with this picture that 
 is worth recording, as showing the way artists are some- 
 times treated by their so-called patrons. A collector, 
 of a somewhat vulgar type, had long desired me to paint 
 a picture for him. I showed him the sketch, and, to prove 
 the culture of the gentleman, I may mention the follow- 
 ing fact : 
 
 " What's the subject?" said he. 
 
 "Lady Mary Wortley Montagu and Pope," said I; 
 " the point taken is when Pope makes love to the lady, 
 who was married at the time, and she laughed at him." 
 
 " The pope make love to a married woman horrible !" 
 
 " No, no, not the pope Pope the poet !" 
 
 " Well, it don't matter who it was ; he shouldn't
 
 156 MY AUTOBIOGBAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 make love to a married woman, and she done quite right 
 in laughing at him ; and if I had been her husband I 
 should " etc. 
 
 " Very well," said I, " as you don't like the subject, we 
 will say no more about it. I will paint you something else." 
 
 " Oh, no," was the reply ; " I like to see a woman laugh 
 at a man who makes an ass of himself. I'll take it. What's 
 the figure ?" 
 
 " Before I name a price," said I, " I must tell you that 
 there is a condition attached to the picture which must be 
 agreed to by whoever takes it ; and that is that I may 
 make a small copy of it for a friend. So, if you object to 
 copies, as many people do, now is the time to say so." 
 
 The exact size of the intended copy was fixed, the con- 
 dition and price, three hundred and fifty guineas, agreed 
 to ; and in due time the picture was finished and highly 
 approved by my learned friend, who, I discovered after- 
 wards, had never read a line of Pope, or, indeed, even 
 heard of him. 
 
 When the exhibition was closed I wished to begin the 
 copy at once ; but my "patron" begged to have the pict- 
 ure for a few days, as he " wished to show it to some 
 * country friends.' " I let it go, and when I applied for it, 
 according to agreement, the owner quietly defied me, and 
 refused to carry out an arrangement to which he acknowl- 
 edged he had consented. He then proceeded, without 
 consulting me, to make terms with an engraver for the 
 production of the picture in mezzotint a process quite 
 unsuited to it pocketing a hundred guineas for the copy- 
 right. There are people so amiable as to submit to in- 
 sult, and even injury, without complaining. I am not of 
 that species, and my complaints were loud enough to 
 reach the ears of my employer, who, to my surprise, made 
 his appearance one morning at my house. I froze him by 
 my reception, and declined to shake hands, to his great 
 surprise. 
 
 " I hear you are annoyed because I can't allow you to 
 copy my picture," he began. 
 
 " Did you or did you not consent to a copy being made 
 when you bought the picture ?" said I.
 
 THE HANGING COMMITTEE. 157 
 
 "Well, certainly I did; but all my friends Bay that a 
 copy, ever so small, would take away from the value of 
 the original." 
 
 This was too much, so I tried to close the interview by 
 asking, in ray loftiest manner and in stereotyped phrase, 
 " To what am I indebted for the honor " (honor with sar- 
 casm) " of this visit ?" 
 
 " Well, look here " (I fear he said " look ' ere "), " I 
 can't have a copy done ; but I'll tell you what I will 
 give you a hundred pounds, and you can divide it with 
 the gent you have to do the copy for, as a compensation 
 like for the copy." 
 
 My reply was conveyed without speaking ; for I went 
 to the door, opened it wide, pointed out to the " gentle- 
 man" the way he should go, and he went out without an- 
 other word. He died long ago. His pictures were sold 
 at Christie's, where " Pope and Lady Mary " fetched 
 twelve hundred guineas. No wonder, when such in- 
 stances as the above seldom so gross can be multiplied 
 by artists to any extent, that they should prefer dealing 
 with dealers who understand art and artists, and can be 
 legally bound to carry out (in rare cases, when moral bind- 
 ing is not sufficient) their engagements to the letter. A 
 dealer, it should be remembered, has a variety of tastes to 
 satisfy. What does not please one " client " may please 
 another; but the "patron" may have a peculiar taste, or 
 no taste at all, may be as full of whims and fancies as ho 
 is of ignorance, and then the life of the painter is not a 
 happy one. For many years I have always sold my pict- 
 ures to what is called " the trade," and have invariably 
 escaped the tribulation that so often attends the patrons' 
 patronage. 
 
 I will pass over many trifling pictures, which the pro- 
 fane would call " pot-boilers ;" but, though some few may 
 be open to that charge, I may speak of two that received 
 as much careful study at my hands as anything that ever 
 passed through them. Both were taken from Scott, one 
 from the " Bride of Lammermoor," the other from " Ken- 
 ilworth." They were painted for a man who was another 
 disappointing specimen of the patron a grumbling igno-
 
 158 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 ramus who could not see the faults that really existed, but 
 discovered plenty of his own making. He grumbled dur- 
 ing the progress of the pictures, and grumbled when they 
 were finished ; and when he sold them as he did very 
 shortly for a great deal more than he had paid for them, 
 he grumbled because he had not got enough. These pict- 
 ures are now in the possession of a man who appreciates 
 them beyond their merits. Before they reached their pres- 
 ent owner, Mr. Price whose gallery in Queen Anne Street 
 is filled with pictures, and frequently on Monday evenings 
 with artists, who find the heartiest welcome and the best 
 cigars, etc., always awaiting them the pictures in ques- 
 tion had passed through many hands, some clean and some 
 very dirty, as I shall proceed to show. The scene from 
 the " Bride of Lammermoor " is that in which Lady Ash- 
 ton cuts the love-token from Lucy's neck and gives it back 
 to Ravenswood. It happened that, the day after spending 
 a very pleasant Monday evening in Queen Anne Street, I 
 noticed, in Christie and Manson's usual Tuesday's adver- 
 tisement, that a picture by me from the " Bride of Lam- 
 mermoor " was to be sold. As I had then painted but one 
 picture from that novel and that one I had seen hanging 
 in Queen Anne Street the night before I was puzzled by 
 the advertisement, and determined to see what the mean- 
 ing of it was. What was my surprise to sec on Christie's 
 walls a fac-simile of Mr. Price's picture, or else the picture 
 itself. Doubt as to which it was was put a stop to by 
 Mr. Price himself, who looked at the picture with a puz- 
 zled air, and then looked at me without any change in his 
 expression. 
 
 "Well," said I, "what on earth does this mean? I 
 never made a copy of the picture not even a sketch of 
 it." 
 
 " Somebody has made a copy of it," said Mr. Price; "must 
 have been done on its way to me by one of those rascally 
 dealers, and sold as the original. Whose property is it ?" 
 
 I found from Christie's the readiness always shown to 
 remove from their walls whatever may have got there un- 
 der false pretences; -and the name of the owner of the 
 spurious picture was disclosed. I need only allude to this
 
 TUB HANGING COMMITTEE. 159 
 
 gentleman to say that he was quite innocent of fraud; he 
 was assured the picture was painted by me, and so perfect 
 was the copy, even to the name forged upon it, that I 
 should not have doubted its authenticity for a moment, if 
 I had not had such convincing proof to the contrary. I 
 requested to be allowed to destroy the copy, so as to pre- 
 vent its "betraying more men;" but the owner objected, 
 as the forgery was required to enable the victim to make 
 the man from whom it was bought refund the purchase- 
 money. Since the attempted sale at Christie's, I have 
 found it necessary to repudiate the copy twice. 
 
 I suppose no man's works have been more frequently 
 pirated than those of the eminent French painter, Meis- 
 sonier. I am told that there is a cupboard in that art- 
 ist's studio for the reception of such things ; and when 
 any fraudulent specimen is brought to that great painter 
 for authentication, it is, in defiance of all opposition, con- 
 signed to the cupboard, and the key turned upon it. 
 Whether French law would sanction such proceedings I 
 know not; but I sincerely wish it were as legal in this 
 country to destroy forged pictures as it is to burn forged 
 bills. 
 
 Another instance occurs to me. Some two or three 
 years ago, I received a letter from a person whose name I 
 forget, telling me that he had a picture naming the size 
 of the " Coming of Age." From the dimensions I knew 
 it must be a copy, and as I had made one small copy, as 
 nearly as I could remember, about the size named, I 
 thought it likely the one inquired about might be my 
 work. In the letter the writer said he had no doubt of 
 the originality of the picture; and added that the "color- 
 ing was as fine as Titian;" but a stupid friend having ex- 
 pressed a doubt, he would be obliged, etc., etc. In my 
 reply I said that if he chose to be at the trouble and ex- 
 pense of sending the picture to London, I would solve his 
 friend's doubts; but if the " coloring was equal to Titian," 
 he might save himself the trouble of submitting it to me, 
 as it most certainly could not be my work. The picture 
 arrived, and I found it to be a vile daub smeared over an 
 engraving from the original, in which the painter had fol-
 
 160 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 lowed his fancy in inventing a scheme of color quite un- 
 like the picture, and still more unlike Titian. 
 
 Five-and-twenty years ago the elections at the Royal 
 Academy took place twice a year. Vacancies in the 
 associate list were filled up in November, academicians 
 were elected in February; and it was further enacted that 
 the death of an R.A. must have taken place three clear 
 months before the 10th of February, or, in default, the 
 vacancy could not be filled till February in the following 
 year. Turner lingered for two or three weeks into the 
 prescribed three months. I had to wait, therefore, nearly 
 fifteen months for my promotion; thus serving, as Jacob 
 did for Rachel, seven years for my hardly-earned honor. 
 I am glad to say that the Academy " has changed all that," 
 as well as other fossilized rules as much requiring abolish- 
 ment. A newly-elected R.A. finds himself also elected 
 into offices for the duties of which he may, or may not, be 
 competent. He becomes a teacher in the Life and Paint- 
 ing schools ; he is at once placed upon the council, and 
 finds himself a member of the dreaded hanging commit- 
 tee. It is well known that some of our best painters are 
 the worst teachers. Landseer used to say, " There is 
 nothing to teach." I heard one of the most eminent acad- 
 emicians says in answer to reproaches for his neglect in 
 not attending at the Painting School " What would 
 be the good ? I don't know anything ; and if I did I 
 couldn't communicate it." Maclise said to me, when as 
 a student I was copying a picture by Reynolds, " I can't 
 teach you anything. 1 am here to take a lesson myself." 
 
 It certainly appears to me that the system of what is 
 called teaching by visitors is altogether wrong; as, from 
 the varied and often contradictory character of the advice 
 tendered, the student finds himself in a condition of help- 
 less bewilderment. 
 
 In the days of which I am writing, the hanging com- 
 mittee was composed of three men, whose duties consisted 
 in cramming into the small rooms in Trafalgar Square as 
 many pictures as they would hold, totally, indeed neces- 
 sarily, regardless whether any of them could be seen with-
 
 THE HANGING COMMITTEE. 161 
 
 out telescopes or not. The amiable feeling that exists be- 
 tween Scotchmen, whether they are strangers to each other 
 or not, is pretty universally acknowledged; but should 
 there be a sceptic on the subject, a glance at the Academy 
 walls when a Scotchman happens to be one of the hangers 
 will dispel his doubts, unless, as happened in one memora- 
 ble instance, the brotherly feeling is indulged to such a 
 degree as to be an injury to those who were not so fort- 
 unate as to have been born north of the Tweed. Da- 
 vid Roberts, a thoroughly kind-hearted Scotchman, being 
 newly elected, was placed on the hanging committee his 
 brother hangmen being Mulready and Abraham Cooper. 
 The arrangement of the pictures had proceeded harmoni- 
 ously enough, the Englishmen only finding it necessary 
 now and then to moderate the enthusiasm of their fellow- 
 hangman in favor of some work that had little to recom- 
 mend it beyond the fact that it was done by Mac Some- 
 body, when luncheon-time arrived. Roberts was not hun- 
 gry, could not eat luncheon. Mulready and Cooper must 
 have been exceptionally so, for they were an unusually long 
 time away from the rooms. In the interval, Roberts, with 
 the assistance of the carpenters, had emulated the busy 
 bee, the result being a goodly array of Scottish pictures 
 in all the best places. 
 
 " Good gracious, Roberts !" said Cooper. " Why, you 
 have turned this room into Scotland Yard." 
 
 Mulready beckoned to the carpenters, and said: 
 
 "Take all these pictures down again." 
 
 Roberts remonstrated. 
 
 Said Mulready: " Friendship is noble; but when it is in- 
 dulged to the injury of others, all the nobility goes to the 
 winds. Take them every one down." 
 
 "Then," said Roberts, "if I am to be treated in this 
 way, and my judgment disputed, I may as well go 
 home." 
 
 " Much better," was the reply, and home Roberts went. 
 
 The two men were members of the Academy for more 
 than thirty years after this little dispute, and I grieve to 
 say they never spoke to each other again. Exceptions 
 prove the rule, for I hereby declare that quarrels among
 
 162 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 us arc almost unknown. Differences of opinion exist, as 
 in all communities; but serious quarrels, never. Stay 
 there is one more remarkable exception. About five-and- 
 forty years ago, there lived an academician whose son 
 was also an artist, but of moderate ability. He was a 
 constant exhibitor, and, in the estimation of his father, 
 well worthy of the rank of associate. Fortunately that 
 opinion was only shared by a few intimate friends of the 
 R.A., who at election-time never mustered in sufficient 
 strength to enable them to perpetrate a wrong. Among 
 the intimates of the veteran academician was one who, I 
 believe, never permitted any feeling but the conviction of 
 desert to influence his vote. On the eve of an election, 
 
 sumptuous dinners were given in Place, at which the 
 
 candid friend always assisted. After a final defeat for 
 the young man died soon after the man I call the candid 
 one paid a visit to the old R.A. He was received with 
 great coldness; and almost immediately the momentous 
 question was put: 
 
 "Did you vote for my son, sir, last Tuesday night ?" 
 
 " That," said the candid friend, " is a question no one 
 has the right to ask." 
 
 "There is the door, sir, and I beg you will never darken 
 it again." 
 
 Many years afterwards the veteran academician, though 
 scarcely able to walk, was determined to see the new gal- 
 lery at Burlington House on the occasion of our first occu- 
 pation in 1869. I was talking to the candid friend as the 
 old man was supported to a seat in the large gallery dur- 
 ing the private view. 
 
 " Why, there is old !" said I. "If you ever intend 
 
 to be friends with him again judging from his appear- 
 ance you haven't much time to lose." 
 
 "Poor old boy !" said Mr. Candid; "I have a great 
 mind to go and speak to him." 
 
 "Do," said I; "he will be pleased." 
 
 I watched the interview it was short. When his old 
 friend spoke to the ancient R.A. he started and looked up, 
 muttered something, then his head sank on his breast, after 
 the manner of the acred.
 
 THE HANGING COMMITTEE. 163 
 
 " Well," said I, when the candid one rejoined me, " what 
 did he say ?" 
 
 "He looked me straight in the face, and after hearing a 
 pretty speech I made him, he said, ' I don't know you, sir.' 
 By Jove ! what a good hater he is ! It's nearly twenty 
 years since he showed me the door, because I had done my 
 duty." 
 
 It may interest my readers to know of the great care 
 taken by the council of the Academy to prevent any com- 
 munication respecting the exhibition arrangements to the 
 outside world notably to would-be exhibitors. New 
 members of council are informed that they must never 
 " breathe a syllable " to a living being about the places of 
 any of the pictures, until the whole of the exhibition is 
 arranged. 
 
 " May I not tell a friend that his picture is on the line ?" 
 said I, in subdued tones, to one of the council, after Sir 
 Charles Eastlake had solemnly admonished the new coun- 
 cillors, of whom I was one. 
 
 "Angels and ministers of grace defend us no! and 
 don't you see why ? Your friend's picture may be on the 
 line one minute, and off it the next. I have known in- 
 stances of pictures changing places twenty times. No 
 work of an outsider is safe in its place till the varnishing- 
 days; wait till then to tell your friend his fate." 
 
 After cautioning the R.A.'s, the servants, carpenters, 
 etc., engaged to place the pictures on the walls, and the 
 sculpture in its " den " as the Trafalgar Square Sculpture 
 Gallery was called were sent for; when they stood be- 
 fore us, in what seemed to me great number, the presi- 
 dent informed them that the breaking of the silence en- 
 joined upon members and servants alike, by the faintest 
 whisper, would cause the delinquent's instant dismissal. 
 
 I am referring to my first experience. 
 
 As picture after picture was brought before us by the 
 long line of carpenters, the novelty of the occupation in- 
 terested and amused me for the first few hours. Then 
 came a bewildering and weary time; being only human, 
 we were tired at least I was. But I can truly say I 
 never allowed a picture to pass me without giving it the
 
 164 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 attention it merited, and sometimes much more. As I have 
 said elsewhere, I have served many times on the council, 
 and on the arranging committee ; and I have never known 
 of a charge of dishonesty, in any shape, being substanti- 
 ated against the " carpenters," who necessarily become 
 acquainted with all the works offered for exhibition, and 
 very likely, in some instances, with their producers. I 
 have often thought that the temptation to the servants to 
 accept bribes from outsiders must be very great. I can 
 imagine and should scarcely condemn an " outsider " 
 who might seek out one of the carpenters, and say to him, 
 "Look here, you know my little picture; whenever you 
 see the hangers searching for a picture to fill a place a 
 good place, you know keep mine before them ; and here 
 is so much for you." Ah, my dear young outsider, we 
 know that little game so well! I discovered it during my 
 first hanging-days. To make the manoeuvre clear to my 
 reader, I must ask him to imagine long rows of pictures 
 stacked together in each room, some with their faces ex- 
 posed, some most, indeed showing only their innocent 
 backs. One of the committee was looking for a picture 
 to fill a vacant place, when his attention was attracted to 
 a carpenter who offered a picture with the words, " I 
 think this is about the size, sir." My friend looked at it 
 for an instant, passed his measuring-rod over it, and walked 
 away. I thought little of this incident. The hanging pro- 
 ceeded, and, the walls of the large room being nearly cov- 
 ered, we thought it well to begin upon room No. 2. Our 
 work had not progressed much; the line-side of one por- 
 tion of the room being filled up to a small space in one 
 corner, when, as if by magic, the carpenter's protege ap- 
 peared just beneath it, mutely offering itself for accept- 
 ance. " Hallo !" said the hangman, " where has this come 
 from? it was in the other room just now. Stop, let me 
 look at it; it's pretty good, isn't it ? Not quite up to the 
 place, perhaps. Measure it, Frith. Too big, is it ? Here, 
 take this picture away." Failure number two. 
 
 Suspicion began to dawn upon me, being, I suppose, of 
 a more suspicious turn than the others, who suspected 
 nothing; not even when the persevering little picture fol-
 
 THE HANGING COMM1TTEK. 105 
 
 lowed us from room to room, and was at last hung to get 
 " rid of it," on the same principle as that which influenced 
 the well-known lady when she married her six-times-re- 
 jected lover to get rid of him. I have always prided my- 
 self, foolishly, perhaps, on my power of detecting the emo- 
 tions of the mind in the human face even when a mask 
 is placed upon it. If the carpenter had a mask, he did 
 not use it, for I watched him when his charge was at last 
 favorably disposed of; and, if I had any doubt about the 
 nature of the interest he took in it, his satisfied expression 
 dispelled it. 
 
 Feeling that my evil imagination might have run away 
 with me, and that after all the affair might be one of pure 
 accident, I said nothing; but in after-years, when precisely 
 similar " accidents " took place under my eyes again and 
 again, I could no longer persuade myself that outside in- 
 fluence was not occasionally brought to bear upon our ex- 
 cellent staff of " carpenters."
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 HANGING REMINISCENCES. 
 
 WHILE on the subject of my hanging reminiscences, I 
 may further note the loving feeling existing between all 
 of Scottish race. A Mr. Mac , a Scotch artist of con- 
 siderable merit, and a fruitless seeker after academic hon- 
 ors, was, it is needless to say, a friend of Wilkie's ; of 
 whom it is reported that on one of the hanging-days he, 
 of course being one of the committee, was seen wandering 
 about the rooms carrying a small picture, and vainly en- 
 deavoring to fit it into a good place. 
 
 " Why, Wilkie," said a brother hangman, " what makes 
 you take so much trouble about that picture of Green's ? 
 it's not a partic " 
 
 " Green !" exclaimed Wilkie ; " I thought it was 
 
 * o 
 
 Mac 's," and incontinently left the picture to its fate. 
 
 The interest Wilkie took in Mac - extended to his 
 using all his influence by word and vote at election-time, 
 and as it sometimes happens when the merits of promi- 
 nent candidates are supposed to be pretty equal, names 
 are mentioned and merits canvassed, in those moments of 
 hesitation Wilkie would always exclaim, " Well, there's 
 
 Mac ." This recommendation, so frequently repeated, 
 
 was stopped at last by Mulready's loud exclamation, "D n 
 Mac !" Beyond such small, and nearly always unsuc- 
 cessful, attempts at nepotism, proceedings in respect of 
 the selection and arrangement of the yearly exhibition are 
 carried out with absolute impartiality. Instead of the 
 haste and carelessness with which the council for selection 
 is so often ignorantly charged, the most scrupulous care is 
 taken in the examination of each picture, as it is carried 
 by an assistant past -every member of the council. Wheth- 
 er, if the works of all the R.A.'s and A.R.A.'s were sub-
 
 HANGING REMINISCENCES. 167 
 
 milled lo ihc judgment of the council as outsiders arc 
 they would all be admitted, is not open to question, for I 
 am a witness to the contrary. When Constable was a 
 member of the selecting council, a small landscape was 
 brought to judgment; it was not received with favor. 
 The first judge said, "That's a poor thing;" the next mut- 
 tered, " It's very green;" in short, the picture had to stand 
 the fire of animadversion from everybody but Constable, 
 the last remark being, " It's devilish bad cross it." Con- 
 stable rose, took a couple of steps in front, turned round, 
 and faced the council. 
 
 " That picture," said he, " was painted by me. I had a 
 notion that some of you didn't like my work, and this is 
 a pretly convincing proof. I am very much obliged lo 
 you," making a low bow. 
 
 "Dear, dear!" said ihe president to the head-carpenter; 
 " how came that picture among the outsiders ? Bring it 
 back; it must be admitted, of course." 
 
 " No ! it must not !" said Constable; " out it goes !" 
 and, in spite of apology and entreaty, out it went. 
 
 This story was told me by Cooper, who witnessed the 
 scene. One more example, in which I played a part. The 
 hanging was over, the whole exhibition arranged, and the 
 members admitted to varnish or touch up their pictures. 
 I was in the Large Room in Trafalgar Square, when I saw 
 an academician evidently searching for a picture, and un- 
 able to find it. Thinking, as frequently happens, that he 
 was looking for the work of some outside friend, I said : 
 
 "Whose picture are you in search of? as I helped to 
 arrange the exhibition, perhaps I can assist you." 
 
 " I am looking for my own," said he. 
 
 " What was your subject ?" 
 
 " ' Lear and Cordelia.' " 
 
 My heart sank. I had a clear recollection of a washy- 
 looking Cordelia, and a Lear with all the characteristics 
 of a street beggar, that had met its fate at the hands of 
 the council with deserved rapidity, for it " went out like 
 a shot," not a soul having the least idea who its author 
 might be. The unlucky picture was found among the 
 rejected, and the carpenters were warned that another
 
 168 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 such instance of carelessness would lead to the discharge 
 of the whole of them. I must add that the picftire went 
 the way of the unfortunate, and never appeared upon the 
 Academy walls. Very few, indeed, are the examples of 
 painters' powers remaining unshaken b^ time. If, as 
 Shakespeare says, " time cannot wither (certain things), 
 nor custom stale their infinite variety," the observation 
 will not apply to my profession; and one of the knottiest 
 problems left for academic solution at the present time is 
 that of reconciling prescriptive rights with the interests of 
 art, and the interests of the painters themselves. Every- 
 body knows the story of Gil Bias and the Bishop of Gra- 
 nada. Nature kindly, or unkindly, hides from a man the 
 knowledge of his failing powers. How often do I hear 
 old painters say, on showing a mere " shadow of a shade " 
 of former power: " There, I mean to say I never painted 
 a better picture in my life than that !" 
 
 I have no doubt I shall soon be using similar language, 
 and when I do I hope I shall find a friend to act the part 
 of Gil Bias for me, when I promise not to imitate the 
 Bishop of Granada. Few members of the Academy have 
 served as often on the hanging committee as the writer 
 of these lines ; and it has happened to me on one or two 
 occasions, on agreement with my brother hangers, to have 
 to represent to the council the necessity of asking a mem- 
 ber to withdraw from exhibition a work which we thought 
 unworthy of his fame. In each case the request was 
 gratefully agreed to, and the work withdrawn. But on 
 one occasion we had to deal with two specimens of inca- 
 pacity from the hands of a very old member, whose por- 
 traits, ages before, had been justly considered ornaments 
 of the exhibitions. One of these delectable productions 
 was a portrait of a clergyman, the other a picture called 
 " Charity." The divine was not so desperately bad as to 
 necessitate his expulsion, if one peculiarity could in any 
 way be dealt with. He was supposed to be preaching 
 with appropriate earnestness; and his eagerness to convert 
 had affected his eyes in a remarkable manner : they were 
 exactly like those of an owl; the eyeballs were intensely 
 black, with a circle of light bright blue encompassing
 
 HANGING REMINISCENCES. 169 
 
 them round about. "We tried him on the wall, but dis- 
 tance lent increased terror to his expression; he glared at 
 us so fearfully that, in regard to the consequences that 
 might arise to unwary visitors, we hastily took him down 
 again. 
 
 " Now," said I to a brother hangman, " what is to be 
 done? It is no use asking the old man to withdraw either 
 of these pictures he won't." 
 
 "No," replied my friend ; "but I think we might take 
 some of the enthusiasm out of those eyes." 
 
 No sooner said than done. A finger was wetted, a lit- 
 tle blacking taken from my friend's shoe ; the bright blue 
 circle received a glaze of blacking, and the glare of terror- 
 inspiring fury was changed into a softened, appealing ex- 
 pression, as likely, perhaps, to prevail with an obstinate 
 sinner as the more denunciatory form of admonition. 
 With that little change the picture took its place among 
 the rest. The second performance, " Charity," had then 
 to be considered. A figure which, after long examination, 
 we agreed to be intended for a monk, was represented 
 standing no, falling against a rickety door the door 
 of a monastery, if a black object with square patches for 
 windows could be accepted for such a building. The 
 monk's head was enormous ; the artist, with the orig- 
 inality of genius, had defied nature to the extent of 
 placing the features in the monstrous face out of their 
 usual positions; one eye had strayed into the forehead; 
 there was no mouth that we could discover considered 
 useless, perhaps, as the monk may have belonged to a 
 monastic order in which abstinence from food was en- 
 joined; the right hand, holding what was more like a 
 huge muflin than anything else, was attached to an arm 
 longer than that of Rob Roy, who was supposed to be 
 able to garter below the knee without stooping. And the 
 crowd of beggars surrounding the charitable monk ! No 
 words of mine could do justice to deformity which Nature 
 in her wildest freaks had never equalled. The three hang- 
 men, with their long measuring -rods, looking like the 
 three witches in " Macbeth," stood staring at the painful 
 example of the incapacity of age, till one broke silence 
 8
 
 170 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 and said: "Blacking is of no use here. What shall we 
 
 do ? Old told So-and-so that ' Charity ' is the best 
 
 thing he ever did. He won't withdraw it if the forty of 
 us went down on our knees and prayed to him." 
 
 After a pause I said: " If you two will stand by me as 
 oldest member I shall surely be pitched into we won't 
 say a word, but just leave ' Charity' out in the cold." 
 
 This was agreed to; the picture was returned to him 
 who made it, and we never heard a word of complaint. I 
 think I have said enough to prove that a change in the 
 laws of the Academy is required to enable a properly-con- 
 structed tribunal to deal with such cases as I have de- 
 scribed; cases which are by no means confined to the pro- 
 ductions of the aged members of the body, but either 
 from carelessness or incompetence, or both are as often 
 found existing among the younger men; who occasionally 
 display pictures which, had they been subjected to the 
 judgment of the council, would assuredly have been con- 
 demned,
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 i : A M > . , A T I : SAND 8." 
 
 MY summer holiday of 1851 was spent at Ramsgale. 
 Weary of costume-painting, I had determined to try my 
 hand on modern life, with all its drawbacks of unpictur- 
 esque dress. The variety of character on Ramsgate Sands 
 attracted me all sorts and conditions of men and women 
 were there. Pretty groups of ladies were to be found, 
 reading, idling, working, and unconsciously forming them- 
 selves into very paintable compositions. Under date Sep- 
 tember 4, my diary says, among other entries: "On the 
 sands sketching." "September 10, sketching on sands 
 till one." Each day, up to the 14th, I find occupied in 
 making slight drawings of details, and on the 14th the 
 diary says: "Made pencil-drawing of Ramsgate Sands. 
 I wonder if I shall make anything of it who knows?" 
 The interpretation of this being that the different groups 
 taken from nature were arranged to form the composition 
 as it appeared afterwards in the completed work. The 
 pencil-drawing was but preliminary to a very careful oil- 
 sketch, in which color, light, and shade, and to some ex- 
 tent character, were determined. So novel was the at- 
 tempt to deal with modern life, that I felt it to be very 
 necessary to be able to show to those whose advice I val- 
 ued the clearest possible indication of my new venture. 
 When the oil-study was finished I called in the critics; 
 but before I speak of their divergence of opinion I may 
 give some extracts from my diary describing the progress 
 of the oil-sketch: 
 
 " Sept. 30. Began idly to make a sketch from Rams- 
 gate Sands, which, if successful, will considerably alter 
 my practice." 
 
 "Oct. 2. An idle sort of day, thinking, and arranging 
 for ' Rarnsgatc Sands.' "
 
 172 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 "Oct. 3. Finished outline of 'Sands,' an extensive busi- 
 ness; out early to Great Exhibition." 
 
 "Oct. 21. Began to paint in sketch of 'Ramsgate 
 Sands;' did one group." 
 
 " Oct. 22. Again at work; did another group." 
 
 "Oct. 24. Again at sketch of 'Ramsgate Sands;' pro- 
 gressing with it." 
 
 " Oct. 25. Finished group of girls reading, and a man 
 selling toys." 
 
 "Oct. 28, 29. 'Ramsgate Sands;' worked, but did little 
 good." 
 
 " Nov. 1. Worked all day on 'Ramsgate Sands;' fear 
 I am spending more time on it than it is worth." 
 
 " Nov. 3. Sketched the widow and her friends." 
 
 " Nov. 4. The green lover and over principal group." 
 
 " Nov. 8. Sea-shore and figures." 
 
 "Nov. 11. All day on background of 'Sands;' fear it 
 will not do. Disagreeable at present." 
 
 "Nov. 13. Again on background of 'Sands;' finished 
 it; like it much better." 
 
 "Nov. 14. Finished sketch." 
 
 "Nov. 15. Ward saw sketch and seemed struck with it." 
 
 The importance, real or fancied, of a serious undertaking 
 must be my excuse for inflicting these extracts upon the 
 reader; they may show to the student the necessity for 
 careful preparation before a large composition of figures 
 is attempted. Ward and Egg were the first artists to 
 whom I submitted my sketch. Ward approved, and I find 
 by my diary " that Egg saw ' Ramsgate Sands,' and strong- 
 ly advised me to paint a large picture from it." Mr. 
 Birt who may be remembered as the purchaser of the 
 " Gleaner " bought the sketch subject to its being more 
 finished. The subsequent history of this transaction may 
 serve as another example of the whims of the "patron." 
 Under date of March 13, 1852, I find by my diary that 
 " Webster, R. A., called, and seemed greatly pleased with 
 picture of 'Pope and Lady Mary'" (then on the eve of 
 finish), "and especially with the sketch of 'Ramsgate 
 Sands.' He said he wished I was going to paint the sub- 
 ject for him." On Good Friday, the 9th April, the picture
 
 "RAMSGATE SANDS." 173 
 
 of the " Sands " was begun, and on Friday, the 7th May, 
 the first touch of paint was put upon it. As the picture 
 was eventually very successful, the superstition in respect 
 of Friday may be disposed of in this instance. Most 
 critics approved of the subject, but there were several 
 non-contents. One man, an artist, said it was " like Green- 
 wich fair without the fun;" another, that it was "a piece 
 of vulgar Cockney business unworthy of being represented 
 even in an illustrated paper." My non-artist friends were 
 one and all against it ; one said, " The interest, which he 
 could not discover, could only be local;" and an acade- 
 mician, on hearing of it, said to a friend of mine, " Doing 
 the people disporting on the sands at Ramsgate, is he? 
 Well, thank goodness, I didn't vote for him! I never 
 could see much in his pictures; but I didn't think he would 
 descend to such a Cockney business as that you describe. 
 This comes of electing these young fellows too hastily." 
 
 With certain interruptions by portraits and small pict- 
 ures, the " Sands " went steadily on. The summer of 1852 
 found me again at Ramsgate, mainly for the purpose of 
 painting the background, which I wished to make locally 
 accurate. Photography was in its infancy at that time; 
 I had therefore to rely on my own drawings of houses, 
 cliffs, and bathing-machines; for though photography, or, 
 as it was then called, Talbotyping, was tried, the result 
 was useless. The sea troubled me greatly, as the follow- 
 ing extract shows: 
 
 " Sept. 6. At work at the sea, and perfectly at sea I 
 found myself ; for I could no more paint it than I could 
 fly to the moon." 
 
 Then came doubts thus expressed: 
 
 "Sept. 11. Clock tower, obelisk, and hotel. Will all 
 this repay me in any way ? I doubt it!" 
 
 " Sept. 27. Leech called and said picture would be *a 
 great hit.' Who can tell ?" 
 
 By the end of the month I was back in London, and at 
 work pretty constantly on the picture on which I felt so 
 much to depend. It was towards the close of the year 
 that I became convinced that much more time was re- 
 quired for finishing properly than that at my disposal be-
 
 174 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 fore tbo Exhibition of 1853. I may close the year with 
 another extract from my diary: 
 
 "Dec, 31. Skirt of pink girl; worked slowly. To a 
 dance at Charles Dickens'. Talfourd proposed Dickens' 
 health; a merry party. Left them dancing at two o'clock; 
 and so ends the year '52." 
 
 Though all hope of completing my picture satisfactorily 
 was abandoned, I find I worked as steadily at it as dark 
 weather, the model difficulty, and other hinderances would 
 permit, until my election as an academician in February, 
 1853. Newly-elected members are expected, indeed com- 
 pelled, to present a specimen of their work gratuitously to 
 the institution; and any such work must be submitted to 
 the council and approved by them, before the new mem- 
 ber can receive his diploma. The result of the regulation 
 may be seen in the Diploma Gallery at Burlington House; 
 where, though there are admirable examples of some of 
 the elect, there are others which, being unsalable, have 
 been given to the Academy. I cannot say that my diploma 
 picture was unsalable, because I found purchasers ready 
 to take it; but I should be sorry to stake anybody's rep- 
 utation upon it, if it were much better than it is. The 
 origin of the subject may amuse. Being in the habit of 
 keeping my eyes pretty well open as I walked along the 
 streets, they were one day gratified by the sight of an 
 orange-girl of a rare type of rustic beauty. Her smile as 
 she offered her oranges was very bewitching, and had, no 
 doubt, assisted her in creating a taste for oranges on many 
 occasions. I became a large purchaser, and succeeded, 
 after much trouble, in getting her to promise to sit for me, 
 provided I would go to her confessor (she was Irish and a 
 Catholic) and get his consent. A young Catholic friend 
 was staying with me at the time, and he readily consented 
 to intercede with the priest. That gentleman, suspicious 
 of my friend, gave him a very cool reception, and a flat 
 refusal to sanction his application. For some time the girl 
 was obdurate, but at last, as she could not get the priest's 
 permission, she consented to sit without it. I determined 
 to paint a laughing face from her under the most favor- 
 able conditions a most difficult thing to do, but in her case
 
 "liAMSGATE SANDS." 175 
 
 hopeless, unless I could have induced her to go on for two 
 hours selling imaginary oranges to phantom purchasers. 
 I could not find anything to talk about that would amuse 
 her, and she could not talk to me. In one of my attempts 
 at conversation, I asked her if she was not sometimes an- 
 noyed by the soldiers and street-loafers that frequented 
 Albany Street, where she usually stood to sell her fruit. 
 Her experience of life was summed up in a few words. 
 
 " Yes, sometimes she was bothered ; but it was by 
 swells. Gentlemen," she said, " is much greater black- 
 guards than what blackguards is." 
 
 After many attempts to rouse an expression that would 
 help me to make a laughing face, I found the worst of 
 hinderances that can afflict a painter come upon me my 
 model fell fast asleep ; and as nothing that I could say or do 
 would keep her awake, I abandoned the laughing subject, 
 and painted " The Sleepy Model," who now sleeps all day 
 long in the Diploma Gallery. By showing a laughing 
 face sketched on the canvas before which a perplexed 
 artist stands, and the model, who ought to assist him in 
 realizing the expression, fast asleep, I thought I should 
 prove in a small way one of the difficulties that beset all 
 artists to say nothing of the situation, which has its comic 
 side. The picture was not exhibited in the annual show; 
 it was reserved for a more cruel destiny in the Diploma 
 Gallery that of being always exhibited among many 
 better, and a few worse, than " The Sleepy Model." 
 
 The greater part of the year 1853 was devoted to the 
 " Sands " picture, delays taking place at intervals from 
 the difficulty of finding suitable models. I noticed an 
 incident of pretty frequent occurrence, which I deter- 
 mined to introduce into the background of my picture. 
 A couple of men were joint proprietors of a " happy fam- 
 ily," consisting of cats and mice, dogs and rabbits, and 
 other creatures whose natural instincts had been extin- 
 guished so far as to allow of an appearance of armed neu- 
 trality, if not of friendship, to exist among them. When 
 the cat had played with the mice, and had allowed ca- 
 naries to peck it without resenting the liberty, a hare was 
 made to play upon a tambourine, and during the finale the
 
 176 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 proprietor's friend and assistant on the drum made the 
 usual collection. The drummer wore a wonderful green 
 coat ; he was very ugly, but an excellent type of his class. 
 As I made up my mind to introduce the whole of the 
 show, taking the moment of the hare's performance as the 
 chief point, it was necessary to enter into negotiations 
 with the proprietors. I found, as I expected, that they 
 hailed from London ; and I also found that they would 
 sit, and the animals should sit, if they were sufficiently 
 well paid for doing so. The chief proprietor's name was 
 Gwillim, and his town residence was 32 Duke Street, 
 Tower Street, Waterloo Road. He came to see me in 
 London, and a day was fixed for the beginning of my 
 performance. It was late in December, when our ene- 
 mies the fogs were upon us, that I was promised my first 
 sitting from Mr. Gwillim. Instead of that gentleman 
 came the following letter : 
 
 "December 23, 1853. 
 
 giRj I ham sorry I Cannot as attend on you to-Day. My limbs is 
 so Bad that I thout I Could not Do you juctice, and It Being so Wet and 
 Fogger I thout it Wol Make no Diference to you 
 
 " I Remain you 
 
 " MR. GWILLIM. 
 
 "At 32 Duke St., Tower St., Warterlew Road." 
 
 However, the fogs lifted, and in due time I completed 
 a tolerable resemblance of Mr. Gwillim and his establish- 
 ment, including the ugly drummer ; whose coat became 
 my property, and did duty on many occasions afterwards. 
 Under date of December 30, says my diary : 
 
 " Gwillim came at last. Set to work about 12 ; worked 
 hard and painted him and the hare, having the birds ar- 
 ranged for to-morrow." 
 
 "Dec. 31. A good day at birds, cages, etc.; fin- 
 ished them pretty well. Paid the man 30s., and bade 
 him adieu." 
 
 Though I was fortunate enough to be overwhelmed 
 with commissions for small pictures, nearly all my larger 
 pictures were speculations as regarded purchasers ; but 
 up to the " Ramsgate Sands " time, I had had little diffi- 
 culty in disposing of works that, from their size, and the
 
 "RAMSGATE SANDS." 177 
 
 time occupied in completing them, were necessarily ex- 
 pensive. It was my habit to leave a large loophole for 
 the escape of a purchaser, in the event of any objection 
 arising in his mind in respect of the way his commission 
 may have been executed. I found a few repudiations on 
 grounds to which I could not object. About the time of 
 the beginning of the " Sands," some collectors found me 
 out, to whom, according to their own showing, price was 
 of no consequence. One, I believe a very rich one from 
 the north, to whom I showed the Ramsgate sketch, asked 
 the price, the size of the intended work, etc. The price 
 I could not name till after the completion of the picture; 
 the size was satisfactory. The collector said he was " per- 
 fectly delighted " with the subject as treated by me, and 
 he left me after extracting a promise that I would give 
 him the first refusal of the picture. The gentleman in 
 question, a perfect stranger to me, happened to be a friend 
 of an acquaintance of mine, an artist, to whom I confided 
 
 the fact of Mr. S being, in all probability, the happy 
 
 possessor of my picture, then on the verge of completion. 
 
 " I think you are making a mistake," was the reply. 
 
 " Mr. S was here the other day. He told me he had 
 
 seen your sketch of ' Ramsgate Sands,' and (you won't 
 mind my telling you, will you ?) he said he wondered how 
 anybody in his senses could waste his time in painting 
 such a tissue of vulgarity, and that he wouldn't have such 
 a thing on his walls." 
 
 This was what would be called in prize-ring language 
 " a facer," and quite sufficient to convince me that my 
 promise to give Mr. S the " first refusal " was un- 
 necessary. The picture was refused by five other "pa- 
 trons," upon one excuse or another. One gentleman, find- 
 ing himself cornered (P.R. again), said the picture wanted 
 something. Frank Stone, who stood by and heard this 
 brilliant objection, turned to the collector and said : 
 "What do you say to a balloon, sir?" pointing to the 
 sky. " Would something of that kind finish the picture ?" 
 
 After half a dozen rejections, I refused to listen to the 
 advice of my friends to " avoid picture-dealers," and the 
 picture was bought at the price of a thousand guineas by 
 8*
 
 178 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 Messrs. Lloyd ; who Lad no cause to repent of their bar- 
 gain, as I shall afterwards prove. While the larger pict- 
 ure was progressing slowly towards completion, I painted 
 several small works, the ready sale of which enabled me 
 to keep the ship now laden with several small passen- 
 gers well before the wind. Among the best was a scene 
 from "Woodstock," which with three other subjects 
 from Scott was very beautifully engraved by Stocks 
 for a new edition of the Waverley Novels. In the prog- 
 ress of the " Sands," I benefited greatly by the advice 
 of some of my brother artists. About six weeks before 
 " sending-in day " I begged for a criticism from Mulready, 
 the greatest of them all ; and never shall I forget the 
 visit. My diary says : 
 
 "Feb. 20. Mulready came early, and looked over 
 the picture. He complained chiefly of the color and ef- 
 fect too many gray tones used more positive tints should 
 have been chosen for some of the foreground figures; the 
 light and shade not sufficiently massed, too much cut up 
 into small pieces of sharp dark and light all my old faults. 
 Worked a little in bad spirits." 
 
 Bad spirits, indeed. The severity of the remarks was 
 awful ; so severe that the old man, conscious of his strong 
 language, looking towards a curtain that covered the stu- 
 dio door, said, " I hope no one can hear what I am say- 
 ing." 
 
 When he left me, I remember saying to myself, " If all 
 that is true, I have made a dismal failure." Unable to 
 work, I went to Egg and implored him to tell me if there 
 was hope in my work or not. He returned with me, and 
 cheered me a good deal. He said, " You must remember 
 that Mulready had come from his own brilliantly-colored 
 picture his eye accustomed to strong colors to yours, 
 in which bright reds and greens could not be used." 
 
 That might account for much that Mulready said; but 
 to this day I cannot understand the sweeping condemna- 
 tion that he passed upon every quality in the picture. He 
 could see no character, no beauty in the women, no nature 
 or truth anywhere. I knew him to be a severe, but not 
 an ill-natured critic ; and the idea of jealousy was too ab-
 
 "RAMSGATB SANDS." 179 
 
 surd to be entertained for a moment. And that he was 
 absolutely wrong the after-success of the picture abun- 
 dantly proved. Show-Sunday came, and numbers of people 
 with it. Under date of April 3, I find : 
 
 " Many visitors. On the whole feel the picture is 
 thought successful ; cannot tell it may be the reverse." 
 
 This was my first year as councillor and hangman. As 
 a very young member, I was not allowed to interfere with 
 the two older men, who had gone through the arranging 
 of the exhibition several times before. If I proposed a 
 picture for a good position, they were two to one against 
 me; still, in some few instances, I was permitted to have 
 an opinion, and to act upon it. Of course I took care 
 that "Ramsgate Sands" had a good place; and when I 
 hung it, I remember well the relief I felt, that though not 
 a word was said about the merit of the picture, its situa- 
 tion was not objected to. The secretary said : " You have 
 given yourself a first-rate place; now take care what pict- 
 ures you hang all round your own, or you will kill it to a 
 certainty." 
 
 The next entry in my diary says : 
 
 " April 22. Finished my first hanging. It is a painful 
 and most disagreeable business so many interests to con- 
 sider. Tried to do my duty, though perhaps with too 
 much thought for my friends." 
 
 Regard for the interest of my friends reminds me of a 
 young student whom I was very desirous to serve. He 
 had sent his first work to the Academy a scene from 
 Sheridan Knowles' play of "The Hunchback" a small 
 picture containing two figures. Cooper and Webster were 
 my fellow-hangers, and, on my calling their attention to 
 my friend's work, Cooper used language about it which 
 I cannot repeat. Webster smiled, and asked me if I should 
 like the "place of honor" for it. From the remarks and 
 manner of those gentlemen I gave up the idea of a good 
 place ; but as my young friend had told me that so long 
 as his picture was hung he did not mind if it were hung 
 upside down at the top of the room, I still had hope that 
 I could smuggle it in somewhere in an inferior situation; 
 so when Webster said, " Go to the Architecture Room,
 
 180 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 and try your hand there," I went off with a load of pict- 
 ures, and "The Hunchback" among them. Under my 
 orders one side of the room was pretty well furnished ; 
 my friend's picture in a high corner where I trusted it 
 might escape the eyes of my companions. When Cooper 
 made his appearance with " Well, how are you getting 
 on ?" " Oh, pretty well," replied I. I saw the old hang- 
 man take a rapid glance at the result of my labors, and 
 as rapidly disappear, to return almost immediately with 
 Webster. Neither of them spoke. Cooper pointed with 
 his measuring-rod at "The Hunchback" in the corner, 
 and then turned to me and said, " It won't do ; if it is 
 to be hung anywhere, try it outside in the square. Put 
 it on the line on the Nelson Column ; more people will 
 see it there than they will here." With every desire to 
 serve my friend, the fates Cooper and Webster were 
 against me, and "The Hunchback" retired forever; so 
 did the author of his being, for he left an ungrateful pro- 
 fession, and now supplies costumes for painting, with a 
 greater profit to himself and everybody else than he could 
 have achieved by the practice of the fine arts. I felt much 
 disappointed that none of the council had a word of praise 
 for my picture. The thing was a novelty. I saw them 
 took, but not a w r ord of any kind fell from them by which 
 I could judge of their opinions. But when the rest of 
 the members were admitted a change seemed to take 
 place ; several of the most eminent were loud in expres- 
 sions of approval ; some of the tongues of the councillors 
 were loosened, and I felt assurance of success to be " doub- 
 ly sure." 
 
 Another quotation from my diary, for which I must 
 apologize, and promise to quote it as seldom as possible 
 in future : 
 
 " April 28. Drove to R.A. at a quarter to twelve ; the 
 royal family qame. Eastlake presented me to the queen. 
 She was delighted with 'Seaside.' Wanted to buy it 
 found she couldn't, and gave me a commission for a similar 
 subject. Everybody, likes it. I find myself and Maclise 
 the guns this year." 
 
 Maclise's contribution was the "Marriage of Strong-
 
 "BA.MSGATB SANDS." 181 
 
 bow," one of his finest works, now in the National Gallery 
 at Dublin. I retired from the presence of royalty as soon 
 as I could do so with propriety; but not before I had ex- 
 perienced the truth of what I had often heard, namely, 
 that the prince consort and the queen knew quite as 
 much about art as most painters ; and that their treat- 
 ment of artists displayed a gracious kindness delightful 
 to experience. 
 
 Sir C. Eastlake, whose duty it was to attend the royal 
 party through the entire exhibition, left them, and came 
 to me while I was standing among the rest of the council, 
 to inquire into whose possession the " Life at the Seaside " 
 as it was called in the catalogue had fallen. " Bought 
 by a picture-dealer," said I, " who for a profit would sell 
 it to her majesty or anybody else." Eastlake returned to 
 the royalties and conveyed my intelligence evidently, for 
 I could see a slight shrug of the royal shoulders, which 
 said quite plainly, " Picture-dealer ! Outrageous profit, of 
 course." A few days solved the question, for Messrs. 
 Lloyd, hearing of the queen's desire for the picture, 
 opened up communication through the usual channel; the 
 result being the acquisition of the picture by the queen 
 for the price Lloyds had paid for it; their profit accruing 
 from the loan of it for three years for the purpose of efl- 
 graving. That part of the business was most admirably 
 effected by Mr. Sharp, the well-known line engraver; and 
 if report spoke truth and the Art Union of London paid 
 3000 for the plate, Messrs. Lloyd must have received a 
 satisfactory profit on this, as on many other occasions. I 
 should be sorry, indeed, if anything I say of these gentle- 
 men could be interpreted into an insinuation against them, 
 or their fair and legitimate profits. I had very many deal- 
 ings with the firm, and invariably found them liberal and 
 just. On one occasion only they allowed strict "business 
 principles " to prevail so far as to damage their own inter- 
 ests. I have already remarked that I should have some- 
 thing to say on the " patron " subject, in the matter of the 
 oil-study for "Life at the Seaside" and Mr. Birt; who I 
 must say, by the way, had behaved to me with much kind- 
 ness and liberality up to the time of my finishing the
 
 182 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 sketch for Lira, when his conduct became perfectly un- 
 accountable. I completed the sketch so successfully that 
 one of the Lloyds, happening to call, saw it, and expressed 
 a great desire to possess it. I told him judging from 
 previous transactions with Mr. Birt that there was no 
 chance for him, as I considered the sketch already the 
 property of that gentleman. 
 
 " Well," said Lloyd, " there is no certainty with these 
 gentlemen. What is the price ?" 
 
 " A hundred and fifty guineas," said I. 
 
 "Consider it ours if Mr. Birt declines it. Does he 
 know the price ?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 I was putting a few last touches to the little picture 
 when Mr. Birt called to see it, and, sitting behind me, 
 something like the following conversation took place : 
 
 " What a beautiful little thing you have made of that, 
 Frith!" 
 
 " Glad you like it," said I. " Have I done as much to 
 it as you expected or desired ?" 
 
 "Well, don't ye see" (a favorite phrase repeated con- 
 stantly when there was nothing to see), " I've been think- 
 ing er er that it is too small, don't y'see. It wouldn't 
 hang with the rest of my pictures satisfactorily from its 
 size, don't y'see." 
 
 I don't know which feeling possessed me most strongly, 
 surprise or anger. 
 
 " Too small !" said I. " What on earth do you mean 
 by too small ? The thing is not made smaller by the fin- 
 ish put upon it at your suggestion; it is the same size as 
 it was when you bought it." 
 
 " There, there; don't get out of temper." 
 
 " But I am out of temper. I should not have spent a lot 
 of time on the thing if you hadn't suggested it being more 
 elaborated; and now that it is done, and you say well done, 
 you pretend it is too small. If you wanted an excuse for 
 not taking the sketch, you should have found a better one." 
 
 " There you go why get in a passion ? Your pictures 
 are 'bank-notes' (sic); plenty of purchasers for such as 
 them um er don't y'see ?"
 
 " BAMSGATE SANDS." 183 
 
 " Oh, as for that," said I, " I know I need not trouble 
 myself; for, as you decline it, the picture is sold already." 
 
 " Sold !" very excitedly. " Who has bought it ?" 
 
 " Lloyds," was the reply. 
 
 " At what price ?" 
 
 "Never mind." 
 
 " Oh, come now, I can make it all right. What is the 
 price ?" 
 
 "A hundred and fifty guineas." 
 
 " Then I will take it," and as he spoke I heard the rust- 
 ling of notes, or perhaps the paper of a check. 
 
 " Indeed you won't," said I. " I promised it to Lloyds 
 if you refused it, and Lloyds' it is." 
 
 " Nonsense! here is the money, don't y'see!" 
 
 " No, I don't see. I only wish I could see that you 
 have acted fairly;" and my patron and I parted on un- 
 pleasant terms, soon after forgotten, and on both sides 
 forgiven. 
 
 To complete the history of this little sketch, I must re- 
 turn to Messrs. Lloyd, then the proprietors of it. My 
 friend Mr. Miller, owner of "The Witch," and other 
 works of mine, saw the "Sands" sketch, took a great 
 fancy to it, and asked me if I thought Lloyd would forego 
 it in his favor. Mr. Miller was then forming a large col- 
 lection of the works of dead and living painters, and while 
 largely employing picture-dealers to sell to him, or to pur- 
 chase for him, the works of departed genius, he greatly 
 preferred buying living men's pictures from the artists 
 who had produced them. I went to Lloyd and told him 
 of Miller's wish in regard to the sketch, and begged him 
 to let me sell it to Mr. M. for the price settled upon be- 
 tween Lloyd and me. 
 
 " Oh dear, no," was the reply. " The price is two hun- 
 dred guineas. Business is business. Nobody knows that 
 better than Mr. Miller. If he wants the sketch, he knows 
 where to get it." 
 
 " Is business always business ?" inquired I. " Are there 
 not occasions when it is worth while to sink the business 
 question ? Don't you know that if you were to oblige 
 Mr. Miller in this little matter, he might buy pictures
 
 184 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 from you, or get you to buy for him at Christie's that 
 you might make a friend of him, in fact ?" 
 
 " No," said Lloyd, " that is just what I don't know. As 
 I said before, business is business ; and two hundred 
 guineas is the price of ' Ramsgate Sands' the Little." 
 
 I conveyed this decision to my friend, who paid the two 
 hundred guineas, telling me at the same time that he 
 thought Lloyd had perhaps lost more than fifty pounds 
 by his business habits; and events proved the truth of my 
 idea of business ; for Mr. Miller never bought another 
 picture from Lloyd, or through his instrumentality. 
 
 From one cause or another I found I wasted a great 
 deal of time after the exhibition of " Ramsgate Sands." 
 I was abominably idle, or occupied on trumpery subjects 
 unworthy of the trouble taken in reproducing them. I 
 confess with humiliation that I was prevailed upon to 
 paint a companion to the vulgar "Sherry, Sir?" to be 
 called " Did you Ring, Sir ?" A modest-looking servant is 
 opening a door and looking at the spectator with an in- 
 quiring expression. I don't think the engraving ever sold, 
 and I am quite sure it didn't deserve to sell. What be- 
 came of the picture, and some others I did at that time, 
 will, I trust, be forever mercifully hidden from me. 
 
 Towards the end of 1854 I found myself preparing a 
 sketch of a child's birthday. The scene is laid in a dining- 
 room, where a family is assembled to do honor to a small 
 person who may have attained the mature age of six, and 
 is at the moment an object of attention to the whole party; 
 for the ceremony of health-drinking is taking place. The 
 heroine sits in a high chair, which has been decorated for 
 the occasion with a wreath of flowers, and is somewhat 
 bewildered by her uproarious brothers and sisters, whose 
 wishes for many happy returns of the day are screamed 
 by half a dozen shrill voices. The parent pair preside, of 
 course, assisted by friends ; while the grandfather and 
 grandmother look sympathetically on. 
 
 I am indebted to the workhouse for some very good 
 elderly models. I am sorry to say that the freedom with 
 which artists were allowed to select sitters from the 
 " asylum of poverty " no longer exists. We are shut out
 
 "RAMSGATE SANDS." 185 
 
 from all the workhouses; and the reason given us is the 
 impossibility of the " inmates," whether male or female, 
 being able to pass the public-house on their homeward 
 route, without leaving there much of their sitting-money 
 in exchange for drink. The grandfather in " The Birth- 
 day" was a man who had seen better days, and found 
 refuge in the workhouse for his old age. He was an amus- 
 ing old fellow, brimming over with wise saws and good 
 advice. He warned me against extravagance not that 
 he had been guilty of it, oh, no ! "For," said he, " if I 
 hadn't been a very careful man, I should have been in the 
 workhouse long before I was." 
 
 The masters of the workhouses that I visited had 
 always been willing to assist in allowing me to select 
 models from the great variety of characteristic faces 
 abounding in their establishments, till the old ladies and 
 gentlemen proved beyond all doubt, by their frequent 
 habit of returning both drunk and abusive, that the in- 
 dulgence must be stopped. 
 
 While the picture of "The Birthday" was proceed- 
 ing, I occupied myself with many less important works. 
 Among the best were a study called " Lovers," and " The 
 Opera Box." In reference to the latter, I find in my in- 
 evitable diary: 
 
 "May 3. The queen came to the Academy. Prince 
 Albert asked to be introduced to me, and complimented 
 me on ' The Opera Box.' " 
 
 I also painted a public-house sign, or, to speak more 
 correctly, I assisted in doing so; for Egg worked on one 
 side of it, while I attended to the other. The public-house 
 was called " The Pilgrim." On Egg's side of the sign the 
 pilgrim, with cockle-shell and staff, was represented knock- 
 ing at a door ; on the reverse my side he was coming 
 out refreshed, and looking up thankfully at a piece of sky, 
 meant to pass for heaven. This work of art was a present 
 to our friend Miller, who had just then purchased an estate 
 in Lancashire, for which he was said to have paid a fabu- 
 lous sum as, in addition to many hundreds or thousands 
 of acres, a whole village and the public-house were part 
 of the bargain. We fully expected our pilgrim would
 
 186 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 have been allowed to take the place always allotted to 
 signs at inns either above the entrance-door, or in the 
 prouder position on the top of a post, where he might 
 swing and creak after the manner of his kind. But 
 whether from respect for his calling, or for " the artistic 
 merit with which he was invested," he was taken inside 
 and relegated to the bar, where he is more likely to retain 
 his " carnations " than if they were exposed to wind and 
 weather. Many artists have painted signs. Millais once 
 painted a " George and Dragon;" David Cox, " The Oak " 
 at Bettws-y-Coed; and George Harlow (a pupil of Law- 
 rence's, and an admirable but somewhat eccentric painter) 
 left a sign behind him at Epsom, having had the audacity 
 to initial it in one corner with "T. L., Greek Street," where 
 Lawrence lived. The story goes that Harlow and Sir T. 
 Lawrence had quarrelled and parted in anger; the younger 
 painter thinking himself the aggrieved party. As a piece 
 of revenge, he painted the sign, and not only put Law- 
 rence's initials and address on it, but executed it exactly 
 after the manner of that artist. By this he is said to have 
 settled his bill; and he certainly annoyed his late master, 
 who, on meeting the wicked sign-painter in Portland Place, 
 accosted him with, 
 
 " Sir, if this were not a long street, I would have kicked 
 you from one end of it to the other." 
 
 " Would you ?" said Harlow. " Then I am glad it is a 
 long street." 
 
 I think it was at this time that I first saw Dickens as an 
 actor. He played the principal character in a piece called 
 " The Frozen Deep," written by my old friend Wilkie 
 Collins, in a theatre erected in the garden of Tavistock 
 House. I append a bill of the play on the following 
 page. 
 
 Carlyle says Dickens' " real forte was acting, not writ- 
 ing." Carlyle has said many wise things, and, as he was 
 human, he said some foolish ones; but none, surely, more 
 foolish than that which I quote. I saw Dickens in all the 
 characters he attempted, and I heard him read most of his 
 works; and no one who has had a similar experience could 
 be blind to the dramatic power with which he realized ev-
 
 TAVISTOCK HOUSE THEATRE. 
 
 UN DBS THB KAlfigBMBBT OP ML CHA1LB8 PICONS. 
 
 On Thurtday, January Sth, 1857, AT A QCARTKR BEFORB 8 O'CLOCK, will be presented 
 
 AN ENTIRELY NEW 
 ROMANTIC DRAMA, IN THREE ACTS, BY MR. W1LK1E COLLINS, 
 
 CALLKD 
 
 THE FROZEN DEEP. 
 
 T\t Jfaclintry and Projxrtia, f, t MR. IEU.IKD, of Ou Tktatrt Royal, A<Upi. T Drtun ky Miuu. 
 NITHIX f/ ri/oUotinu &r, IJaymarttt. rtrrujnitr, &I. Wiuoic, </ bU Strand. 
 
 THE PROLOGUE WILL BE DELIVERED BY MR JOHX FORSTER 
 CAPTAIN EBSWORTH, of The Sea Mew . . MR. EDWARD PIOOTT. 
 CAITAIX HKLDIXG. of The Wanderer . . MR. ALFRED DICKK.SS. 
 LIKtTEN'ANT ('RAYFORD .... MR. MARK LKMOX. 
 
 FRANK ALDERSLEY MR. WII.KIK COLUXS. 
 
 RICHARD WARDOl'R MR. CHARLKS DICKK.NS. 
 
 LIEUTEXANT STF.VEXTOX MR. Yorao CHARLES. 
 
 JOHN WANT, Ship't Cook MR. Aforsrrs Eoo, A.RA. 
 
 BATF.SON) TimnfT i. & \i,^, n~*'* J MR - Ko w **o HOGARTH. 
 
 DARKER ) T<eo f e * a Utwt ***' ' ' (MR. FREDERICK EvA.xa. 
 
 (OFFICERS AND CRKWS OF TUB SKA Ml:W AND WANDERER.) 
 
 MRS. STEVKXTON . Miss HKI.EX. 
 
 ROSE EB3WORTH Miss KATB. 
 
 LCCY CRAYFOKR Misa HOGAKTII. 
 
 CLARA BfRNHAM Miss MART. 
 
 NURSE ESTHER. MRS. WILLS. 
 
 MAID . Miss MARTHA. 
 
 THE SCENERY AND SCENIC EFFECTS OF THE FIRST ACT, BY MR. TELBW. 
 THE SCENERY & SCENIC EFFECTS OF THE SECOND & THIRD ACTS, By Mr. StaMelfl, R.A. 
 
 ASSISTED BY MR. DANSON. 
 THE ACT-DROP, ALSO BY Mr. StaMeM, R.A. 
 
 AT THE END OF THE PLAY, HALF AN HOUR FOR REFRESHMENT. 
 
 To Conclude with tbo Farco, in Two Acts, by Mr. UITKSTOXK, called 
 
 UNCLE JOHN. 
 
 UNCLE JOHN . 
 NEPHEW HAWK 
 FRIEND THOMAS 
 EDWARD EASEL 
 ANDREW . 
 NIECE HAWK 
 ELIZA . 
 MRS. COMFORT 
 
 MR. CHARLES DICKENS 
 MR. WII.KIK COLLINS. 
 
 MR. MA UK I.KMi'X. 
 
 MR. Aroi-irrrs EGO, A.RA. 
 MR. Yorxo CHARLES. 
 Miss HOGARTH. 
 Miss KATE. 
 Miss MART. 
 
 Musical Composer and Conductor of the Orchestra Mr. FRANCESCO 
 BEBGEB, who will preside at the Piano. 
 
 CARRIAGES MAY BE ORDERED AT HALF-PAST ELEVEN. 
 
 COD SAVE THE QUEEN!
 
 188 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 ery character, either created by himself or others. That, 
 with training and experience, he would have been a great 
 actor, there is no doubt. He would have been great in 
 whatever career he might have pursued; but as a great 
 actor stands to a great writer in about the same relation 
 that a great engraver stands to a great painter, I submit 
 that Carlyle was mistaken, unless he meant to imply that 
 Dickens was not a great writer; in that case, like most of 
 my fellow-creatures, I am at issue with him.
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 "THE DEEBT DA Y." 
 
 As I have said earlier in these reminiscences, the shock 
 that the first sight of a picture in the exhibition causes to 
 its author can with difficulty be imagined by artists even, 
 who have not experienced the sensation; the influence of 
 the surrounding works, the glare of frames, and the unac- 
 customed light, all combine to produce so complete a trans- 
 formation as to create doubts that the black, dirty, inky 
 thing that affronts you can be the clear, bright, effective 
 production that was so admired by your friends and your- 
 self before it left your painting-room. Wilkie felt the 
 full force of this, for, in speaking of his splendid " Chel- 
 sea Pensioners Reading the Gazette Announcing the Battle 
 of Waterloo," he says: "This is the only instance of one 
 of my pictures which has not suffered terribly by the ex- 
 hibition." My " Birthday " was a very painful example 
 of the effect produced by its surroundings; being hung in 
 a well-known and dreaded dark part of the large room, 
 and being a low -toned picture, the consequences were 
 dreadful. I can never forget the shock of the first sight 
 of it. Some one endeavored to console me by saying that 
 if a fine picture by an old master were hung in a modern 
 exhibition it would be destroyed. I was, and am still, 
 inclined to agree with my friend, but I could find no con- 
 solation in the reflection; and I very soon discovered that 
 my new effort was considered a great falling off from 
 "Ramsgate Sands," some kind critics going so far as to 
 say I was " done for;" the decline had begun, speedily to 
 terminate in a series of performances disgraceful to my- 
 self and the body which had elected me so prematurely. 
 For a time I was crushed, but a reaction soon took place. 
 Though the subject of " The Birthday " offered no oppor-
 
 190 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 tunity for the display of character and variety of incident 
 that distinguished the " Sands," the execution of the pict- 
 ure was not inferior to its predecessor; and I felt sure that, 
 if I could find a theme capable of affording me the oppor- 
 tunity of showing an appreciation of the infinite variety 
 of every-day life, I had confidence enough in my power of 
 dealing with it successfully; but the subject then, as now 
 and ever, the chief difficulty where was I to find a scene 
 of such interest and importance as to warrant my spend- 
 ing months, perhaps a year or two, in representing it? 
 Until the year of which I write 1854 I had never seen 
 any of the great horse-races for which England is so fa- 
 mous, and my first experience of the modern Olympian 
 games was at Hampton ; when the idea occurred to me 
 that, if some of the salient points of the great gathering 
 could be grouped together, an effective picture might be 
 the result. Mentioning this to a friend with whom I was 
 walking about the course, he or, rather, she, for my friend 
 was a lady declared her belief that it was impossible to 
 represent such an enormous crowd on canvas at all, with- 
 out producing confusion worse confounded. As we were 
 walking along the course we met with an incident which, 
 though impossible to be reproduced in a picture, may be 
 related here. My eyes were wide open, and my attention 
 alive to everything surrounding me ; and while watching 
 a group of gypsies, who were eating some of the remains 
 of a Fortnum and Mason pie (that had been given them) 
 near one of the booths, I happened to look into the booth 
 itself. It was evidently one of the cheap dining-places so 
 common on race-courses; for a long table, covered with a 
 white cloth, with plates at intervals, stretched from the 
 course into the inner recess at the back. There were no 
 diners, but a solitary man sat at the end of the table, with- 
 in a few feet of me, leaning his head upon his hand, seem- 
 ingly in deep reflection. As I looked he suddenly raised 
 his head, seized one of the dinner-knives from the table, 
 and made a furious attempt to cut his throat. The knife 
 was, fortunately, as blunt as those instruments usually are 
 in better regulated dining-rooms than the booth at Hamp- 
 ton, and though the man injured himself considerably, judg-
 
 "TI1E DERBY DAY." 191 
 
 ing from the ghastly pallor of his face and the awful evi- 
 dence on his beringed hands, I did not believe his attempt 
 tfas fatal, for he was instantly seized, and prevented from 
 repeating the attack. I heard afterwards that he had been 
 a heavy loser; and my informant said, "The fool lost his 
 money, but he won't lose his life; it wouldn't much mat- 
 ter if he did, for he ain't married, and he is an awful rip." 
 
 My first visit to Epsom was in the May of 1856 Blink 
 Bonnie's year. My first Derby had no interest for me as 
 a race, but as giving me the opportunity of studying life 
 and character it is ever to be gratefully remembered. 
 Gambling-tents and thimble-rigging, prick in the garter 
 and the three-card trick, had not then been stopped by 
 the police. So convinced was I that I could find the pea 
 under the thimble that I was on the point of backing my 
 guess rather heavily, when I was stopped by Egg, whose 
 interference was resented by a clerical-looking personage, 
 in language much opposed to what would have been an- 
 ticipated from one of his cloth. 
 
 "You," said Egg, addressing the divine, "you are a 
 confederate, you know; my friend is not to be taken in." 
 
 " Look here," said the clergyman, " don't you call names, 
 and don't call me names, or I shall knock your d d head 
 off." 
 
 " Will you?" said Egg, his courage rising as he saw two 
 policemen approaching. " Then I call the lot of you 
 the Quaker there, no more a Quaker than I am, and that 
 fellow that thinks he looks like a farmer you are a parcel 
 of thieves!" 
 
 " So they are, sir," said a meek-looking lad who joined 
 us; "they have cleaned me out." 
 
 "Now move off; clear out of this!" said the police; and 
 the gang walked away, the clergyman turning and extend- 
 ing his arms in the act of blessing me and Egg. 
 
 The acrobats, with every variety of performance, the 
 nigger minstrels, gypsy fortune-telling, to say nothing of 
 carriages filled with pretty women, together with the sport- 
 ing element, seemed to offer abundant material for the 
 line of art to which I felt obliged in the absence of high- 
 er gifts to devote myself; and the more I considered the
 
 192 MY AUTOBIOGKAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 kaleidoscopic aspect of the crowd on Epsom Downs the 
 more firm became my resolve to attempt to reproduce it. 
 As the time for observation was too short to allow of 
 sketching, I endeavored to make such mental notes as 
 should help me in my proposed work. No time was lost 
 on my return home, as I find by my diary that, on May 
 21, I "began a rough drawing of ' Race-course,' " and on 
 the 24th the " rough drawing" was finished. I cannot say 
 I have ever found a difficulty in composing. great numbers 
 of figures into a more or less harmonious whole. I don't 
 think this gift, or knack, can be acquired. Many artists, 
 with far greater powers than I possess, fail utterly when 
 they attempt compositions of more than three or four fig- 
 ures, while to me the putting together of a small number 
 of objects, either living or dead, presents difficulties occa- 
 sionally almost insurmountable. I mention this as a warn- 
 ing to students never to attempt large compositions unless 
 they feel they have the " gift " for work of the kind, the 
 true sign being the facility which they feel in its accom- 
 plishment. And, granting the facility, too much time can 
 scarcely be spent in making preliminary studies, always 
 from nature, of separate figures and groups. I arranged 
 the general lines of the composition of the " Derby Day " 
 in what I call a rough charcoal drawing, as noted above; 
 and after making numbers of studies from models for all 
 the prominent figures, I went for my usual seaside holiday 
 to Folkestone, and employed much of it very delightfully 
 in preparing a small, careful oil-sketch with color and 
 effect finally planned so that when I chose to begin the 
 large picture I found the "course clear" before me. 
 
 Mr. Jacob Bell had desired me to paint an important 
 picture for him so soon as I found a subject agreeable to 
 his taste and my own. On seeing the sketch of the " Derby 
 Day " no time was lost in deliberation, for I was commis- 
 sioned to paint a picture five or six feet long from it, at 
 the price of fifteen hundred pounds; the copyright being 
 reserved to me, and a reasonable time conceded for the 
 loan of the picture for engraving. Many weeks were 
 spent upon the large sketch, and a second one, now in the 
 Bethnal Green Museum, was made, in which I tried a dif-
 
 "THE DEBBY DAY." 193 
 
 ferent arrangement of the principal group. It will be 
 evident, then, that if the larger work failed, it would not 
 be for lack of preparation. Before the picture was begun 
 the copyright for the engraving was purchased by Mr. 
 Garabart, who agreed to pay fifteen hundred pounds for 
 it. The greater part of the year 1856, after exhibition of 
 " The Birthday," was taken up by small pictures, some of 
 them of a very pot-boiling character, and none worth 
 noting in this place, or anywhere else. I may, perhaps, 
 except the picture of an old woman accused of witchcraft, 
 exhibited several years before, which I subjected to a 
 treatment that I recommend for adoption under similar 
 circumstances. After seeing the picture at Preston with 
 a " fresh eye," I felt I could greatly improve it, and some 
 changes with the owner's sanction I proceeded to effect, 
 at a sacrifice of much time, and greatly to the advantage 
 of the picture. 
 
 On the 20th of January my diary says : " First day's 
 work on ' Race-course ;' a long journey, but I go to it with 
 a good heart, and, if I live, doubt not a triumphant issue. 
 Sketched in some of the figures in charcoal." 
 
 I wrote, February 9: "First day's painting on ' Race- 
 course.' Miss Mortimer sat. Did two heads of carriage- 
 ladies pretty well." 
 
 The main incident in the " Derby Day " that of the 
 acrobat and his hungry little boy is too well known to 
 need any description from me; as, indeed, are all the vari- 
 ous passages of the picture, from the fact of its being 
 prominently before the public in the form of engraving, 
 as well as from its position in the National Gallery. In 
 the Drury Lane pantomime I found the acrobat I wanted, 
 and, after the usual bargaining, he agreed to come with 
 his little son. The young gentleman was possessed with 
 the idea that sitting meant throwing continual somer- 
 saults; but that performance, amusing enough, did not 
 advance my picture; and it was with much difficulty that 
 I stopped his going head over heels into casts and draper- 
 ies, to the confusion of both. The hands of the youth 
 not very clean to begin with became so dirty that a visit 
 to my lavatory was suggested. When he returned to us 
 9
 
 194 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 he said : " Oh, father! such a beautiful place ! all mahog- 
 iny, and a chany basin to wash in !" One of my children 
 came into the studio with a message : " Mamma says, papa, 
 will the models want luncheon ?" 
 
 " Mamma papa !" said the little acrobat, with con- 
 tempt; " why don't you say father and mother, young un ?" 
 
 " Don't you be cheeky !" said the parent. 
 
 I made a fairly satisfactory beginning; my difficulties 
 greatly increased by the models being unused to their 
 work. The father, indeed, became faint, and a turn in the 
 garden was necessary. I soon saw that it would be im- 
 possible to use my acrobats in painting the whole of their 
 figures, so by increased payment I acquired their dresses, 
 which were donned by those to "the manner born." In 
 such a complicated affair as the " Derby Day," models of 
 every kind were wanted. I laid my children and friends 
 largely under contribution, as well as professional models, 
 one of whom, named Bishop, was so peculiar a character 
 as to deserve more lengthened notice. He was a good 
 fellow and a splendid sitter, but a little doubtful in keep- 
 ing his appointments; he had much trouble in passing a 
 public-house without going into it first, and he sometimes 
 stayed long and forgot his engagements. In the middle 
 of my work he disappeared for six weeks. I found on 
 inquiry that he had suddenly left his lodgings, and his 
 landlady had no idea what had become of him. I had 
 almost given up the hope of seeing him again, when one 
 morning, to my great delight, he put in an appearance, 
 looking like the ghost of his former self. 
 
 " Why, Bishop," said I, "where on earth have you been? 
 You are looking very bad ; have you been ill ?" 
 
 " No, sir ; but I haven't had much to eat where I've 
 been leastways not the sort I like. Skilly don't suit 
 me." 
 
 " What's skilly?" said I; " and where have you been to 
 get it ?" 
 
 " Skilly is what they gives you when you get into quod, 
 and that's where I've been." 
 
 " Quod !" said I; " prison? You don't mean to say you 
 have been in prison?"
 
 "THE DEBBY DAY." 195 
 
 " Ah ! I have though, sir; and I'll tell you how it was. 
 After I left here last time as I was sitting, I goes towards 
 my place, and just there by Palace Gardens I sees a crowd 
 and a row going on, and I never can see nothing like that 
 without just looking to see what it's all about; and there 
 was a man using bad language to Mr. Webster, which I 
 know well, and a nice gentleman he is, and I've often set 
 for him. So I pushes in, and I says, ' Now what is it ?' I 
 says; ' what have you got to say to this here gent, which 
 is a friend of mine ?' * I'll say something and do some- 
 thing to you in a minute,' says a fellow; ' don't you inter- 
 fere!' And if you'll believe me, sir, I thought he was go- 
 ing to hit Mr. Webster; so I gives him one for himself. 
 And he turns to me, and we went at it hammer and tongs; 
 and the police came and interfered, as they always does; 
 and they laid hold of me, and one of 'em says I hit him. 
 'You've assaulted me in the exercise of my dooty,' he 
 says, 'so I shall run you in.' And run me in he did; but 
 it took more than him to do it, and they locked me up, 
 and next morning I was took before the beak. The po- 
 liceman swore as I assaulted him in the execution of his 
 dooty. I told him it was a lie, and was giving him a little 
 more of my mind, when the magistrate says, ' Silence, 
 man !' he says. ' Go to prison for three weeks.' That 
 made me wild, and I up and says, ' You call yourself a 
 beak ?' I says. ' Why, you ain't up to the situation ; and 
 I'll tell you what, I'm a artist's model, and I sits for them 
 as draws for Punch; and I'll have you took and put in 
 Punch, you just see if I don't.' The beak opened his 
 mouth at that. He ain't often spoke to like that, you bet, 
 sir; and after a bit he says, 'Now you will go to prison 
 for six weeks;' and that's where I've been, sir." 
 
 " And very sorry you must have felt over the skilly for 
 your impertinence to the magistrate," said I. 
 
 " Well, yes, I wish I hadn't a said it; but he made me 
 that wild." 
 
 Bishop was a favorite model of Edwin Land seer's, who 
 told me the following story of him. It appeared that to 
 the profession of artist's model, Bishop added the business 
 of a pig-dealer. He had tolerably largo conveniences for
 
 196 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 the prosecution of that trade at his " place," in the form 
 of sties, etc. a favorite pig now and then sharing the 
 kitchen with Mr. and Mrs. Bishop. As the object of the 
 pig-dealer was to fatten his pigs for the market, much 
 pig's food was necessary; and one day, when he was sit- 
 ting to Landseer and bemoaning the difficulty of getting 
 sufficient " wash " for his pigs, a bright idea seemed to 
 strike him, and he said to the great painter : 
 
 " They tell me, sir, as you knows the queen." 
 
 " Know the queen ? Of course I do. Everybody knows 
 the queen," said Landseer. 
 
 " Ah ! but," said Bishop, " to speak to, you know, sir, 
 comfortable" 
 
 " Well, I have had the honor of speaking to her majesty 
 many times. Why do you ask ?" 
 
 " Well, sir, you see there must be such lots of pigwash 
 from Buckingham Palace and them sort of places most 
 likely thrown away; and my missus and me thinks that 
 if you was just to tip a word or two to the queen which 
 is a real kind lady one and all says she would give her 
 orders, and I could fetch the wash away every week with 
 my barrer." 
 
 In the left-hand corner of the picture stands a lady in 
 a riding-habit. To those who remember the beautiful 
 Miss Gilbert, my rendering of that witty, charming creat- 
 ure will not be satisfactory. The face was perforce in 
 shadow, and in profile, thus handicapping me terribly. I 
 venture to think that Landseer's picture was scarcely more 
 likely to satisfy the many admirers of my lovely model. 
 In that work she was represented reclining by the side of 
 a horse, whose vices were supposed to have been charmed 
 away by the mysterious influence of " The Pretty Horse- 
 Breaker," as she was afterwards christened. Miss Gilbert 
 was a most accomplished horsewoman; indeed, she told 
 me that the greater part of her life had been passed in the 
 saddle, and she was never so happy as when galloping for 
 dear life after a pack of hounds. In return for her kind- 
 ness in sitting for -me, I promised her a proof engraving 
 of the picture. This was on the occasion of her last visit, 
 and, in reply to my telling her that she would have to wait
 
 "THE DERBY DAT." 197 
 
 at least three years for the print, she said, "Ah! never 
 mind. I shall soon ride the time away." 
 
 Poor girl! She lived to receive her engraving; but she 
 had done with time; rapid consumption had seized her, 
 and death came in the prime of her youth and beauty. I 
 had to thank my friend Mr. Tattersall for the introduction 
 to Miss Gilbert, and for other valuable assistance during 
 the progress of my picture. The owner, Mr. Bell, was 
 also very useful to me in procuring models. Few people 
 have a more extensive acquaintance, especially among the 
 female sex, than that possessed by Jacob Bell; and what 
 seemed singular was the remarkable prettiness that dis- 
 tinguished nearly all these pleasant friends. I had but to 
 name the points required, and an example was produced. 
 
 " What is it to be this time ?" he would say. " Fair or 
 dark, long nose or short nose, Roman or aquiline, tall fig- 
 ure or small ? Give your orders." 
 
 The order was given, and obeyed in a manner that 
 perfectly astonished me. I owe every female figure in the 
 " Derby Day," except two or three, to the foraging of my 
 employer. 
 
 " What kind of person do you want for that young 
 woman with the purse in her hand, listening to that 
 spooney fellow lover, I suppose ?" 
 
 " I should like a tall, fair woman. Handsome, of 
 course," I replied. 
 
 " All right. I know the very thing. Been to the 
 Olympic lately?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Well, go and see Miss II . I don't know her. 
 
 Hear she is charming in all ways. Sure she will sit. You 
 go and see her. I'll manage the rest." 
 
 To the theatre I went, and found the lady all that could 
 be desired; and in a few days she made her first appear- 
 ance in my painting-room. Miss H was a very de- 
 lightful person, and she sat admirably. She was undeni- 
 ably handsome; but I failed miserably, indeed unaccount- 
 ably, in my attempts again and again renewed to re- 
 produce the charm that was before me. At last I felt that 
 I must cither rub out what I had done and seek another
 
 198 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 model, or let my work go with a very serious blot in the 
 centre of it. I did not hesitate long, for, after a last and 
 futile attempt, I erased the figure; and repainted it from 
 one of my own daughters. I need scarcely say that I 
 
 waited till Miss H had departed before taking a step 
 
 that I knew "would be very annoying to her ; and it cost 
 me many pangs before I could persuade myself that it 
 was my duty to inflict any amount of pain upon that lady 
 and myself, rather than allow a serious blemish to disfigure 
 
 my work. Miss H was an excellent actress; but she 
 
 surpassed herself by the passion she displayed when she 
 saw the " Derby Day " in my room on its completion. We 
 were alone, fortunately perhaps. I felt like a guilty cul- 
 prit about to be sentenced. 
 
 " Why, what is this ? Great Heaven ! you have rubbed 
 me out ! This is the most insul What does it mean ?" 
 
 " The truth is, Miss H , I am truly sorry, but I 
 
 found" 
 
 " And if I had given place to something better but to 
 be displaced to be rubbed out for such a baby-faced chit 
 as that" 
 
 " Well, Miss H , I couldn't. It's my fault. I tried 
 
 very hard, as you 
 
 " And all the people at the theatre knew of my sitting 
 for the thing, and I shall be laughed at." 
 " Oh ! I hope not. I will explain," said I. 
 " Why didn't you say at first that I was of no use to you, 
 instead of putting me to the trouble of coming here and 
 exposing myself to the sneers of the oh ! it's enough to 
 make one's blood boil !" 
 
 It evidently was, and the only way for me was to stand 
 by till the boiling was over; so I betook myself to silence, 
 and I listened to a storm of well-deserved abuse, delivered 
 in a style that would have " brought down the house," if 
 the audience could have appreciated true passion. Miss 
 II had every reason for indignation, as I fully acknowl- 
 edged to her when she became cooler; and eventually I 
 think she must have forgiven me, for she accepted a proof 
 of the engraving as a mark of my contrition. If these 
 lines should meet the eye of my kind but unfortunate sit-
 
 "THE DERBY DAY." 199 
 
 ter, I hope she will believe that to this hour I regret the 
 annoyance I occasioned her. I remember telling the mis- 
 adventure to Miss Gilbert, and explaining to her the neces- 
 sity for allowing nothing to interfere with the successful 
 production of a work of art, and closing my observations 
 by an illustration, for I said: 
 
 "Now take your own figure there," pointing to the 
 lady in the riding-habit. " If I bad failed in it to the ex- 
 tent I did with Miss H 's, I would have rubbed it out 
 
 without hesitation." 
 
 "Would you?" replied the lady; "then I would without 
 hesitation have put my parasol through your picture, and 
 
 if Miss II had served you right she would have done 
 
 the same." 
 
 My determination to keep the horses as much in the 
 background of my " Derby Day " as possible did not arise 
 from the fact of my not being able to paint them properly, 
 so much as from my desire that the human being should 
 be paramount. Still, it was impossible to avoid the steeds 
 and their riders altogether. There I found my friend 
 Tattersall of great service. He procured an excellent type 
 of the jockey class a delightful little fellow, who rode a 
 wooden horse in my studio with all the ease of rein and 
 whip that would have distinguished a winner of the Derby. 
 He surprised me by his endurance of a painful attitude 
 that of raising himself in his stirrups and leaning forward, 
 in the manner of his tribe. This he would do for an hour 
 at a stretch. I find my diary says: 
 
 "Bundy" (the name of the jockey) "sat for the last 
 time; finished the two jockeys, and one in the distance in 
 his great-coat; and the little chap and I shook hands. I 
 to work; he to the Marquis of Something at Chantilly." 
 
 Before he left me he informed me that he would rather 
 ride the wildest horse that ever lived than mount the 
 wooden one any more. I am indebted to Herring, one 
 of the best painters of the race-horse I have ever known, 
 for great assistance in the very small share the high-met- 
 tled racer has in my work. I grieve to say that my little 
 jockey friend was soon after killed by a fall from his 
 horse in France.
 
 200 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 My diary for 1857 shows day after day of incessant work, 
 with exceptions of enforced idleness through foggy and 
 dark weather. For some time before that of which I 
 write, I had ceased to paint on Sundays, believing that 
 one day in seven was required for rest. I suppose there 
 never was a more industrious painter, or one who pro- 
 duced a greater quantity of good work, than my old friend 
 Sydney Cooper, R.A., whom I once heard say in reply to 
 an inquiry as to whether he painted on Sundays: 
 
 " No. If I can't get my living in six days, I shouldn't 
 manage it in seven." 
 
 And putting aside graver reasons for not pursuing the 
 habit, I would advise all students to set apart one day 
 in seven for rest. I attribute my long -continued good 
 health to my perseverance in the practice that I recom- 
 mend. 
 
 After fifteen months' incessant labor the " Derby Day " 
 was finished and sent to the Exhibition of 1858. It is 
 difficult to put one's finger on the precise spot where con- 
 fidence merges into conceit. I acknowledge any amount 
 of conviction that I was doing an out-of-the-way thing, as 
 the letters that lam about to quote will prove; but I deny 
 the conceit, if I should be charged with it. And when such 
 men as Maclise and Landseer used expressions of praise 
 warm enough to have tried stronger heads than mine, I 
 felt my confidence in the success of my work was fully 
 justified. As an instance of generous appreciation I ap- 
 pend a note from Maclise: 
 
 "14 RUSSELL PLACE, FJTZROT SQUARE, 
 
 " March 25, 1858. 
 
 " MY DEAR FRITH, It will give me great pleasure to join you at the din- 
 ner hour on Monday. 
 
 " I imagine you still very busy at your work " (" Derby Day "), " but only 
 dropping in here and there little gemlike bits into the beautiful mosaic 
 you have so skilfully put together. 
 
 " Believe me, faithfully yours, DANL. MACLISE." 
 
 The following is an extract from a letter to my sister, 
 with whom, since my mother's death, I have kept up a con- 
 stant correspondence. Under date March 6, I find this 
 mixture of jest and earnest:
 
 "THE DERBY DAY." 201 
 
 " We shall be delighted to sec you at any time that you choose to honor 
 us with a visit ; and if you wish to see the famous picture at all, you must 
 see it in my own place, for you won't be able to get near it in the exhibi- 
 tion. Some people go so far as to say ' It is the picture of the age,' and no 
 mean judges are they. However, the die is cast, and though I shall work 
 incessantly up to the last moment, nothing that I can do now will make or 
 mar my work ; and if it is not pre-eminently successful, thus lifting my 
 reputation into the seventh heaven, I shall burn my books, and fling my 
 wand into fathomless ocean." 
 
 Again, under date May 9, when the picture was on the 
 walls in Trafalgar Square, I wrote: 
 
 " When the queen came into the large room, instead of, as she invariably 
 did, looking at the pictures in their order according to the catalogue, she 
 went at once to mine; and after a little while sent for me and compli- 
 mented me in the highest and kindest manner. She said it ' was a wonder- 
 ful work,' and much more that modesty prevents ray repeating. Now if I 
 were of a conceited turn, I might be in danger ; but though I plead guilty 
 to a good deal of confidence, I am not guilty of conceit, at any rate in my 
 secret soul ; for I have the meanest opinion of my own powers compared with 
 those ' glorious old lamps ' that have survived criticism, and, as Sass used 
 to say, ' received the approbation of ages.' " 
 
 It was on this occasion that the prince consort surprised 
 me exceedingly by his intimate knowledge of what I may 
 call the conduct of a picture. He told me why I had done 
 certain things, and how, if a certain change had been 
 made, my object would have been assisted. How the 
 masses of light and shade might still be more evenly bal- 
 anced, and how some parts of the picture might receive 
 still more completion. I put many of the prince's sugges- 
 tions to the proof after the close of the exhibition, and I 
 improved my picture in every instance. There were sev- 
 eral little princes and princesses in the royal party; and I 
 remember one little boy saying, the moment he looked at 
 the picture: 
 
 " Oh, mamma, I never saw so many people together 
 before !" 
 
 " Nonsense !" said the queen. " You have often seen 
 many more." 
 
 " But not in a picture, mamma." 
 
 Again the inevitable diary says: 
 
 " May 2. Private view. All the people crowd about 
 the ' Derby Day.' " 
 9*
 
 202 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 " May 3. Opening day of the exhibition. Never was 
 such a crowd seen round a picture. The secretary obliged 
 to get a policeman to keep the people off. He is to be 
 there from eight in the morning. Bell applies to the 
 council for a rail, which will not be granted." 
 
 Since the foundation of the Academy, in 1768, it had 
 only once been found necessary to protect a popular pict- 
 ure from possible injury by the presence of too eager spec- 
 tators, and that occurred in 1822, when Wilkie exhibited 
 his famous picture of " The Chelsea Pensioners Reading 
 the Gazette of the Battle of Waterloo." Readers of 
 Wilkie's life may remember his extreme difficulty in per- 
 suading the R.A. authorities to afford him the protection 
 his work so much needed; they were naturally reluctant 
 to mark a particular work with such an invidious proof of 
 its popularity. Academic nature seems to be the same 
 yesterday, to-day, and forever; for, inferior though my 
 work was in all respects to Wilkie's, it was as much in 
 need of protection, and I found the same difficult}^ in pro- 
 curing it, as the following letters will show. Mr. Bell 
 writes: 
 
 "May 4, 1858. 
 
 "Mr DEAR FRITH, I went to the R.A. this afternoon about five. The 
 pressure nad to some extent subsided, but there was a policeman still in 
 attendance, and people three or four deep before the picture. Those in 
 front had their faces within three or four inches of the canvas. The nat- 
 ure of the picture requires a close inspection to read, mark, learn, nnd in- 
 wardly digest it; and from what I have seen, I think it not unlikely that 
 some of the readers will leave their mark upon it, unless means be taken 
 to keep them at a respectful distance. Yours truly, 
 
 "JACOB BELL." 
 
 Again, on the following day he writes: 
 
 "I called at the R.A. this afternoon at four o'clock, as I was passing, 
 and found the people smelling the picture like bloodhounds. In the Nation- 
 al Gallery, where I went next to see the new old masters, I found post and 
 rail very suitable for the protection of works of art." 
 
 Then came a formal appeal to the president and council: 
 
 " GENTLEMEN, I have just left the Royal Academy, where I found Mr. 
 Frith's picture in great danger of injury from the pressure of the crowd. 
 It has been found necessary to place it under the charge of a policeman, 
 who can with difficulty preserve it from contact with the arms and faces of
 
 "THE DERBY DAY." 203 
 
 those in the front rank, who are pressed forward by those behind them. 
 My object in addressing you is to request, as a great favor, that, if the laws 
 of the Royal Academy permit, a rail may be placed before it for the pro- 
 tection of the picture. I have the honor to be, sir?, 
 
 "JACOB BKLL." 
 
 This appeal was successful, and the needed protection 
 supplied, as my diary shows by entry on 
 
 "May 7. To the exhibition. Knight tells me a rail is 
 to be put round my picture. Hooray!" 
 
 " May 8. Couldn't help going to see the rail, and there 
 it is, sure enough; and loads of people." 
 
 Apropos of this, I may insert the following bantering 
 letter to my sister: 
 
 " You must really come to town, if it is only to see a rarity in the annals 
 of exhibitions no less than an iron rail round the 'Derby Day,' an event 
 that has occurred once in ninety years. I mean once before this once, and 
 that was when Wilkie exhibited 'The Chelsea Pensioners,' in 1822. On 
 that occasion, thirteen of the elderly academicians took to their beds in 
 fits of bile and envy ; and though a few recovered by steadily refusing 
 medicine, they never were in good health afterwards. This calamity was 
 the cause of a resolution on the part of the academicians, in full conclave, 
 that so invidious a distinction should never, under any circumstances, be 
 made again ; and when Messrs. Bell and Gambart, the proprietors of the 
 'Derby Day' and the copyright thereof, took oath and said they verily be- 
 lieved their property was in danger, the secretary pointed to the towers of 
 Westminster Abbey, just visible through the windows, under which repose 
 the ashes of those distinguished men who fell victims to Wilkie, and then 
 solemnly asked if a similar sacrifice was to be offered to Frith. 
 
 " ' No,' said that official ; ' rather let the picture be scattered to the winds 
 of Trafalgar Square ; but be not alarmed, we have had popular works here 
 before. There have been trifles by Landseer and Wilkie against which 
 the public nose has been as severely rubbed as it is likely to be against 
 the "Race-course;" and I assure you, on the part of the president and 
 council, that though a rail was once put round a picture of distinguished 
 merit and popularity, such an "unfair distinction" will never be made 
 again.' 
 
 " So spake the secretary ; but at last it was found necessary (to be seri- 
 ous, I know not how the matter came about) to risk the lives of the envious 
 old boys, for when I went down to the rooms yesterday, I found my pre- 
 cious work protected by a stout iron railing, against which liroke a tide of 
 anxious humanity. The oldest frequenter of exhibitions (like the oldest 
 inhabitant, that you have heard of) says the like of this attraction was 
 never seen ; and I must say, also, that in all my experience I never wit- 
 nessed anything like the conduct of the crowd. The man who takes the 
 money at the doors says the receipts arc some hundreds more than usual,
 
 204 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 but that is owing to the generally attractive character of the exhibition. 
 You know I told you I should win the trick this time, and I have won it, 
 my dear, without the slightest mistake." 
 
 On the whole, my brother artists were complimentary, 
 but there were exceptions. One academician of what is 
 called the " high-aim " school, by which is meant a pecul- 
 iar people who aim high and nearly always miss, and who 
 very much object to those who aim much lower and hap- 
 pen to hit he said to me, looking at the crowd round my 
 picture: 
 
 "That thing of yours is very popular; but I intend to 
 exhibit a work next year that will have a greater crowd 
 about it than that." 
 
 " Indeed," said I. " And what is your subject ?" 
 
 "Well, I have not quite fixed on the title yet; but I 
 think I shall call it ' Monday Morning at Newgate ' the 
 hanging morning, you know. I shall have a man hanging, 
 and the crowd about him. Great variety of character, you 
 know. I wonder you never thought of it." 
 
 Another of my academic brethren who had seen the 
 picture in my studio, and had nearly smothered me with 
 praise of it to my face, was heard to deliver his real opinion 
 to a friend in the exhibition, to whom he said, pointing to 
 the evidences of the attractiveness of the picture: "There 
 is no hope for art in this country when the people are so 
 besotted as to crowd round such a thing as that." 
 
 It is very unusual to see livery servants in the exhibi- 
 tion. As a rule, their interest in art is not strong enough 
 to induce them to part with the necessary shilling for ad- 
 mission. A friend of mine was startled one day by seeing 
 two grooms, who had either been sent by their master, or 
 of their own motive had evidently come to see the " Derby 
 Day," for they made their way straight to it; and without 
 looking at any other picture they entered the crowd and 
 passed slowly by the picture, eagerly studying it. My 
 friend, curious to hear their comments, followed them 
 closely. Not a word was said till they had thoroughly 
 examined the picture, when one exclaimed to the other: 
 " Call that the Derby ? It's d d hot! Come and have a 
 drink."
 
 "THE DERBY DAY.** 205 
 
 I suppose there is scarcely a man in a position that can 
 be called public who has escaped hearing something un- 
 pleasant about himself from a critic who is ignorant of the 
 personality of the assailed. 
 
 Sir Francis (then Mr.) Grant, the well-known portrait- 
 painter, told me that he found himself sitting next to an 
 old gentleman at a large dinner-party just after the open- 
 ing of the annual exhibition, when the conversation, to 
 one's sorrow, is sure to bristle with allusions to the ex- 
 hibits. From his neighbor's first question, Grant dis- 
 covered his ignorance of the name of his fellow-guest. 
 
 "Are you fond of pictures, sir?" said the old gentle- 
 man. 
 
 " Yes," said Grant; " if they are good ones." 
 
 " Then take my advice, and don't throw away a shilling 
 on the exhibition, for you won't find any there." 
 
 " Oh! but I have been to the exhibition, and I can't 
 quite agree with you." 
 
 " Perhaps you have spent your time better than in study- 
 ing modern art ?" said the old critic. " I have had a long 
 experience of it indeed, I practise it a little and I can 
 assure you there is not a good picture in the place. The 
 portraits are detestable; and I really think the Academy 
 should have a separate room entirely for those wretched 
 productions a kind of 'Chamber of Horrors,' you know, 
 like the wax-works in Baker Street." 
 
 " Do you really think so ?" said Grant. " They seemed 
 to me rather above the average." 
 
 " No, I assure you," was the reply. " I couldn't find a 
 decent thing among them; and as for those portraits by 
 Grant, they seem as if he had painted them with white- 
 wash." 
 
 This was said in a loud tone, and Grant observed: 
 
 " I think you should be a little more cautious in what 
 you say, for Mr. Grant might be present; in fact he is here 
 he is sitting next to you." 
 
 " Good gracious ! But how what " (looking to a lady 
 on his right) " are you eh ?" 
 
 " Yes," said Grant. 
 
 When the " Derby Day " was in the exhibition, I had a
 
 206 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 somewhat similar experience. I took a lady in to dinner, 
 to whom I was introduced, of course; but she could not 
 have heard my name, for she asked me exactly the same 
 question as the old gentleman had asked Grant, and, as 
 well as I can remember, I made a similar reply. My lady 
 friend then proceeded to enlighten me as to the merits and 
 demerits of many of the more notable pictures in the ex- 
 hibition; and she showed quite a remarkable knowledge 
 of the good and bad qualities of the various works. She 
 was really a very sincere lover of art; and from my con- 
 stantly agreeing with nearly all she said, she was under 
 the impression that I was deriving knowledge that would 
 help me at other dinner-tables, besides opening my mind 
 to previously unobserved beauties. After giving me a sort 
 of lecture, she said, suddenly, " By the way, there is a pict- 
 ure which we have not discussed yet. You must have 
 seen it I mean that representation of a race-course. I 
 hope we shall agree in our estimate of that, as we have in 
 so many instances. Now, to me, what is called the ' Derby 
 Day ' is in a very low style of art it is vulgar. Perhaps 
 you may say such a scene is necessarily vulgar. There I 
 should join issue with you. A refined painter would have 
 elevated the scene, have filled it with life and character; 
 have given grace and beauty even to women who go to 
 Epsom. All these qualities are conspicuous by their ab- 
 sence in Mr. Frith's picture. It is ill-drawn, flat, and poor 
 in the painting of it," etc., etc. 
 
 As my critic ran on I felt the sincerest pity for her, for 
 I made up my mind that I must confess myself to be the 
 author of the maligned production; and this I did in a 
 bungling fashion enough, for I said: "I am sorry you 
 don't like it, for I painted it." 
 
 Never, never shall I forget that poor lady's distress. I 
 tried to help her, I forget how, but I know I tried. Then 
 she was unfortunate, for she fled from her colors. 
 
 " Of course," she stuttered, " I really had no idea but 
 then, of course, it is a very clever picture; but I confess I 
 don't like the subject." 
 
 "No more do I," I declared; "but then you must not 
 quarrel with copper because it is not gold. If I attempted
 
 "TUK DEBBY DAY." 207 
 
 history, or what you call high art, I should make a greater 
 fool of myself than I am generally considered to be." 
 
 "Of course you would." 
 
 And with this remark our art talk closed. We after- 
 wards became fast friends, and my lady critic became a 
 frequent visitor on Show-Sundays; and though she had no 
 sympathy with my art, being tainted with pre-Raphaelit- 
 ism, she often showed as much acuteness in her remarks 
 as many a professional critic. 
 
 One more example of sincere opinion, and I leave the 
 subject. My friend Egg, R.A., was a constant exhibitor, 
 so long as his delicate health would permit; and one private- 
 view day he was seen leaning on the arm of a friend, when 
 a gentleman a stranger to Egg approached the man 
 who was Egg's temporary support, saying: 
 
 "I can't agree with you about the exhibition; it seems 
 to me much below the average. And as to your friend 
 Egg's pictures, I think they are beastly." 
 
 "That is a very unfortunate remark, for this is Mr. 
 
 Egg-" 
 
 "So it is I am sorry. Well, I will go and look again; 
 I may have been hasty in my judgment." 
 
 Presently the gentleman returned, and said : 
 
 " Well, Mr. Egg, I need scarcely say that if I had known 
 who you were I should have been reticent in my remarks. 
 I apologize; but I am sorry to say I cannot change my 
 opinion." 
 
 I confess I prefer this, finale to the one adopted by my 
 lady friend. 
 
 The attraction of the " Derby Day" continued up to the 
 closing of the exhibition, and after being returned to me 
 and receiving some finishing-touches, it was sent to Paris, 
 where it was admirably engraved by Blanchard. The 
 picture then left this country for its travels abroad, first 
 to the antipodes, then to America, and among other places 
 to Vienna, where it procured me the honor of election to 
 the Austrian Academy. The success of the " Derby Day " 
 confirmed me in my determination to paint the life about 
 me ; but then came the terrible difficulty of finding a satis- 
 factory subject. As a stop-gap, I began a small picture
 
 208 MY AUTOBIOGEAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 of a lady waiting to cross a street, with a little boy cross- 
 ing-sweeper besieging her in the usual fashion. A model 
 for the lady was easily found, and there was a large field 
 of selection open to me as regarded the boy. I discovered 
 a young gentleman with closely-cropped hair, naked feet, 
 and a wonderful broom in all respects what I desired, ex- 
 cept in regard of honesty; and for a further description 
 of this young person and his unsuccessful attempt to rob 
 me, I must refer my reader to my chapters on " Models." 
 I may note here the impression the youth made upon me 
 at his first sitting. In my diary, under date 17th July, I 
 find: 
 
 " A low, dull Irish boy for crossing-sweeper, one degree 
 removed from a pig. Found great difficulty; rubbed in 
 the head and figure." 
 
 From long study of " the human face divine," I have 
 acquired or think I have a knowledge of the character 
 and disposition that certain features and expressions be- 
 tray. First of all, the features seem to lend themselves 
 to particular indulgences, which, being cherished, mark 
 many faces indelibly. To illustrate my theory I relate 
 the following facts : 
 
 A very eminent artist friend and I were summoned as 
 witnesses to the Old Bailey. It was the first day of ses- 
 sion, and the prisoners were what is called arraigned. 
 That proceeding consists in placing ten or a dozen of them 
 in the dock together, while an officer of the court reads 
 over the different charges leaving his hearers without 
 any clew as to the perpetrator of a special crime. Among 
 the charges was one of a peculiarly dreadful character; 
 and when the prisoners had all left the dock, I said to my 
 friend: 
 
 "Have you made up your mind which it was of that 
 set who committed that terrible thing?" 
 
 "Yes," said he; "the parson, I think." 
 
 " That is the man," said I. 
 
 The parson was a gentlemanly-looking young man, 
 rather handsome, but with the trail of the serpent palpable 
 over his animal face. Curiously, he was the first to be 
 placed upon trial; he was defended with admirable skill
 
 "THE DERBY DAY." 209 
 
 by one of the most eminent barristers, and acquitted ; but 
 our conviction of his guilt remained unshaken. A year 
 or two after the trial I found myself in the company of a 
 solicitor whose name, if I were to mention it, would be 
 known to most of my readers. Our conversation turned 
 on my favorite theory. " Rubbish," said the solicitor; 
 " there's nothing in it." 
 
 Whereupon I proceeded to relate my Old Bailey ex- 
 perience, carefully avoiding any mention of the name of 
 the suspected clergyman. I was listened to attentively, 
 and when I had finished my story, the solicitor said : 
 
 " Was the man's name So-and-so ?" 
 
 " It was," said I, greatly surprised. 
 
 " Ah !" said the lawyer, " the fellow was guilty. We 
 
 instructed P , and he knew it. The clergyman is now 
 
 undergoing five years' penal servitude for a similar of- 
 fence." 
 
 My little crossing-sweeper's face warned me not to leave 
 him alone in my pain ting- room ; I neglected the warning, 
 with the consequences related elsewhere. 
 
 I find I was occupied at this time on a picture intended 
 for an artist friend, whose career was somewhat remark- 
 able. I made the acquaintance of my friend whom I 
 will call Macllray, a Scotchman in Paris, when I was 
 studying in the Louvre, in 1840. I was attracted by his 
 pleasant manners, and by some excellent copying on which 
 .he was occupied. Like many of his countrymen he was 
 not overburdened with riches, but he seemed to have a 
 good prospect of creating some by the exercise of his pro- 
 fession. On my return to London I introduced Macllray 
 to the set of young men with whom I was intimate, and 
 he became a great favorite with all of us. He had scarce- 
 ly had time to make a mark in the exhibition when a sin- 
 gular piece of good-fortune befell him. He had painted 
 several portraits, and among his sitters was a charming 
 widow who possessed in her own right six thousand a year. 
 They bewitched one another, and immediate marriage was 
 the result. There is no blessing, I suppose, that is quite 
 unalloyed, and the drawback to my friend's perfect bliss 
 was the impossibility of a Scottish laird with all the
 
 210 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 duties connected with the position being able to devote 
 himself to a. profession which requires all a man's energies 
 to insure success. But if Macllray could no longer paint, 
 he could be the cause of painting in others; and this took 
 the kind and graceful form of commissions for pictures to 
 all his friends. The price to be paid for each work was 
 a hundred guineas. We might take what subject we 
 pleased, but each picture must contain a portrait of the 
 artist painted by himself. I think every one, in course of 
 time, executed Macllray's order ; and I hear that the pict- 
 ures are intended eventually to become the nucleus of a 
 national collection in a Scottish town. I hear also that 
 under careful management the six thousand a year has 
 been transformed into nearly double that amount ; and if 
 my old friend who will easily recognize himself under 
 the pseudonym I have used should read these lines, I 
 hope he will forgive the introduction of them for the sake 
 of " auld lang syne." 
 
 So convinced was I that I should henceforth devote 
 myself entirely to modern-life subjects that I was on the 
 point of getting rid of a rather large collection of cos- 
 tumes of all ages. It was well I did not, for I have found 
 great use for them in these latter days. 
 
 My summer holiday of 1858 was spent at Weymouth, 
 where, with work and play, I had what the Yankees call 
 "a good time." I was very fond of shooting in those 
 days, and having many friends in the neighborhood of 
 Weymouth I took my fill of sports of all kinds, including 
 one day's hunting which I shall never forget. In my 
 youth I had been accustomed to riding, and by the advice 
 of my doctor, who thought horse-exercise good for all 
 who could get it, I bought a horse which, if not thorough- 
 bred, had all the exuberance of spirit with which that class 
 of animal is credited. If my work had occupied me till it 
 was too late to ride, or if the weather made that exercise 
 impossible, my horse or, to speak correctly, my marc 
 became so excited by the prospect of a canter, as to make 
 the avoidance of -the vehicles that crowd Westbourne 
 Grove a matter of difficulty. This and other peculiarities 
 caused our parting eventually, without regret on my side,
 
 "THE DERBY DAT.'* 211 
 
 after several unsuccessful attempts on the part of the 
 mare to break my neck. She accompanied me to Wey- 
 mouth, and she took me out hunting, regardless of my dis- 
 inclination for that popular sport, as I shall proceed to 
 show. I went to see the hounds " thrown off," as it is 
 called, which, interpreted, signifies the discovery and im- 
 mediate pursuit of a fox the hounds being followed by 
 what is called "the field," meaning just as many of the 
 lookers-on as choose to follow to the death. I had no in- 
 tention whatever of joining the pursuers, but my mare 
 was of a different disposition. I was in the saddle quietly 
 smoking and talking to a friend, when a terrific noise 
 burst upon us. The yelping of dogs, holloaing of men, 
 horn-blowing, together with the galloping of horses in 
 every direction, nearly maddened me, and quite maddened 
 my mare. Away went my cigar, she reared, she plunged, 
 she flew this way and that, as if doubtful of the proper 
 direction, till, seemingly making up her mind, she tore at a 
 furious pace after a crowd of riders, into whose midst she 
 carried me in spite of all my efforts to stop her; in fact, I 
 lost all control of the creature, and never regained it until 
 the hunting was over, late in the afternoon. Never can I 
 forget the six hours' agony I spent on that wretch's back; 
 and then the advice those red-coated villains kept giving 
 me : 
 
 " Keep her head straight, sir ! Don't pull her; that will 
 never do." 
 
 " Give her her head and let her go; take that fence and 
 ditch, that will take it out of her." 
 
 " You shouldn't have come out to hounds on a green 
 horse." 
 
 " That gent on the chestnut will come to grief, by !" 
 
 "You would really be safer inside, sir." 
 
 " Get off and lead* her." 
 
 " Really, sir, you must get out of the way ; back her 
 into the cover." 
 
 " If that gentleman does not get out of the way I shall 
 ride over him, as sure as the devil's in London !" 
 
 These remarks and compliments were made to me by a 
 series of red ruffians when I was in a condition of pallor
 
 212 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 and perspiration, striving, with every nerve that remained 
 to me, to keep my seat and get out of their confounded 
 way. I vowed most solemnly that if I were permitted to 
 see the high-road again I would never leave it for furze- 
 bushes and turnip-fields, from which my despairing eyes 
 could see no exit but over a hedge; hideous swamps full 
 of concealed holes, difficult enough to ride over on a horse 
 in its right mind by a dare-devil with no family ties how 
 perilous, then, for a timid man on an infuriated beast, with 
 the conviction staring him in the face that any moment 
 might see his wife and family deprived of their natural 
 protector ! 
 
 To this hour it is a wonder to me that I didn't break 
 my neck. Often and often during that terrible day I was 
 more off the mare than on her at one moment thrown 
 forward on to her neck, at another nearly slipping off her 
 tail. I had the courage of despair, for I knew that if I 
 were thrown the hunters would ride over me with pleas- 
 ure; and if that casualty had befallen me in one of those 
 covers they must have done so, for the rides as they 
 call passages about as wide as a good front-door made it 
 almost impossible for two people on horseback to pass 
 each other, and those fellows rode as if they were possessed. 
 The huntsman galloped past me and actually blew his 
 filthy horn into my horse's ears. She tossed up her head 
 and struck me a violent blow on the nose, and so confused 
 me that I thought I must have gone then ; one foot was 
 out of the stirrup, and I gave myself up for lost. But 
 the good little cherub that sits somewhere or other had 
 an eye upon me, and I live to tell the tale, and to " make 
 a vow and keep it strong," that I will never again put 
 myself in the position of having to follow the hounds.
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 PORTRAIT OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 IN the fragment of English history left to us by Macau- 
 lay, an account may be found of a celebrated highwayman 
 called Claude Duval a handsome youth who managed 
 to disgrace himself and a good family, of which he was 
 the offshoot, by ruinous dissipation of every kind, ending 
 by " taking to the road " at the head of a formidable 
 gang. The young fellow had been page to the Duke of 
 Richmond, whose fatherly attempts to reclaim him were 
 fruitless. The story goes that on a wild heath, a car- 
 riage in which the beautiful Lady Aurora Sydney was 
 travelling was stopped by Duval's gang, the trunks were 
 plundered, and a booty of four hundred pounds secured; 
 but a portion of the plunder was restored, on condition of 
 the lady dancing a coranto on the heath with Captain Du- 
 val. The dramatic character of the subject attracted me. 
 I thought if I could succeed in retaining the beauty of the 
 lady, combined with the terror that she would feel, I should 
 perform a feat well worthy of achievement. The dresses 
 of the period were very picturesque; the contrast between 
 the robbers, and the lady and her companions, would be 
 very striking ; and the lumbering carriage, with its com- 
 plement of heavy Flanders horses, might combine to make 
 a satisfactory picture. In the absence of a modern-life 
 inspiration, I proceeded with the preliminary drawings and 
 the oil-sketch for Claude Duval. The time unoccupied 
 by shooting and hunting during my Weymouth holiday 
 was devoted to a careful oil-study. I have often pondered 
 over the varied knowledge that an artist must acquire to 
 enable him to master the difficulties that each fresh sub- 
 ject presents. No doubt human nature is always the same, 
 but manners are forever changing; those of two hundred
 
 214 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 years ago arc quite unlike those of to-day. By reading 
 and thinking the student should endeavor to identify him- 
 self with a bygone time. Customs also may be learned 
 from many authorities ; so, with much difficulty, may the 
 dresses be studied in which our ancestors lived and moved. 
 To enable me to struggle successfully with my contem- 
 plated subject, this variety of information must be ac- 
 quired. What is the dance called the " Coranto "? For 
 some time I could learn nothing about it; no such dance, 
 or anything like it, exists at the present time. In my 
 trouble I applied to an authority in old-world costumes 
 Mr. Fairholt who most kindly supplied me with the de- 
 scription of the dance, accompanied by drawings of the 
 performers; and though engravings of the carriages used 
 in the days of Charles II. were plentiful, it was desirable 
 to find the thing itself, if such a discovery were possible. 
 I have forgotten who it was that told me I might find a 
 carriage nearly, if not quite, as old as the days of the 
 " merry monarch " at Cobham Park, the seat of Lord 
 Darnley, to whom I immediately wrote for permission to 
 make a sketch of it, if the news of his being possessed of 
 such a relic were true. I here quote from a letter written 
 to my sister at the time: 
 
 "Lord Darnley was very civil, and sent me permission. I went, and 
 found the quaintest old thing you can conceive, all begilt and carved, with 
 such great leather straps and buckles, and the queerest seat for the driver 
 and for the footmen behind. To think of the old carriage outliving its 
 occupants so long ! How they must have gone to court in it, in their 
 flounces, swords, and ruffles. There it is, and here they are not. Such is 
 life, as Mrs. Gamp hath it." 
 
 I painted the " blasted heath " from a study made in 
 Dorsetshire, where I also found the withered tree which 
 plays a prominent part in the composition of the picture. 
 I have elsewhere told the student to go to nature for every 
 detail in his picture ; I cannot repeat the advice too often, 
 that no dependence should be placed on memory while 
 a possibility exists of referring directly to nature. The 
 picture proceeded -pretty satisfactorily, and was purchased 
 during its progress by Mr. Flatow, the picture-dealer, at 
 the agreeable price of seventeen hundred pounds which
 
 PORTRAIT OP CIIA.RLK8 DICKENS. 215 
 
 sum also included the sketch and copyright. The worthy 
 dealer is described elsewhere. Of this picture I may add 
 that it was very soon " placed," to use the common phrase, 
 with a Mr. Grapel, whose passion for it speedily cooled ; 
 for he parted from it with advantage to his pocket, I be- 
 lieve in favor of I know not whom not long after it 
 became his property. 
 
 The year 1859 was mainly devoted to the picture of 
 "Claude Duval," but there were many interruptions from 
 the necessity of my keeping promises respecting small 
 pictures. It was at this time that John Forster called 
 upon me to paint a portrait of his friend Dickens. I need 
 scarcely say with what delight, mixed with fear, I heard 
 of this commission delight because of my veneration for 
 the author and my love for the man ; fear that I might 
 fail, as so many had done already. Forster had hinted his 
 wish to me a year or two before, when Dickens had adopt- 
 ed the mustache a hirsute appendage of which Forster 
 had a great horror ; and with reason as regarded Dickens, 
 for it partly covered, and certainly injured, a very hand- 
 some and characteristic mouth. "This is a whim the 
 fancy will pass. We will wait till the hideous disfigure- 
 ment is removed," said Forster ; but we waited in vain. 
 Indeed, we waited till the beard was allowed to grow upon 
 the chin as well as upon the upper lip; so, fearing that if 
 we waited longer there would be little of the face to be 
 painted, if whiskers were to be added to the rest, the or- 
 der was given and the portrait begun. As I had heard 
 that portrait-painters had often derived advantage from 
 photography, I asked Dickens to give me a meeting at 
 Mr. Watkins', who was thought one of the best photog- 
 raphers of that day. Apropos of this arrangement came 
 the following from Dickens : 
 
 "GADS II ILL, Sunday, January 4, 1859. 
 
 " MY I'K.u; FRITH, I want to stay here a week longer than I proposed 
 to myself, in order that I may have leisure and quiet to consider some- 
 thing 1 am turning in my mind. I hope, therefore, it will not put you out 
 if I suggest that it would be a great convenience to me to have our ap- 
 pointment with Watkins for Monday week instead of Monday. 
 
 " Ever very faithfully youre, CHARLES DICUNS."
 
 216 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 Again, on the 12th, he writes : 
 
 "Mr DEAR FRITH, At eleven on Monday morning next the gifted indi- 
 vidual whom you will transmit to posterity will be at Watkins'. Table 
 also shall be there, and chair velvet coat likewise, if the tailor should 
 have sent it home. But the garment is more to be doubted than the man 
 whose signature here follows. 
 
 "Faithfully yours always, CHAULES DICKENS." 
 
 And on the 19th he says : 
 
 "MY DEAR FRITH, The 'properties' shall be ready, and nothing shall 
 scare the undersigned, whose faith is great. 
 
 "Ever faithfully, C. D." 
 
 In due course the photograph was taken, but not very 
 successfully ; nor did I derive the slightest assistance from 
 it in the prosecution of the portrait. The change in Dick- 
 ens' appearance that had taken place during the twenty- 
 five years that had elapsed since Maclise had painted him 
 so admirably was very striking. The sallow skin had be- 
 come florid, the long hair of 1835 had become shorter and 
 darker, and the expression settled into that of one who 
 had reached the topmost rung of a very high ladder, and 
 was perfectly aware of his position. I find the first entry 
 of Dickens' sittings under date 
 
 "Jan. 21. Arranged Dickens' portrait till he came at 
 1.30. He sat delightfully. I drew his head in outline, he 
 talking all the while. The result will be successful." 
 
 Then, next day : 
 
 " Dickens again. Miss Hogarth and his daughter came 
 with him, and remained two and a half hours. Got in the 
 head in colors. Dickens most pleasant. No wonder peo- 
 ple like him." 
 
 "Friday, Jan. 28. Dickens came at 12. A good and 
 long sitting. Feel quite assured of success." 
 
 Between Maclise's picture and my own, many portraits 
 of Dickens had been taken, most of them indeed, accord- 
 ing to the sitter himself, all of them absolute failures. I 
 was curious with regard to one which I knew had been 
 begun, but not finished, by an eminent academician ; and 
 during one of the sittings to me I inquired the reason of 
 the delay. 
 
 " Well, the truth is," said Dickens, " I sat a great many
 
 PORTRAIT OF CHARLES DICKENS. 217 
 
 times. At first the picture bore a strong resemblance to 
 Ben Cauut " (a prize - fighter of that day) ; " then it 
 changed into somebody else ; and at last I thought it was 
 time to give it up, for I had sat there and looked at the 
 thing till I felt I was growing like it." 
 
 On our conversation turning on the preconceived idea 
 that people always entertain of celebrities in literature or 
 art, to whose personal appearance they are strangers, he 
 said he had had frequent experience of the dismay which 
 seemed to take possession of persons on their first intro- 
 duction to him. " And they occasionally allow their dis- 
 appointment to take the form of positive objection. For 
 instance," said he, " Scheffer who is a big man, I believe, 
 in your line said, the moment he saw me, ' You are not 
 at all like what I expected to see you ; you are like a 
 Dutch skipper.' As for the picture he did of me, I can 
 only say that it is neither like me nor a Dutch skipper." 
 
 In my own small way I told him I had had a similar ex- 
 perience, for, on being introduced to a North-country art 
 patron, he said : 
 
 " You don't look a bit like an artist. I should have put 
 you down for a well-to-do farmer." 
 
 "Yes," rejoined Dickens, "and then they look at you 
 as if it was your fault and one for which you deserve to 
 be kicked because you fail to realize their ideal of what 
 you ought to be." 
 
 It was at this time that Dickens commenced the public 
 readings of his works, and they became immediately very 
 popular as well as profitable. I availed myself of his of- 
 fer of tickets of admission to Hanover Square Rooms, and 
 heard him read the trial from " Pickwick," and from some 
 other novel, the name of which I forget. It seems a bold 
 thing for me to say, but I felt very strongly that the au- 
 thor had totally misconceived the true character of one of 
 his own creations. In reading the humorous repartees and 
 quaint sayings of Sam Weller, Dickens lowered his voice 
 to the tones of one who was rather ashamed of what 
 he was saying, and afraid of being reproved for the free- 
 dom of his utterances. I failed in being able to rec- 
 oncile myself to such a rendering of a character that, of 
 10
 
 218 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 all others, seemed to me to call for an exactly opposite 
 treatment. Sam is self-possessed, quick, and never-failing 
 in his illustrations and rejoinders, even to the point of im- 
 pudence. 
 
 When I determined to tell the great author that he had 
 mistaken his own work I knew I should be treading on 
 dangerous ground. But on the occasion of a sitting, 
 when my victim was more than ever good-tempered, I 
 unburdened my mind, giving reasons for my objections. 
 Dickens listened, smiled faintly, and said not a word. A 
 few days after this my friend Elmore asked my opinion 
 of the readings, telling me he was going to hear them, 
 and I frankly warned him that he would be disappointed 
 with the character of Sam Weller. A few days more 
 brought a call from Elmore, who roundly abused me for 
 giving him an utterly false account of the Weller episode. 
 
 " Why," he said, " the sayings come from Dickens like 
 pistol-shots ; there was no ' sneaking ' way of talking, as 
 you described it." 
 
 " Can it be possible," thought I, " that this man, who, 
 as it is told of the great Duke of Wellington, never took 
 anybody's opinion but his own, has adopted from my sug- 
 gestion a rendering of one of the children of his brain di- 
 ametrically opposed to his own conception of it ?" 
 
 At the next sitting all was explained, for, on my telling 
 Dickens what Elmore had said, with a twinkle in his eye 
 which those who knew him must so well remember, he re- 
 plied : * 
 
 " I altered it a little made it smarter." 
 
 "You can't think how proud I feel," said I, "and sur- 
 prised, too ; for, from my knowledge of you, and from 
 what I have heard from other people, you are about the 
 last man to take advice about anything, least of all about 
 the way of reading your own books." 
 
 "On the contrary," was the reply, "whenever I am 
 wrong I am obliged to any one who will tell me of it ; but 
 up to the present I have never been wrong." 
 
 The portrait had progressed to the time when it was 
 necessary to consider what the background should be, and 
 I thought it best to discard the common curtain and col-
 
 PORTRAIT OF CHARLES DICKENS. 219 
 
 umn arrangement, and substitute for these well-worn prop- 
 erties the study in which the writer worked, with what- 
 ever accident of surrounding that might present itself. 
 Accordingly I betook myself to Tavistock House, and was 
 installed in a corner of the study from whence I had a 
 view of Dickens as he sat writing under the window, his 
 desk and papers, with a framed address to him from 
 Birmingham, I think together with a book-case, etc., 
 making both back and fore ground. The first chapter of 
 the " Tale of Two Cities," or rather a small portion of it, 
 lay on the desk. After what appeared to me a vast deal 
 of trouble on the part of the writer, muttering to himself, 
 walking about the room, pulling his beard, and making 
 dreadful faces, he still seemed to fail to satisfy himself 
 with his work. I think he seldom if ever wrote after two 
 o'clock; never, at least, when I was at Tavistock House. 
 With Dickens' permission I used to read the early sheets 
 of the new novel as they lay upon his desk. On one of 
 the few occasions on which I got to work before him, I 
 saw upon the table a paper parcel with a letter on the top 
 of it. From the shape I guessed that it contained books, 
 as the event proved. Presently Dickens came in, read the 
 letter, and handed it to me, saying: 
 
 " Here you are again ! This is the kind of thing I am 
 subject to; people send me their books, and, what is more, 
 they require me to read them; and, what is almost as bad, 
 demand my opinion of them. Read that." 
 
 I obeyed, and read what appeared to me a very well- 
 written appeal to the great master in the art, of which the 
 writer was a very humble disciple, etc., begging for his 
 perusal of the accompanying work, and his judgment 
 upon it, and so on. The work was "Adam Bede," and 
 the writer's name was George Eliot. Dickens took up 
 one of the volumes, looked into it, and said: " Seems clever 
 a good style; suppose I must read it." 
 
 And read it he did that very day, for the next morning 
 he said: 
 
 "That's a very good book, indeed, by George Eliot. 
 But unless I am mistaken, G. Eliot is a woman." 
 
 It was about this time that Dickens bought the prop-
 
 220 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 erty at Gads Hill, near Rochester the reputed locality 
 of the famous Falstaff robbery upon which his longing 
 youthful eyes had been cast so many years before. My 
 first visit to the new house where Dickens and his family 
 had gone for Christmas was paid in December, 1858. 
 The day was wet and dreary, but we passed it agreeably 
 in talk and bagatelle; the players being Wilkie Collins 
 and myself, with Dickens and Gordon most genial of 
 Scotchmen and Sheriff of Midlothian for opponents. 
 
 When the portrait was finished Gordon came to see 
 it. He walked into my painting-room with his arm in a 
 sling. Gordon had the national love of whiskey, and my 
 first thought was that gout had supervened, and I said as 
 much. 
 
 "No," said Gordon; "a bite." 
 
 " And what has bitten you ?" 
 
 " A lion," was the reply. 
 
 It appeared that on the occasion of a visit of Womb- 
 well's Menagerie to Edinburgh, Gordon had chaperoned 
 some ladies, and while talking to them he amused him- 
 self by rubbing the nose of a sleeping lion. The animal 
 opened his mouth, to yawn, Gordon thought; and in shut- 
 ting it, somehow or other Gordon's hand was enclosed, 
 and the lion's teeth passed through it. The position was 
 alarming enough, but Gordon's presence of mind was equal 
 to the occasion. With his left hand he continued gently 
 rubbing the still sleeping brute's nose. The lion yawned 
 again, and the sheriff withdrew his hand, but only just in 
 time, for, to use Gordon's own words, " The beast's teeth 
 had passed between the bones of the hand, completely 
 through it, and he had begun in a sleepy way to move his 
 jaws; and in another instant I should have been too late, 
 for, as I removed my hand, he opened his eyes." 
 
 Dickens capped this experience with another instance of 
 extraordinary stupidity. Being at the Zoological Gardens, 
 he was startled by cries and shouting at the bears' den. 
 A man was at the lower door of the den now covered by 
 a strong grating-- screaming with pain and terror; he had 
 offered one of the bears a bun, the bun was accepted, and 
 the man's fingers with it. As Dickens hurried towards
 
 PORTRAIT OF CHARLKS DICKENS. 221 
 
 the man, two keepers arrived at the same moment The 
 bear held the bun and fingers with an obstinacy quite im- 
 movable by the blows showered upon his nose. No time 
 for hot irons, so after a very brief consultation the two 
 strong keepers put their arms round the unfortunate man's 
 waist and tore him away, leaving the bun and the first 
 joints of his fingers in the possession of the bear. 
 
 When Dickens was sitting to me, he mentioned the in- 
 tention of his publishers to issue a library edition of his 
 works, with two steel illustrations to each volume. I 
 begged him to allow me to be one of the illustrators; and 
 I chose " Little Dorrit," from which I painted two small 
 pictures, afterwards admirably engraved by Stocks, I think. 
 The great pleasure that I felt in the anticipation of once 
 more trying my hand in realizing the characters of the 
 author was my sole motive in making this proposal. The 
 pictures found purchasers immediately. Great was my 
 delight, then, when I received the whole of the library 
 edition with " To W. P. Frith, with the regard of the au- 
 thor," pasted into the first volume. Lovers of Dickens 
 will understand with what care these books are treasured. 
 I can only remember one unfavorable criticism of my por- 
 trait of Dickens, and that was by a lady who knew him 
 well. She met me in the exhibition, where she saw the like- 
 ness for the first time, and she greeted me with, " What has 
 Dickens done to you that you should paint him like that?" 
 
 She deigned no explanation, and to this moment I don't 
 know what she meant, except to be disagreeable, and in 
 that she succeeded. However, I was amply compensated 
 by the universal approval of all Dickens' family and 
 friends Stone, Egg, Leech, Mark Lemon, and Shirley 
 Brooks, etc., etc. who said, "At last we have the real 
 man;" and best satisfied of all was John Forster. Forster 
 was a gruff man with the kindest heart in the world, as 
 the correspondence printed elsewhere goes far to prove; 
 and I now take leave of him with heartfelt recognition of 
 the generous praise that cheered me during my work, and 
 of the noble liberality with which it was rewarded. 
 
 The portrait was admirably engraved by Mr. Barlow, 
 R.A.. and is now in the South Kensington Museum.
 
 222 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 " Claude Duval " made slow but satisfactory progress. 
 My diary for the last day of the year 1859 tells that I 
 painted "Bit of distance right well. Branch of tree. 
 Painted by gaslight. I am doing the most successful 
 picture of its class that I have ever done better in art 
 than the ' Derby Day,' but it will not be so popular by a 
 long way." 
 
 The prophecy conveyed in the above proved true. So 
 great was the demand for modern art a quarter of a cen- 
 tury ago that copies of successful pictures and some- 
 times of unsuccessful ones were in great demand. I 
 found myself included among the popular men to such a 
 degree that scarcely one of my more important works 
 escaped what Scheffer called being " bred from." Large 
 and small replicas to give them a fine name were made; 
 but in no instance without the consent of the owners of 
 the original pictures. Mr. Price, of Queen Anne Street, 
 possesses an important copy of "Claude Duval;" the orig- 
 inal is now in the possession of Mr. Fielden, at Doburgh 
 Castle, Todmorden. The critics were severe upon poor 
 "Claude." I forget the words of their objurgations; but 
 I remember the advice of one of them, which was that I 
 should devote myself to the illustration of the " Newgate 
 Calendar," with some compliments as to the fitness of my 
 art and me for the office. 
 
 . I think the only popular painter who kept himself free 
 from tha vice of copying was Edwin Landseer, with whom 
 I had become intimate at this time. He was the greatest 
 animal painter that ever lived ; and his figures occasionally 
 were scarcely inferior to his brutes. From his early youth 
 he had been admitted to the highest society, and no won- 
 der, for in addition to his genius, which was exercised 
 again and again for the "great," either in ornamenting 
 their scrap-books or in the more important form of pict- 
 ures for which he was very inadequately paid he was 
 the most delightful story-teller, and the most charming 
 companion in the world. He also sang delightfully. In 
 speaking, he had .caught a little of the drawl affected in 
 high life, and he practised it till it became a second nature. 
 He was, of course, entirely free from envy of others; and
 
 PORTRAIT OF CHARLES DICKENS. 223 
 
 conscious of his own shortcomings in his art, as a remark 
 I once heard him make will prove. " If people only knew 
 as much about painting as I do," he said, " they would 
 never buy my pictures." 
 
 His rapidity of execution was extraordinary. In the 
 National Gallery there is a picture of two spaniels of what 
 is erroneously called the Charles II. breed (the real dog 
 of that time is of a different form and breed altogether, 
 as may be seen in pictures of the period), the size of life, 
 with appropriate accompaniments, in two days. An empty 
 frame had been sent to the British Institution, where it 
 was hung on the wall, waiting for its tenant a picture of 
 a lady with dogs till Landseer felt the impossibility of 
 finishing the picture satisfactorily. Time had passed, till 
 two days only remained before the opening of the exhibi- 
 tion. Something must be done; and in the time named 
 those wonderfully lifelike little dogs were produced. 
 
 A still more extraordinary instance may be mentioned. 
 Landseer was staying at Redleaf, the delightful seat of 
 Mr. Wells, who, with all his love for artists, objected to 
 their painting on Sunday. Landseer may have had an 
 equal objection to going to church; anyway, he took ad- 
 vantage of Mr. Wells's absence on that laudable errand to 
 paint a picture of a dog the size of life with a rabbit in 
 its mouth. This picture was begun as Mr. Wells started 
 for his mile-and-a-quarter walk to church, and finished just 
 as he returned, the whole time occupied being a little over 
 two hours. On the trunk of a tree in the background is 
 an inscription recording the feat. 
 
 The British Gallery was a favorite place of exhibition 
 with Landseer, many of whose less important works were 
 shown there. Among the rest I remember one of a hare 
 attacked by a stoat; the stoat had caught the hare by the 
 throat, and one could almost hear the screams of the poor 
 creature in its hopeless resignation to its fate. I do not 
 know who may be the happy owner of that splendid work, 
 but if he should happen to read these lines and will then 
 look at the back of his picture, he will find a criticism of 
 the picture, which is unique, or nearly so, in the annals of 
 that science. It is to the following effect:
 
 224 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 "In Mr. Landseer's picture of a rabbit attacked by a 
 weasel, it appears to us that the rabbit is more like a hare, 
 and the weasel has none of the characteristics of that spe- 
 cies of vermin, for it is more like a stoat." 
 
 The whole of the hall of Mr. Wells's residence was 
 filled by the hand of Landseer; every variety of game, 
 from the red-deer to the snipe, found its exponent in the 
 great painter. When a pheasant was shot, its attitude 
 was carefully preserved by bits of moss or pebbles, so that 
 it might stiffen in death, and thus become a true model for 
 the painter. When a partridge or a wild-duck fell, similar 
 means were taken to secure results, of which most faithful 
 transcripts filled the hall. Besides possessing pictures by 
 nearly all the best modern painters, Mr. Wells had a very 
 fine collection of old masters; and the gardens attached to 
 the house were as remarkable as the contents of it. As 
 the custodian of both, Mr. Wells was even more difficult 
 of approach by strangers than Mr. Sheepshanks. Living 
 within easy distance of Tunbridge Wells, he found it 
 necessary to arm himself against intruding excursionists, 
 more especially after the railway was made. He told me 
 he was called " Tiger Wells," he was thankful to say, and 
 he should always show his claws to anybody who ventured 
 too near his den. I was witness to one example of the 
 tiger-nature which amused me, and may amuse my readers. 
 A carriage filled with ladies, and attended by some gentle- 
 men on horseback, was driven up to the Redleaf front- 
 door. The chief occupant of the carriage was Lady , 
 
 well known in London society. The gentlemen were all 
 of the upper ten, most of them known only by sight to 
 Mr. Wells. The door was opened by David, Mr. Wells's 
 old servant; lie was instructed to utter the usual formula, 
 " Not at home," by Mr. Wells himself, who waited in the 
 hall to see the result. 
 
 " Not at home," was announced to Lady by an 
 
 aristocratic horseman. 
 
 " Never mind," said the lady. " Shall we see the gar- 
 dens first, or would you like to take the pictures, and then 
 the flowers?" 
 
 Before Lady could quite finish her directions Mr.
 
 PORTRAIT OP CHARLES DICKENS. 225 
 
 Wells approached the carriage and said, in a peremptory 
 voice, 
 
 " Mr. Wells is not at home, madam !" 
 
 " Oh !" said the lady; " dear me ! Then I suppose we 
 must go back !" 
 
 Mr. Wells made his best bow, and the party departed. 
 
 To return to Landseer. Our intimacy had extended to 
 the point of frequent dinner-meetings here and elsewhere. 
 At this house he was always a welcome and honored guest; 
 but he had adopted a habit of keeping other guests wait- 
 ing. It was usually at least half an hour after everybody 
 else had arrived before he made his appearance. For any 
 man to keep ladies waiting has always seemed to me a de- 
 testable practice, and though I had the greatest respect 
 and love for Landseer, I determined to read him a lesson; 
 so after suffering from these practices several times, I re- 
 solved never to wait a moment for him again. The con- 
 sequence of this resolution was, that the next dinner to 
 which he had engaged himself to us was nearly half over 
 when he walked into the dining-room, making profuse 
 apologies for his " unavoidable " want of punctuality. 
 Many and many a time did the delightful raconteur dine 
 with us afterwards; he was always the first to arrive, and, 
 with watch in hand, he would attack some tardy visitor 
 if he knew him well enough and would say: " Look here, 
 there is no rudeness equal to that of keeping ladies wait- 
 ing for their dinners." 
 
 On one occasion our after-dinner talk turned upon the 
 love of money, and as there were no very elderly people 
 present, we all agreed that avarice was the vice of age ; 
 and some one spoke of the great Duke of Wellington, 
 then living, as an example. 
 
 " No," said Landseer; "whoever says that knows noth- 
 ing of the duke. I know him well, and I say he is the 
 very reverse of avaricious." 
 
 He then proceeded to give us an instance of his liberal- 
 ity. Landseer painted a picture of the lion-tamer, Van 
 Amburgh; a large work representing the interior of a den 
 of lions and tigers, among whom the man lay in apparent 
 security. The artist was left with a free hand as to price; 
 10*
 
 226 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 and when on the completion of the picture, in reply to 
 the duke's inquiry, Landseer told him the price would be 
 six hundred guineas, the duke wrote out a check for 
 twelve. " I could tell you many more instances of his 
 liberality," said the painter. 
 
 The great duke, being human, was no doubt the victim 
 of weaknesses, one of which a very small one consisted 
 in the conviction that he could name every picture in the 
 Apsley House collection without reference to the cata- 
 logue. So long as the pictures followed in regular se- 
 quence, and were named one after another in order, the 
 effort of memory was successful ; but if the narrator were 
 called back by the forgetfulness of the visitor to any spe- 
 cial picture, he was at fault ; and without beginning again 
 with the first picture in the room, he could not give the 
 information asked for. 
 
 " I beg your pardon, sir; who did you say that was?" 
 said Landseer to the duke, on the occasion of a visit to 
 Apsley House, at the same time pointing to a half-length 
 portrait of a sour-looking woman in the costume of the 
 time of Elizabeth. 
 
 The duke looked up at the picture, muttered something, 
 and left the room. 
 
 While the duke was absent, Landseer studied other 
 pictures, and had pretty well forgotten all about the sour- 
 looking lady, w r hen a voice close to his ear exclaimed, 
 " Bloody Mary !" 
 
 The only true resemblance of the great duke, in his 
 later years, is in Landseer's picture of the " Visit to Wa- 
 terloo," where the duke is supposed to be describing to 
 Lady Douro, his son's wife, an incident of the battle. It 
 is the vera effigies of the man. I happened to be by when 
 the duke and Miss Burdett Coutts were looking at the 
 picture in Trafalgar Square, and heard the great captain 
 say, looking at the portrait of Lady Douro: " That's quite 
 shocking!" which it was, indeed, as Landseer acknowl- 
 edged ; and, said he, " I wonder the duke is any better, 
 for he only sat half an hour." 
 
 It was interesting to see the great man looking at pic- 
 torial renderings of his exploits ; they frequently figured
 
 PORTRAIT OF CHARLES DICKENS. 227 
 
 on the Academy walls. Sir William Allan painted two, 
 which appeared in the same exhibition : one represented 
 the duke riding over the field of Waterloo by moonlight, 
 when he is said to have " shed iron tears;" the other a 
 frustrated attempt of some British sailors to escape from 
 Boulogne. The duke's habit was to examine every pict- 
 ure in the exhibition that was visible to him ; and I have 
 seen him spend precisely the same time, and show the 
 same interest and no more over pictures in which he 
 figured gloriously, as he did in all others. If a friend 
 were with him, he would make a remark, as I heard him 
 on Allan's picture of the " Waterloo Fight." " Too much 
 smoke !" said the duke. 
 
 Another celebrity whose remarks were striking enough 
 was Rogers the poet, who, on seeing a rather poor, ill- 
 drawn picture of Adam and Eve, exclaimed, "I deny that 
 I am descended from that couple !" 
 
 It would be difficult to convey to the present generation 
 any idea of the veneration that was felt for the great 
 duke. Everybody, down to the street boys, knew him, 
 and vied with each other in offering marks of respect. I 
 cannot refrain from describing an incident that came un- 
 der my own observation. I was descending the steps that 
 lead from the Duke of York's column into St. James's 
 Park, when I saw the duke on horseback, trotting slowly 
 along, followed by his chocolate-coated groom, and at- 
 tended by a dirty little boy who managed to keep pace 
 with the duke's horse, now and again looking up at the 
 rider. The duke's patience with his inquisitive follower 
 failed as I descended the last step into the Park, for ho 
 stopped his horse and addressed the boy : 
 
 "What do you want?" 
 
 The boy put his hands into his pockets, was confused 
 for a moment, and then, looking up at the duke, said, 
 
 " I want to see where you are oing." 
 
 " I am going there," said the duke, pointing to the 
 Horse Guards. " Now go about your business !" 
 
 The story told of Sydney Smith, who, on being asked 
 by Landseer to sit to him, replied, " Is thy servant a dog 
 that he should do this thing?" is not true; but another
 
 228 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 and a better one, in which the young King of Portugal 
 figured, may be relied upon, as I have Landseer's author- 
 ity for its truthfulness. At one of the court balls Land- 
 seer attended, and when the King of Portugal, who was 
 also a guest, was made aware of the presence of the great 
 animal painter, he expressed his desire for an introduc- 
 tion. Landseer was presented accordingly, when the king, 
 in his imperfect English, said, " Oh, Mr. Landseer, I am 
 delighted to make your acquaintance I am so fond of 
 beasts /"
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 SUCCESS OF "TUB RAILWAY STATION." 
 
 THE autumn of 1860 was taken up by studies for the 
 picture of " The Railway Station." The preparations 
 were on much the same lines as those for the " Derby 
 Day." Many chalk drawings of separate figures and 
 groups, many changes of composition and incident, be- 
 fore I could satisfy myself that I might commence the 
 inevitable oil-sketch. I don't think the station at Pad- 
 dington can be called picturesque, nor can the clothes of 
 the ordinary traveller be said to offer much attraction to 
 the painter in short, the difficulties of the subject were 
 very great; and many were the warnings of my friends 
 that I should only be courting failure if I persevered in 
 trying to paint that which was in no sense pictorial. My 
 own doubts were great, I confess, and I well remember 
 my surprise on showing the sketch to the great Flatow 
 at the eagerness with which he engaged himself to take 
 the picture, sketch, and copyright at a price that appeared 
 to me then as one of the most exorbitant on record. As 
 a matter of curiosity I append a copy of the agreement; 
 by which it will be seen that I had reserved the right to 
 exhibit the picture at the Royal Academy a right after- 
 wards resigned for a consideration in the shape of seven 
 hundred and fifty pounds : 
 
 " Memorandum of agreement made this tenth day of September, one 
 thousand eight hundred and sixty, between William Powell Frith, R.A., 
 of 10, Pembridge Villas, Bayswater, in the County of Middlesex, of 
 the one part, and Louis Victor Flatow, of 23, Albany Street, Regent's 
 Park, in the said County, picture-dealer, of the other part. 
 " The said William Powell Frith agrees to sell to the said Louis Victor 
 Flatow, and said Louis Victor Flatow agrees to buy, the large picture now 
 being painted by the said William Powell Frith, called ' A Railway Sta- 
 tion,' together with the original sketch and the copyright thereof, for the
 
 230 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND BEMINISCENCES. 
 
 sum of four thousand five hundred pounds, to be paid by instalments as 
 follows : Five hundred pounds on the first day of December next ensuing ; 
 five hundred pounds on the first of March, one thousand eight hundred 
 and sixty-one, and a like sum at the expiration of every succeeding three 
 months, till the picture is completed, when the balance, if any, shall in 
 any case be paid .... 
 
 " The said Louis Victor Flatow shall allow the picture to be exhibited 
 at the Royal Academy in the Exhibition of the year one thousand eight 
 hundred and sixty-two, or in the following Exhibition. 
 
 "W. P. FRITH, 
 " L. V. FLATOW." 
 
 The above is all that is of interest in a somewhat lengthy 
 document. 
 
 On August 28 I find the first entry of the commence- 
 ment of the large picture of "The Railway Station:" 
 
 " Commenced picture of railway platform ; another long 
 journey, to which I go with almost as good a heart as I did 
 to the 'Derby Day.' May it be as successful!" 
 
 I worked steadily on to the end of the year, and I closed 
 my diary with: 
 
 " Once more in full swing at an important work, next in 
 importance to the 'Derby Day,' which some say it will 
 excel in merit and attractiveness. I am doubtful. The 
 subject is good, but I don't feel so warm upon it as I did 
 upon the other. Doubtful of myself. Damped by the in- 
 difference of my artist-friends. Let me remember that 
 
 and treat what I have done so far with the 
 
 greatest indifference, and see if the result justifies their 
 opinion. If so, I am utterly deceived and conceited, and 
 the blow that my confidence receives will be deserved. 
 In the meantime let me do all I can to insure success 
 work and wait." 
 
 The whole of the year 1861, with fewer interruptions 
 than usual, was spent on "The Railway Station." My 
 diary records incessant work, and the employment of a 
 multitude of models. I fear there is little to tell that 
 would interest my readers, but I desire to reiterate, for 
 the information of young painters, that every object, liv- 
 ing or dead, was painted from nature often imperfectly 
 enough, as the picture proves. The police officers repre- 
 sented as arresting a criminal on the eve of escape were
 
 SUCCESS OF "THE RAILWAY STATION." 231 
 
 painted from two detectives well known at that time, 
 Messrs. Hay dun and Brett, the latter of whom I believe still 
 survives. They were admirable sitters, and when I com- 
 plimented them on their patience they took small credit 
 for doing for me what they had often done for criminals 
 of a deeper dye, namely, standing on the watch, hour after 
 hour, in the practice of their profession, waiting for a thief 
 or a murderer. 
 
 One of the incidents in the picture represents a foreign- 
 er whose idea of a cab-fare differs considerably from that 
 of the driver of the vehicle, and he is consequently sub- 
 jected to a bullying not uncommon under similar circum- 
 stances. The original of the foreigner was a mysterious 
 individual who taught my daughters Italian ; he hailed 
 from Venice, at that time groaning under Austrian rule. 
 He was a man of distinguished manners ; and we were 
 given to understand that he was a nobleman whose head 
 was wanted in Venice to serve a very different purpose 
 from that to which I put it in this country. At first he 
 refused to sit, as he dreaded recognition by some aristo- 
 cratic friends who might come to England ; and it was 
 only on my promising that I would avoid making a like- 
 ness of him that I succeeded in overcoming his reluctance. 
 If I am to keep to my determination to tell the truth, the 
 whole truth, and nothing but the truth in these reminis- 
 cences, I must here confess that I deceived the Italian 
 count from the first; for, unless I caught the character of 
 the face, I knew my model would be useless to me. The 
 difficulty then was to prevent the portrait being seen till 
 it was finished: this was accomplished on one pretence or 
 other; but the inevitable moment came at last, and never 
 can I forget the torrent of broken English that was poured 
 upon me when my sitter first saw his face in the picture. 
 " You say it shall not be like me, and it is as if I see me 
 in a look-glass. You have betray me it is perfide my 
 friends will recognize me. If I thought it was to be so I 
 would not have do it." 
 
 I fear my conduct was as indefensible as that of poor 
 Haydon under somewhat similar circumstances; or only 
 to be excused on the ground that in the cause of art the
 
 232 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 end justifies the means. As one of the principal actors in 
 the Haydon case told me all the circumstances, I can vouch 
 for their truth. The readers of Haydon's life are aware 
 of his many arrests for debt and his consequent imprison- 
 ment in the King's Bench, where he was attracted by a 
 boisterous travesty of an election performed by the pris- 
 oners, from whom he painted a picture called " The Mock 
 Election," which was bought by George IV., and is now 
 at Windsor Castle. Nearly all the models for the work 
 were the actors in the burlesque, and ready to hand; he 
 was at a loss, however, for one, the official who swears in 
 the members; and reflection seems to have brought to his 
 mind the father of his old friend and fellow -townsman 
 Hart, R.A. (who told me the story), as being exactly 
 suited to his purpose. Haydon wrote to Hart, and, tell- 
 ing him what he wanted, begged him to allow his father 
 to sit. Those who knew Mr. Hart will remember that he 
 was not distinguished for personal beauty; but he was an 
 Adonis in comparison with his father, whose physiognomy 
 displayed the most unfavorable characteristics of the Jew- 
 ish race. Mi*. Hart, senior, lived with his son; who was 
 an estimable person in all respects, and remarkable for his 
 devotion to his father and his extreme sensitiveness in all 
 that concerned him. It was not to be wondered at then 
 that a very indignant refusal was sent in reply to Haydon's 
 letter, together with vehement reproaches for his attempt 
 to place the father of an old friend in so ridiculous and 
 humiliating a position. 
 
 This brought a long and repentant letter from Haydon, 
 which closed with a prayer for forgiveness; and the hope 
 that a proof that animosity had ceased should be shown 
 by the elder Hart being allowed to breakfast with the 
 artist in prison, on the following Sunday morning. 
 
 With a heart overflowing with forgiveness on the part 
 of both father and son, the former wended his way to 
 breakfast in the King's Bench. Hart told me that his 
 father had not been long gone before it occurred to him, 
 knowing the old gentleman's kindly and somewhat weak 
 character and knowing, also, the character of Haydon 
 it would, perhaps, be as well if he were to go himself and
 
 SUCCESS OF "THE RAILWAY STATION." 233 
 
 see that the artist's well-known devotion to his art had 
 not made him forgetful of truth and honor. He argued 
 with himself that such a betrayal was impossible, but in 
 vain ; and at last started for the prison, where he found 
 Haydon at work, just finishing a wonderful likeness of the 
 old man swearing in a dandy on a piece of burned stick. 
 
 I take this opportunity of recommending a study of the 
 life and death of poor Haydon than whom a more en- 
 thusiastic, well-intending, and mistaken being never ex- 
 isted to the attention and study of students. I well 
 remember the shock of his sad death, which distressed, 
 if it scarcely surprised, all who knew him. Maclise first 
 heard of it at the Athenaeum Club, and seeing Turner 
 reading a newspaper he went to him and said, 
 
 "I have just heard of Haydon's suicide. Is it not 
 awful ?" 
 
 Turner, without looking up from his paper, said: 
 
 " Why did he stab his ' mother' ?" 
 
 " Great Heaven !" said Maclise, "you don't mean " 
 
 "Yes. He stabbed his mother." 
 
 No explanation could be obtained from Turner, but he 
 alluded, no doubt, to Haydon's attacks upon the Academy, 
 to which he owed his education, and which were, indeed, 
 the cause of his ruin. 
 
 The opportunity for a display of what Haydon called 
 "high art" arrived at last by the proposed decoration 
 of the Houses of Parliament with historical pictures a 
 consummation that he had been agitating, in season and 
 out of season, all his life and then to see himself passed 
 over, left out in the cold, while younger men took the 
 prizes and gained all the employment, was a most cruel 
 blow; and one cannot read of it in Tom Taylor's admira- 
 ble life of the artist without almost tearful sympathy. My 
 friend the late John Thomas, the author of all the sculpt- 
 ure that decorates the exterior of the Houses, told me that 
 on the day of the decision so fat.il to Haydon he was 
 lunching at a restaurant near the Houses of Parliament, 
 when his attention was attracted to a man who, with a 
 bottle of wine before him, was leaning on the table, the 
 upper part of his face covered by his hand. As Thomas
 
 234 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 looked, thinking he knew the man, the tears fell slowly 
 down the stranger's face. In a few minutes the hand was 
 removed, and poor Haydon was revealed. 
 
 I must return to " The Railway Station," which was 
 completed in March, 1862, after rather more than a year 
 of incessant work. As I have said elsewhere, there were 
 no exhibitions in those days except the annual ones, and 
 no single-picture exhibitions at all. The " Railway " was a 
 great success. I find that twenty -one thousand one hun- 
 dred and fifty people paid for admission in seven weeks, and 
 the subscription for the engraving was equally surprising 
 and satisfactory. The critics contradicted one another, as 
 usual, without doing good or harm to me or the picture. 
 Flatow was triumphant; coaxing, wheedling, and almost 
 bullying, his unhappy visitors. Many of them, I verily 
 believe, subscribed for the engraving to get rid of his im- 
 portunity, lie used to boast that he could induce the 
 most unpromising visitor to subscribe; and on one occa- 
 sion, as I was talking to him in the outer room, a fashion- 
 able, languid-looking young gentleman, having seen the 
 picture, was on the point of taking his umbrella and his 
 departure. I whispered to Flatow: 
 
 " I will bet you half a crown you don't get that man to 
 subscribe." 
 
 " Done with you !" said Flatow, and immediately went 
 to the young visitor and, touching his hat, said: "I beg 
 pardon, sir have you seen a specimen of the manner in 
 which this wonderful picture is about to be engraved?" 
 
 " N-no," drawled the dandy. 
 
 The umbrella was put back, and the visitor returned to 
 the picture in the custody of Flatow. In a very few 
 moments he came back in the act of buttoning his gloves; 
 betrayer and victim exchanged farewell salutes, and the 
 former, rejoining me, said: 
 
 " I will trouble you for two-and-sixpence !"
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 "THE MARRIAGE OF THE PRINCE OP WAIVES. w 
 
 THE great success that had attended my modern - life 
 subjects encouraged me to further effort in the same di- 
 rection, and I forthwith arranged compositions for three 
 pictures of London street scenes, to be called " Morning," 
 "Noon," and "Night" The first represented the early 
 dawn of a summer's morning, with a variety of incidents 
 possible to the occasion; homeless wanderers, asleep and 
 sleepless; burglars stopped by police red-handed; flower- 
 girls returning from Covent Garden with their early 
 purchases ; belated young gentlemen whose condition 
 sufficiently proved that the evening's amusement would 
 not bear the morning's reflection ; with other episodes 
 more or less characteristic. 
 
 In " Noon " the mige-en-sctne was Regent Street in full 
 tide of active life. Ladies in carriages, costermongers in 
 donkey-carts, dog-sellers, a blind beggar conducted across 
 the street by his daughter and his dog, foreigners study- 
 ing a map of bewildering London, etc., etc. The night 
 scene was intended for the Haymarket by moonlight, the 
 main incident being the exit of the audience from the 
 theatre; a party is about to enter a carriage, and a gentle- 
 man is placing a young lady's cloak closely about her 
 shoulders, in tender, lover-like fashion. This is being ob- 
 served by an overdressed and berouged woman, whose 
 general aspect plainly proclaims her unhappy position; and 
 by the expression of her faded though still handsome face, 
 she feels a bitter pang at having lost forever all claim to 
 manly care or pure affection. 
 
 How I should have delighted in trying to realize all that 
 these subjects were capable of, no tongue can tell; but I 
 will describe as briefly as possible how that, to me, most
 
 236 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 desirable consummation was prevented. I had the honor 
 of being desired to paint a picture of the marriage of the 
 princess royal and the Prince of Prussia. The "com- 
 mand " surprised me in the act of finishing the " Derby 
 Day," and I was permitted to urge the claims of that 
 work, and its owners, as an excuse for declining a task 
 afterwards so ably performed by my friend Phillip; but 
 when I was again summoned to a more formidable effort 
 in the shape of the marriage of the Prince of Wales, I 
 felt I must obey; though I was aware of the fearful diffi- 
 culties that such a subject presented scarcely exagger- 
 ated by what Landseer said to me when he heard of my 
 temerity : " So you are going to do the marriage picture ? 
 Well! for all the money in this world, and all in the next, 
 I wouldn't undertake such a thing." Not much appalled 
 by this and other warnings, undertake it I did; and the 
 street scenes, for which I was to receive the incredible sum 
 of ten thousand pounds from Mr. Gambart, a well-known 
 and esteemed dealer of that time, were put on one side. 
 
 To satisfy those who might quite excusably refuse to 
 believe in the folly of such an offer (it was an offer, for 
 my impudence, great as it was, must not be credited with 
 such an audacious demand), I append the agreement which 
 legally bound painter and purchaser to the terms of the 
 engagement: 
 
 "Memorandum of agreement made this twenty-ninth day of August, 
 one thousand eight hundred and sixty-two, between William Powell 
 Frith, of No. 10, Pembridge Villas, Bayswater, in the County of Mid- 
 dlesex, Esquire, R.A., of the one part, and Ernest Gambart, of No. 120, 
 Pall Mall, in the said County, Esquire, of the other part. 
 " The said William Powell Frith agrees to accept a commission to paint 
 for the said Ernest Gambart, and the said Ernest Garabart agrees to give 
 a commission to paint, three pictures by the said William Powell Frith, 
 and to be called ' The Streets of London ' (such pictures to consist of 
 three parts as hereafter mentioned) ; and the said William Powell Frith 
 agrees to sell the copyright therein, together with the original sketches 
 thereof, and all further sketches or drawings made or to be made in fur- 
 therance of the said pictures, for the sum of ten thousand pounds, to be 
 paid by instalments as follows, namely : Five hundred pounds on the sign- 
 ing of this agreement ; five hundred pounds at the expiration of three 
 calendar months from the commencement of the said pictures, and a like 
 sum of five hundred pounds at the expiration of every succeeding three
 
 "TilE MARRIAGE OF THE PBINCB OF WALES." 237 
 
 calendar months until the whole of the said sum of ten thousand pounds 
 shall be paid, or until the said pictures shall be completed ; in case the 
 same shall be completed before, the said sum of ten thousand pounds shall 
 be fully paid, in which case the balance which shall be then unpaid shall 
 immediately, upon such completion and delivery of the said paintings and 
 sketches, be paid. 
 
 (Signed) " W. P. FRITH, 
 
 "ERNEST GAMBART." 
 
 With the final clauses of the agreement being solely 
 legal technicalities it is unnecessary to trouble the reader. 
 
 I again quote from my diary: 
 
 " Sunday, Jan. 13, '68. In the evening a letter from 
 Eastlake, to say the queen wished me to paint the mar- 
 riage of the Prince of Wales." 
 
 " Jan. 18. Gambart called, and agreed to the postpone- 
 ment of the street pictures in consequence of the queen's 
 wish that I should paint the marriage of the Prince of 
 Wales." 
 
 " Jan. 29. Sir C. Phipps writes to say the queen agrees 
 to my terms for the marriage of the Prince of Wales 
 three thousand pounds." 
 
 " March 10. Sees me in a court suit, sword, etc., at the 
 marriage of the Prince of Wales ; a glorious subject for 
 pageantry and color. I like the subject, and think I can 
 make a great deal of it." 
 
 This marriage ceremony, though somewhat longer than 
 the usual one, was all too short for sketching possibilities. 
 The whole scene must be remembered; and, beyond notes 
 of the positions of the various personages in the chapel, 
 which I entered in my sketch-book, I made no use of it. 
 The ceremony left such a vivid impression upon my mind 
 that I found no difficulty in preparing a tolerable sketch 
 of the general effect; and in due course I was permitted 
 to submit my attempt to the queen. On Tuesday, the 7th 
 of April, I find ray diary says: "To Windsor to see the 
 queen, who spent more than half an hour with me. 
 Seemed to be much pleased with the sketch, and was most 
 agreeable; consented to all I proposed. The picture to be 
 ten feet long. All charming so far." 
 
 " So far and no farther," for all too soon did my troubles
 
 238 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 begin. Letters had to be written by the score; answers 
 came sometimes, and sometimes silence was the answer. 
 In my applications for sittings and dresses I had forgotten 
 to say that the picture was painted for, and by command 
 of, the queen; when that announcement was added, con- 
 sent in most cases came readily enough. All the brides- 
 maids but one promised to give me every advantage. 
 From one lady I received no reply; but in place of it a 
 visit from her mother, whom I found in a bewildered con- 
 dition in my drawing-room. As I entered, the lady who 
 was looking with a puzzled expression at the different 
 ornaments in the room turned to me and said: 
 
 " I think I have made a mistake; it is the artist Frith I 
 wish to see." 
 
 " Yes," said I, " I am that individual." 
 
 " Oh, really! and this is your this is where you live ?" 
 
 "Yes," replied I, "this is where I live;" then mentally, 
 "and not in the garret where you had evidently been 
 taught that most artists reside; and as I have a coal-cellar 
 I am not forced to keep my fuel in a corner of the garret, 
 and I am not always dining on the traditional red herring." 
 
 " Oh, then I have called in reply to a letter from you, 
 
 asking my daughter, Lady , who was one of the 
 
 princess's bridesmaids, to sit for a picture, to tell you it is 
 impossible for her to sit; and as to her dress, which you 
 ask for, she cannot spare it." 
 
 "Indeed," I replied, "I am sorry to hear this; however, 
 I will represent what you tell me to the queen, and I 
 dare say I shall be allowed to substitute one of my 
 models, who must play the part of bridesmaid instead of 
 Lady - ? 
 
 My visitor looked at me with an expression which, being 
 interpreted, said as plainly as words, "What does this 
 man mean with his queen, and his model, and his inde- 
 pendent, impertinent manner !" After a pause she said: 
 
 "Why are you painting this picture? What is it for? 
 Can I see it ?" 
 
 " If you will walk this way," pointing to my painting- 
 room, " I shall be happy to show it to you." 
 
 "What a queer place! Why do you shut up part of
 
 "THE MARRIAGE OF THE PRINCE OP WALES." 239 
 
 your window ? Oh, that is the picture! Well, what is it 
 done for ?" 
 
 " It is done for the queen." 
 
 " Done for the queen ? Who presents it to the queen ?" 
 
 " Nobody the queen presents it to herself; at any rate, 
 she pays for it." 
 
 " Really ?" 
 
 "Yes, really." Then in my most respectful manner I 
 added, " I am well aware how much young ladies arc en- 
 gaged, and how disagreeable it must be for them to waste 
 time in sitting to artists when it can be so much more use- 
 fully occupied; so if you will allow me, I will tell her 
 majesty, through Lady Augusta Bruce, that your daughter 
 is unable," etc. 
 
 After another pause, and in a somewhat petulant tone, 
 the lady said: 
 
 " Really, I think the queen, when she asks ladies to be 
 bridesmaids, should tell them that they may be called 
 upon to go through the sort of penance you propose to 
 inflict upon my daughter." 
 
 " I thought I had made it clear that I should prefer to 
 use one of my models than that your daughter should be 
 annoyed; and if you find she cannot consent I will write 
 to Lady Augusta Bruce," etc. 
 
 " Well, good-morning. I will let you know; I will see 
 what my daughter says." 
 
 The young lady came, and was one of the most agree- 
 able of my sitters. Though I lost not a moment in im- 
 pressing on all who were present at the wedding that I 
 must have their dresses to paint from, I was told by sev- 
 eral that the gowns were already taken to pieces (to one 
 of which I was welcome), given away, or cut up into me- 
 mentoes of the interesting event, etc. In reply, I threat- 
 ened them with the queen if the dresses were not pro- 
 duced; and, strange to say, the destroyed ones became 
 miraculously whole again and were sent to me. So far I 
 was successful with the English, but with the foreigners 
 I was beaten now and then. The Duchess of Brabant, 
 now Queen of the Belgians, wore a magnificent robe of 
 moire antique of a lovely purple color. She was a very
 
 240 MY AUTOBIOGBA.PHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 handsome woman, in a prominent position in the fore- 
 ground; in fact, in what we call the very "eye of the 
 picture." Those days were days of crinoline, and the 
 space taken up in the picture was great; and great was 
 my distress when I was told that the duchess had already 
 departed, and the robes had vanished also. Those who 
 knew Lady Augusta Bruce (afterwards wife of the Dean 
 of Westminster) do not require to be told that she was 
 one of the most delightful women that ever lived; her 
 kindness to me in all my troubles I can never forget. We 
 grieved together over the absent duchess's dress, and Lady 
 Augusta said: 
 
 " We are going to Cobourg, and I will try to manage 
 it." 
 
 In a letter written to my sister, dated August 23, 1863, 
 I find the following: 
 
 " I have had a long letter from Lady Augusta from Cobourg. She has 
 succeeded in getting me the Duchess of Brabant's robes, but not without 
 the queen herself having to intercede for them, and I am to pledge myself 
 neither to smoke nor drink beer in their presence." 
 
 I kept my word with some difficulty as regards smok- 
 ing, easily in respect of beer; but why these restrictions ! 
 On Lady Augusta's return the mystery was solved. The 
 duchess had lent dresses to Belgian painters, who had 
 returned them not only smelling of tobacco, but beer- 
 stained also. 
 
 The Danish princes and princesses baffled me com- 
 pletely. They had no time in the short space allowed 
 them in England to sit to be painted scarcely for their 
 photographs. I had therefore to trust to that most un- 
 satisfactory process for my likenesses of them, which are 
 consequently the worst in all respects in the whole picture; 
 and if I had not had a friend at the Court of Denmark I 
 should have been left lamenting for the dresses, orders, 
 helmets, etc., of the male personages. With regard to the 
 ladies, not the slightest help was afforded me. The pres- 
 ent Queen of Denmark and the Princess Dagmar, now 
 Empress of Russia, were painted from photographs, and 
 the Duchess of Brabant from description only. The King
 
 "TUB MAURI AGE OP THE PRINCE OF WALES." 241 
 
 of Greece never sat at all; but a very charming young 
 man, Prince Frederick an elder brother of the Grecian 
 King, and a student at Oxford or Cambridge came to 
 Windsor on a visit to the queen and the Crown Prince of 
 Prussia (then staying at the castle), and gave me a sitting; 
 the crown prince staying with us the while to amuse the 
 young gentleman, which he seemed to do most effectually, 
 for the two never ceased talking in a language that I did 
 not understand for an hour and a half at least. When 
 the sitting was over, a difficulty took place at the door of 
 the Rubens room my temporary studio as to which of 
 the two young men should take precedence; there they 
 stood, each refusing to go first, till at last the Crown 
 Prince of Prussia cut the knot by backing through the 
 doorway, the Dane following face to face. 
 
 The Danish prince left immediately for his college; and 
 when he next found himself face to face with the Prince 
 of Prussia, it was on one of the battle-fields in Schleswig- 
 Holstein. 
 
 When the crown princess was sitting for me, she en- 
 deavored to make me understand the Schleswig-Holstein 
 difficulty. She talked most admirably, and no doubt would 
 have succeeded in enlightening an ordinary understand- 
 ing; but the difficulty becomes great when the listener is 
 also occupied in a painful endeavor to catch a likeness. 
 Anyway, I could not understand the pro and con of the 
 dispute between the powers. 
 
 One of the most picturesque and conspicuous figures at 
 the marriage was the Maharajah Dhuleep Singh. He wore 
 the Eastern dress and was covered with jewels I was 
 about to say blazed with them but the diamonds, being 
 uncut, looked to me like bits of dull glass, with just as 
 much glitter. They had to be painted, however, and the 
 prince was willing to wear them; but, as they were of 
 fabulous value, he was naturally reluctant to leave them 
 with me; and he was only induced to do so on the condi- 
 tion that his servant remained with them, and with the 
 understanding that they were to be deposited each night 
 at Coutts's Bank. This the servant promised; but, seeing 
 that I possessed a burglar-proof iron safe, he trusted them 
 11
 
 242 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 to its keeping, and me with the keys, remarking : " Now, 
 if the prince knew of this, he would be awake all night." 
 
 My diary again records day after day of incessant work. 
 I must quote from it, and largely also from letters written 
 to my sister at the time. The bridesmaids were kindness 
 itself; and if any representation of them fails in likeness 
 or otherwise, the fault is not theirs. My regard for truth 
 compels me to say they were not all beautiful, but one 
 left little to be desired in that respect. Lady Diana Beau- 
 clerk, daughter of the Duke of St. Albans, was not only 
 beautiful, but as agreeable as she was handsome. 
 
 On the 20th of May my diary says : "At 12 came the 
 Duchess of St. Albans and her daughter, the Lady Diana 
 Beauclerk a most sweet creature who sat divinely for 
 nearly three hours. I made a lovely beginning. Later 
 in the day came S. Oxon, who stayed twenty minutes to 
 no purpose." 
 
 I must say, however, for the bishop, that, on the whole, 
 he was a very satisfactory sitter giving me every oppor- 
 tunity, of which I availed myself to good purpose. I can- 
 not refrain from recording an incident in connection with 
 the bishop's likeness. 
 
 The Lord Chancellor "Westbury and the bishop came to 
 loggerheads in the House of Lords. Westbury spoke of 
 the "saponaceous prelate," and used other disrespectful 
 expressions in a discussion on some forgotten subject. 
 The bishop, in reply, begged the learned lord, if he had no 
 respect for himself, to respect the assembly in which he, 
 perhaps unexpectedly the bishop would not say unde- 
 servedly found himself. 
 
 When the lord chancellor sat for me, his eye caught the 
 form of the Bishop of Oxford, and he said : " Ah ! Sam 
 of Oxford. I should have thought it impossible to pro- 
 duce a tolerably agreeable face, and yet preserve any re- 
 semblance to the Bishop of Oxford." And when the 
 bishop saw my portrait of Westbury, he said : " Like him ? 
 yes ; but not wicked enough." 
 
 The Speaker of the House of Commons, Denison, after- 
 wards Lord Ossington, told me the following anecdote of 
 Lord Westbury :
 
 "THE MARRIAGE OF THE PRIXCE OF WALES." 243 
 
 " Lord Ebury had brought into the House of Lords a bill 
 with the object of effecting certain changes in the Burial 
 Service; several animated discussions had taken place, just 
 at the time that some unpleasant disclosures were revealed 
 in which Lord Westbury was implicated, and which led 
 to his resignation of the chancellorship. The noble lord 
 announced his resignation in a speech which his friends 
 said was pathetic enough to melt the hearts of his hearers; 
 but which his enemies said was a masterpiece of affected 
 repentance and hypocritical mockery. The House was 
 greatly moved, and as the lord chancellor was leaving it 
 he met Lord Ebury, and said to him : 'My lord, you can 
 now read the Burial Service over me, with any alteration 
 you think proper.' " 
 
 My mention of the speaker reminds me of his being the 
 possessor of a study of the Princess of Wales, which I 
 sold to him after using it for the larger picture. I don't 
 know the exact age of the princess at the time of her mar- 
 riage, and should be careful to keep it to myself if I did; 
 but she was very young and very beautiful, as all the 
 world knows. She very graciously consented to come to 
 my house, and to afford me every assistance in the way of 
 sittings for my picture. 
 
 The princess is well known for her kindness of heart. 
 Ah ! how that heart would have ached if its owner had 
 realized the aching of mine, when I, too soon, discovered 
 that the illustrious young lady did not know that the 
 keeping her face in one position, for a few minutes even, 
 was necessary to enable an artist to catch a resemblance 
 of it. That first sitting can I ever forget ? I did not dare 
 to complain till after two or three more fruitless attempts. 
 With downright failure staring me in the face, I opened 
 my heart to the Prince of Wales. " You should scold 
 her," said the prince. 
 
 Just at this time the princess was sitting for her bust to 
 the celebrated sculptor Gibson, R.A., in a room at Marl- 
 borough House. I was sent for by the prince, and, before 
 I was admitted to an interview, I was shown into the 
 sculptor's studio, and found him waiting for a sitting from 
 the princess. The bust was already in an advanced stage.
 
 244 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 I did not think it was very like, and, in reply to Gibson, 
 said so. " Well, you see," said Gibson, " the princess is a 
 delightful lady, but she can't sit a bit." 
 
 Just at this moment I was summoned to the prince, 
 whom I found with the princess; and I saw, or thought I 
 saw, a sort of pretty smiling pout, eloquent of reproof, 
 and of half-anger with me. The prince had something to 
 show me photographs, I think and then he led the way 
 to Gibson; the princess and I following. 
 
 No sooner did we find ourselves in the sculptor's pres- 
 ence, than after some remarks upon the bust the prince 
 said : " How do you find the princess sit, Mr. Gibson ?" 
 " Now," thought I, "if ever man was in an awkward fix, 
 you are, Mr. Gibson; for, after what you said to me a few 
 minutes ago, you cannot, in my presence, compliment the 
 beautiful model on her sitting." 
 
 The prince looked at Gibson, and Gibson looked in dead 
 silence at the prince, and then at the princess; he then 
 looked again at the prince, smiled, and shook his head. 
 
 " There, you see, you neither sit properly to Mr. Gibson 
 nor to Mr. Frith." 
 
 " I do I do," said the lady. " You are two bad men !" 
 
 And then we all smiled; and Gibson went on with his 
 work, the princess sitting admirably for the short time 
 that I remained. 
 
 This was a good omen, as I afterwards found; for the 
 princess sat most kindly and steadily for me at Windsor ; 
 and I quite believe that the seemingly naughty behavior 
 during the first sittings arose from her ignorance of the 
 necessity for a fair amount of carefulness in keeping the 
 position required. 
 
 The prince's sittings, and unvarying considerate kind- 
 ness, left nothing to be desired. The same must be said 
 of all the princesses; and to enforce this, I may quote from 
 a letter written at the time to my sister : 
 
 " WINDSOR, Nov. 8, 1863. 
 
 " Here we are cheek by jowl (rather a vulgar expression that) with roy- 
 alty, and if painting were not so difficult, it would be very delightful in- 
 deed; for nothing can exceed the kindness of everybody with whom I 
 come in contact. And how the stories have arisen about artists' time
 
 "TIIK MARRIAGE OF THE PRINCE OF WALES." 245 
 
 being wasted, I can't think ; for with me the royalties come to their time, 
 and sit admirably, save that the sittings are shorter than I like. The 
 queen sits to-morrow from one till two. I have tried hard to get her to 
 sit for an hour and a half; but she says she cannot spare the time at once, 
 and would rather sit any number of times an hour at a time. The queen 
 is most kind ; but I can tell you more about all concerned to-morrow. As 
 to the princesses, they would be considered most charming girls anywhere ; 
 none of their photographs do them justice. The difficulty is to keep in 
 mind in whose presence you are they laugh and talk so familiarly, and 
 still sit well. Princess Beatrice, too, is a most sweet little creature, and 
 as I took Princess Helena's advice, and overawed her a little, she sat right 
 well ; but she began to take liberties at last, and I am afraid next time I 
 shall be troubled to keep her quiet. As to Prince William of Prussia, of 
 all the little Turks he is one of the worst ; and how I am to get a likeness 
 of him I don't know. I let him paint a little on the picture, which de- 
 lighted him. At the same time I was painting Princess Beatrice's dress 
 from the lay figure, when the door of the Rubens room (where I am at 
 work) was thrown open, and a man shouted, as if he were proposing a toast 
 at a public dinner, ' The Crown Prince of Prussia and the Royal Family.' 
 And in marched the crown prince (who had arrived at the castle unex- 
 pectedly) with his three children, their nurses, and all the English prin- 
 cesses and their attendants. Fortunately the room is an immense one, or 
 it would have been filled ; and of all the rows ! those children, shouting, 
 laughing, and romping with the princesses. I was looking at little Prince 
 William, and talking to Princess Helena, when the royal imp looked up in 
 my face and said: 'Mr. FifT, you are a nice man; but your whiskers ' 
 when the princess stopped his mouth with her hand. He struggled to 
 get her hand away, and again said, 'Your whiskers ' when she stopped 
 him again, blushing, and laughing till she could scarcely move. However, 
 they carried the youngster to the other end of the room, and soon brought 
 him back to good manners. The crown prince who is one of the finest 
 and most manly-looking figures I ever saw sat for a while, and I did the 
 outline of his head, and shall make a very successful thing of him. The 
 crown princess comes on Tuesday, when I hope to get a nice likeness 
 of her. . . . Little Prince William calls the picture ' Uncle Wales's Wed- 
 ding.' The princesses always speak of the queen as ' mamma,' and th.ey 
 are altogether like a happy middle-class family. And now I think I have 
 told you enough till next time. 
 
 " I am, as ever, 
 
 " Your affectionate brother." 
 
 The whisker mystery was never revealed, but I inflicted 
 a very unintentional and regretted punishment on the lit- 
 tle boy, which I fancy he may remember to this day. The 
 picture of the marriage was ten feet long, and, as I said 
 above, I portioned off one of the lower corners of it 
 about a foot square which I lent to the young prince
 
 246 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 (he was about seven years old, I think) to paint a picture 
 upon, giving him paints and brushes, but telling him to 
 keep strictly within the boundaries of his own property. 
 I was working quietly at ray part of the picture when I 
 was roused by an exclamation of alarm from the lady in 
 whose charge the prince always came to me, who cried : 
 "Look at his face! What has he been doing to it?" 
 Well, he had simply been wiping his brushes upon it, 
 for it was streaked with vermilion, bright blue, and other 
 pigments. 
 
 " What is to be done ? If the princess should see him 
 she would " 
 
 " Oh," said I, "I can easily remove the paint." 
 And so saying I dipped some clean rag into turpentine 
 and effectually rubbed off the color, or, to be correct, I was 
 rapidly removing it, when I was stopped by violent screams 
 from the young gentleman, accompanied by a severe cuff 
 from his little fist. The turpentine had found out a little 
 spot or scratch on his face, and no doubt gave him great 
 pain great indeed, if one might take scream after scream 
 as a proof. He tore away from me, after a parting kick, 
 and took refuge under a large table and yelled till he was 
 tired, his governess the while in terror that he might be 
 heard. 
 
 I don't think he forgot or forgave my " remedial efforts," 
 for he took much pleasure after in tormenting me by sit- 
 ting so badly that I failed in producing anything in the 
 picture resembling him. This young gentleman is now 
 married and is a father, and I trust a happy one. 
 
 It was a matter of regret to me that I was deprived, by 
 the lamented death of the prince consort, of a critic whose 
 remarks would have been of great use to me. Of all the 
 princesses, I think the crown princess showed the great- 
 est knowledge of the principles of art. The queen, being 
 herself an artist of experience and ability, more than once 
 assisted me by suggestions. Among the many sitters 
 who came to me was one who much interested me the 
 Honorable Something Byng, called "Poodle" Byng a 
 man of fashion about town in the early part of this cen- 
 tury, a contemporary and friend of Brummel, about whom
 
 "THE MARRIAGE OF THE PRINCE OF WALES." 247 
 
 he had many stories. Mr. Byng was a very old gentleman 
 when he assisted at the wedding of the Prince of Wales, 
 as is abundantly proved by the fact of his having been at 
 the marriage of George IV., who, when Prince of Wales, 
 was united to Caroline of Brunswick in 1795. Mr. Byng, 
 then a boy of sixteen, perfectly remembered the whole 
 scene, and as perfectly described it to me. 
 
 "Those were drinking-days," said the old gentleman, 
 " and the prince never spared the bottle. The company 
 had been some time assembled at St. James's Palace, wait- 
 ing for the prince, without whom, yon know, the cere- 
 mony could not take place, the king and queen sitting in 
 great impatience; the king now and again tapping the 
 floor with his foot, then saying something in an angry 
 tone to the queen. At last in came the prince, attended 
 by some gentlemen I forget who they were his face 
 flushed, you know, and a little uncertain on his legs. The 
 king looked very black at him, I can tell you. However, 
 he got through very well. The princess was very nervous." 
 
 " Was she pretty ?" asked I. 
 
 " Well, no fresh, healthy-looking woman, though but 
 about as opposite to this princess as George IV. was to 
 our prince." 
 
 At the time Mr. Byng sat to me he was considerably 
 over eighty. He lived in Duke Street, St. James's, and 
 always walked to and from Bayswater; and boasted of 
 the feat, in which he was justified, I think. 
 
 I remember with peculiar pleasure my short acquaint- 
 ance with the Duchess of Cambridge and Princess Mary. 
 Both those ladies sat delightfully, and I think I succeeded 
 in producing fair likenesses of them. 
 
 Sir Edward Cust a distinguished authority on matters 
 of warfare was Master of Ceremonies to the Court, and 
 took his place in St. George's Chapel as a matter of right. 
 He sat to me many times, and on one occasion, in the lat- 
 ter part of a summer's day, when I was much fatigued by 
 my day's work, I said: 
 
 "I feel a little tired, Sir Edward; would you mind my 
 smoking a cigar?" 
 
 " Not in the least," replied Sir Edward, " if you don't
 
 248 MY AUTOBIOGKAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 mind my being sick, which I certainly shall be the mo- 
 ment you begin." 
 
 The Maharajah Dhuleep Singh had a face of a hand- 
 some type, but somewhat expressionless. It seemed 
 strange to me to find myself painting from one who was 
 born ruler of a bigger country than England, who had 
 been dragged across the sea, jewels and all, to assist at the 
 wedding of a barbarian on a little Western island, and 
 what he may have considered an additional punishment 
 he was made to sit for his likeness, and compelled to lend 
 his treasured jewels to be copied by an infidel whose neck 
 it might have been his delight to wring if it had been in 
 his power. He is a thoroughly good young man, his ser- 
 vant told me: "he reads no book but the Bible, which he 
 knows from cover to cover." He told me he used to be 
 decorated with the Koh-i-Noor when a boy, and he was 
 very pleased that the queen was now the possessor of 
 that remarkable jewel. 
 
 I think it must be admitted that as sitters for their pict- 
 ures, the men bear away the palm from the ladies. There 
 are exceptions, of course, on both sides, but, so far as my 
 experience goes, I have found the male more patient than 
 the female; the result being notably in the picture in 
 question a superiority of likeness in all the men. The 
 Prince of Saxe- Weimar, the Prince of Leiningen, the 
 crown prince, and many others, were model sitters, patient, 
 good-natured, and tolerant perhaps indifferent of the, 
 sometimes, unflattering result of their patience. Not so 
 some of the ladies. One the aged wife of an ambassa- 
 dor was so shocked by my portrait of her that she im- 
 plored me to rub it out. She spoke imperfect English, 
 and she said, " Oh, mister, that is not me. I cannot have 
 grown like that. I will give you my likeness to copy;" 
 and she sent me a drawing done from her when she was a 
 lovely girl of eighteen, with an urgent request that I 
 would correct my libel of her immediately. I declined; 
 and tlie figure remains, a by no means unflattercd copy of 
 a very plain old lady. 
 
 The bishops were, one and all, delightful. Longley, 
 Archbishop of Canterbury, who in his early days was
 
 "THE MARRIAGE OF TIIE PBIJJCE OF WALES." 249 
 
 head-master of Harrow, sat many times, and amused me 
 by anecdotes. On one occasion, he told me, as he was 
 passing one of the houses at Harrow occupied by students, 
 he saw a rope dangling from one of the windows. He 
 seized the rope, and instantly found it pulled so vigorous- 
 ly from the other end, that his feet were off the ground, 
 and he was hanging in the air and drawn slowly up to 
 the window before he had time to think of the danger of 
 his position. Most fortunately the window was not far 
 from the ground, for no sooner had the head and shoulders 
 of the master appeared before the astonished and dis- 
 mayed eyes of the students who expected a very differ- 
 ent apparition than they let go the cord, and the future 
 archbishop lay sprawling on the ground. "The young 
 rascals," said the archbishop, " had sent one of their com- 
 panions into the town for something or other, and that 
 was the way he was to rejoin them." The archbishop, as 
 primate, was the officiating clergyman at the prince's mar- 
 riage, being assisted by the bishops of London, Winches- 
 ter, Chester, and Oxford, the latter in his robes as Prelate 
 of the Order of the Garter. 
 
 Sumner, Bishop of Winchester, was a very old man, 
 nearer eighty than seventy ; he seemed so hale and active 
 that I was induced to ask him if he had adopted any 
 special regimen as regards diet, exercise, etc. " Well," 
 said he, " I have eaten of whatever good things were put 
 before me, and I have drunk a bottle of port wine every 
 day since I was a boy. The only precaution I have taken 
 has been in the quality of the wine; for unless it was old 
 and good, I would have none of it." 
 
 The Bishop of Chester came to London on purpose to 
 sit for me. I only troubled him twice, and he sat so pa- 
 tiently that his portrait is one of the most like of all. He 
 had a very characteristic face and a very long neck. The 
 Bishop of Oxford told me the bishops called him their 
 "Neck-or-nothing brother." 
 
 " A certain marquis, now dead, had the character 
 rightly or wrongly ascribed to him of being parsimonious 
 to an extent often verging on absolute meanness. In con- 
 versation with the Bishop of London, the miserly disposi-
 
 250 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 tion of this nobleman was discussed ; when the bishop 
 said: "I have heard these stories, and must believe some 
 of them; nor do I think them irreconcilable with a lavish 
 generosity in directions where help is required for deserv- 
 ing objects, as a check for ten thousand pounds for ' The 
 Curates' Augmentation Fund ' which I have at this mo- 
 ment in my pocket signed by the very nobleman in ques- 
 tion proves." 
 
 To the many applications made by me to the various 
 personages who were present at the marriage of the Prince 
 of Wales I received but one refusal to sit. All the stalls 
 in St. George's Chapel were filled by Knights of the Garter 
 in their robes ; and among them was a noble duke cele- 
 brated for being the possessor of a very broad-brimmed 
 hat and a very ordinary not to say ugly face. My first 
 appeal failed in eliciting a reply, but to my second letter 
 I received the following answer : 
 
 " DEAR SIR, I have no time to sit for a picture. If my form must ap- 
 pear in your work, allow me to suggest that, in respect of my face, you 
 might bury it in my hat, in the manner of people when they go to church. 
 " Your obedient servant, ." 
 
 Some of the figures in the distance were so small that I 
 refrained from troubling the originals, finding good pho- 
 tographs sufficient guides. Among these was Mr. Dis- 
 raeli, whose face on the canvas was certainly not larger 
 than a shilling; and I told Mrs. Disraeli, when she called 
 to see the picture, that I could not think of troubling her 
 husband, and on some excuse or other I escaped showing 
 it to her, as I knew she would be distressed at finding the 
 great man playing so small a part in it. The worship of 
 that estimable lady for her husband is well known, and I 
 may relate here an instance of it. 
 
 My old friend John Phillip, R.A., was commissioned 
 by the speaker, Denison, to paint a picture of a portion 
 of the House of Commons. The work was to contain 
 portraits of some of the most eminent members of the 
 Government and of the Opposition. On one side are 
 Lord Palmerston, who is speaking, Cornewall Lewis, Lord 
 John Ilussell, Lord Lytton, etc., and opposite sit Disraeli
 
 "THE MARRIAGE OF TIJK PRINCE OF WALES." 251 
 
 and those of his inclining. Phillip told me that, after the 
 tirst sitting from Disraeli the colors being necessarily 
 somewhat crude the lady and gentleman took their de- 
 parture; but, after seeing her husband into the carriage, 
 Mrs. Disraeli returned to the studio, and, walking quickly 
 up to the painter, said, " Remember his pallor is his beau- 
 ty!" and, without another word, rejoined her husband. 
 
 Here I make further quotations from my letters to my 
 sister. I find in November, 1863, 1 write: 
 
 " I must confess that, if there be any shortcomings in the picture, I 
 don't think I can fairly attribute them to the royal people, for nothing 
 could be kinder than they have been ; and I quite believe that the short 
 sittings, in the present state of things, are unavoidable. 
 
 "Princess Louise told me the other day that she and Princess Helena 
 were at the Great Exhibition, and Princess Helena, feeling some one tug- 
 ging at her dress, turned round, and heard a woman exclaim, 'I've touched 
 her, I've touched her! Oh, it's a noble family !' 
 
 "Now, without the least flunkey feeling (and I don't think anybody 
 would accuse me of such a weakness), I don't think I ever was more sur- 
 prised than I have been with the royal children ; the most unaffected, gen- 
 ial, pleasant creatures, without the least pride of place about them. 
 
 " The queen will sit again in a few days, and that will be the last oppor- 
 tunity I shall have till the spring perhaps the last, as I have been very 
 successful with her majesty, although my sittings have been so short. . . 
 Scarcely a day passes without some one who is staying in the castle com- 
 ing into my workroom ; the other day Lord Carlisle and some interesting 
 people, among whom was the Duke de Xemours, whose face I shall never 
 forget he looked history. I thought I could find traces of Henry IV., the 
 Guises, the Bourbons a kind of exemplar of the French royal blood. It 
 was most curious not fanciful on my part. And his manners had u sort 
 of old-world dignity and gentle formality that was inexpressibly striking; 
 it was like talking with the dead; and if he had been dressed in the high 
 boots and armor of Henry IV. the very man would have been before you. 
 When he had gone, and I looked round at the stately Rubcnses in their high 
 ruffs and peaked beards, I could scarcely believe I had not been talking 
 to one of them. I assure you I am not exaggerating it was roost strik- 
 ing ; and so are others who come, only they waste my time. 
 
 " Ever your affectionate brother." 
 
 Another anecdote related to me by one of the princesses 
 I forget which is worth recording. After the marriage 
 of the Crown Prince of Prussia with the Princess Royal 
 of England the happy pair embarked at Gravesend for 
 their future home. To reach their vessel they had to pass 
 through a dense mass of people by means of a long passage,
 
 252 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 or gangway, closely beset on both sides by all sorts and 
 conditions of men and women. As the royal couple walked 
 slowly along the prince felt his arm touched; he turned, 
 and was thus addressed by a navvy: "Now mind you be- 
 have well to her when you gets her over there; if you don't, 
 we'll pretty soon fetch her back again." 
 In another letter, of a later date: 
 
 " LONDON, December 20. 
 
 " MY DEAREST J , I confess I am right glad to find myself at home 
 
 again, after the pains and troubles of Windsor; not that I have anything 
 to complain of, as I said before, but that the difficulties have been so great. 
 . . . When I tell you that, in less than seven weeks, I have finished the 
 queen and the prince, nearly done the three English princesses, advanced 
 the crown princess and her son almost to completion, quite done the crown 
 prince, begun General Grey, Lady Mount-Edgecumbe, the lord chamber- 
 Iain, and some others, and made a most satisfactory study of the Princess 
 of Wales, you will admit I have made the most of my time. The queen 
 came to see me just before she left, and all the princesses came to say 
 good-bye. Little Princess Beatrice was most affectionate. She shook 
 hands with me three times. She showed me the present she had prepared 
 for Lady Augusta Bruce who is to marry Dean Stanley almost immedi- 
 ately a little ring made of forget-me-nots in diamonds, of which she was 
 very proud. I believe the likeness I have done of the queen is satisfactory, 
 only too faithful, I thought not in the least flattered. I said as much to 
 Princess Helena, and her reply was very characteristic. I said I thought 
 the public would scarcely be satisfied, after the pretty-looking things they 
 had been accustomed to. The princess said, 'The public well, you may 
 say to the public that mamma's children are delighted with it, and beg you 
 never to touch it again ; we think it perfect. . . .' 
 
 " Ever your affectionate brother." 
 
 I think it was at Windsor that I heard a story of the 
 royal children, or, rather, of one of them, that I may re- 
 late, though I cannot vouch for the truth of it: 
 
 " Some years before the marriage of the Prince of 
 
 Wales the present Lord , who suffers from a lame 
 
 foot, was invited to Osborne. Previous to his arrival a 
 discussion took place between the queen and the prince 
 consort as to the advisability of drawing the children's 
 attention to the nobleman's lameness, and at the same 
 time warning them to take no notice of it, or whether it 
 would be better, having regard to the thoughtlessness of 
 children, to say nothing at all about it. After much con-
 
 "TI1E MABRIAGE OF TI1E PBINCE OF WALES." 253 
 
 sideration the latter idea was adopted. Lord came, 
 
 played with the young royalties, and left very early one 
 morning. When the children came to breakfast they 
 
 looked for Lord , and one of them asked for him. 
 
 The queen said, ' Lord has gone.' 
 
 "'There, now!' said one of the princes, whimpering, 
 'that is too bad. He has gone, and he promised to show 
 me his foot.' " 
 
 Before I take my leave of Windsor I have to tell how 
 I happened to see part of the body of Charles I. 
 
 One day, when I was sketching in St. George's Chapel, 
 an elderly man a verger, I think came to me, and asked 
 if I should like to see " a little bit of Charles I." The 
 man seemed to be in his right mind ; he was one of the 
 officials that I had frequently seen in the chapel ; well 
 dressed, a gold chain with a locket attached to it a watch, 
 no doubt, at the end, in evidence on his waistcoat. 
 
 " I really don't know what you mean by a bit of Charles 
 I.," said I. " How could I see such a thing?" 
 
 The 'locket was opened, and a small, dark object shown 
 me." 
 
 "That," said the man, is a portion of the body of 
 Charles I." 
 
 "And how did you become possessed of it?" asked I. 
 "Well, sir, it was in this way: When George IV. was 
 prince regent I was a carpenter's boy doing odd jobs, 
 with my master, about the castle, and we was ordered 
 into the vaults just below where you are standing. There 
 was the prince and some gentlemen, and one of the castle 
 servants with a light; and they was evidently looking 
 about for something, and they were some time before 
 they found what they wanted. At last one of the gents 
 he was a doctor, I think says, ' Here it is!' pointing to 
 one of the coffins. He took the light and held it close, 
 and you could read, 'King Charles, 1048' I think that 
 was the date, or something near it. Then the prince says 
 to my master, 'Open the coffin, and be very careful how 
 you do it;' and him and me did it, and we raised the lid, 
 and there was a startler, I assure you! You know them 
 pictures of King Charles in the castle? Well, sir, they
 
 254 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 are good likenesses, I can tell you ; for there he was the 
 beard on the chin and the mustaches, just as he is drawn. 
 One eye was wide open, but the other was gone; his face 
 was just like life, only very brown; and round the throat 
 there was a piece of black ribbon. 'Now take out the 
 head,' said the prince, and ray master took hold of it, but 
 he seemed frightened, for his hands shook, and, just as the 
 prince said, 'Look! the eye is going' (and so it was, for it 
 turned to dust as we was looking), master's hand shook 
 so that the head slipped through his fingers on to the 
 ground ; he said it had become so greasy he couldn't hold 
 it. The prince was angry, and blew master up, and told 
 one of the gentlemen to put it back in the coffin which 
 was done and then they all went away, leaving us to 
 close up the coffin. We was tidying up, when master 
 said, 'Why, here is a bit of him!' and he picked up from 
 the floor, where the head had fallen, a piece of flesh from 
 the neck, and gave it to me for a keepsake. So I kept it 
 ever since; and you may take your oath wherever you like 
 that you have seen a part of the body of Charles I." 
 
 When the marriage pictui'e was finished I was honored 
 by a visit from the queen at my house in Pembridge Vil- 
 las. Her majesty showed me the kindness she displays to 
 all artists; and, though I was conscious of the many short- 
 comings of the picture, and quite aware that they could not 
 escape her eyes, she found little or no fault, and left me 
 under the impression that I had succeeded as well as could 
 be expected, considering the great difficulties of the task. 
 
 The picture went to the Exhibition of 18G5, and, from 
 the nature of the subject, was very attractive. After try- 
 ing the policeman, who failed to keep the crowd at a prop- 
 er distance from the picture, an iron rail was again found 
 necessary, and after a fight adopted.
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 THE GREAT ACTORS OF MY YOUTH. 
 
 IK reading Evelyn's delightful "Diary"! had been 
 struck by a description of a scene at the old palace at 
 Whitehall then occupied by Charles II. and his court 
 where debauchery of all kinds, and gambling in particular, 
 were pretty generally practised. Evelyn describes a visit 
 of himself and two friends to the palace, on the Sunday 
 evening preceding the death of the king, in the following 
 words : 
 
 " I can never forget the inexpressible luxury and pro- 
 faneness, gaming, and all dissoluteness, and, as it were, 
 total forgetfulness of God (it being Sunday evening) which 
 this day se'nnight I was witness of. The king sitting and 
 toying with his concubines Cleveland, Portsmouth, and 
 Mazarin; a French boy singing love-songs in that glorious 
 gallery; while about twenty of the greater courtiers and 
 other dissolute persons were at basset round a large table 
 a bank of at least two thousand pounds in gold before 
 them upon which two gentlemen who were with me made 
 reflections with astonishment. Six days after was all in 
 the dust!" 
 
 This was a splendid subject for a picture; but I should 
 have preferred to have carried out my agreement with Mr. 
 Gambart for the "Streets of London," and much regret 
 now that I did not do so. I fancied that gentleman had 
 grown cool on the subject of the "Streets;" and when I 
 showed him the sketch for "Charles II. 's Last Sunday," 
 he expressed himself so warmly in favor of it in preference 
 to the "Streets" that I accepted a commission from him 
 for three thousand guineas, and at the same time consented 
 to cancel our agreement for the more extensive and ex- 
 pensive subject of the " London Streets."
 
 256 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 Bad times have come upon us, and those pictures are, 
 and ever will be, in the air a matter of everlasting regret 
 to me, from my conviction that my reputation will rest 
 on the pictures I have painted from the life ahout me. ; 
 
 Before the picture of Charles had advanced far it 
 changed hands, and became the property of Mr. Matthews, 
 with whom it still remains, surrounded by most admirable 
 specimens of the best artists of the day. It was during 
 the progress of this picture that I received a very gratify- 
 ing acknowledgment of supposed merit in the shape of the 
 Belgian Order of Leopold, conferred on me on the occa- 
 sion of the exhibition in Brussels of the picture of " Rams- 
 gate Sands," kindly lent by the queen. I had several 
 English rivals, who were naturally sore at being passed 
 over in my favor; one of them being in excellent odor 
 with the gentleman who did the art criticism in the Athe- 
 nceum, and who, in noticing the exhibition at Brussels, was 
 so kind as to announce that the decoration of the Order of 
 Leopold was given to my picture, not because of its merits, 
 but because it happened to belong to the queen; whereas, 
 if merit had been the guide, the honor must have fallen 
 on other shoulders. On reading this I thought it well to 
 ascertain if these pleasant remarks had any foundation in 
 truth, or whether, as I felt pretty certain, they were the 
 outcome of the disappointment of the critic and his friend. 
 I accordingly wrote to the Belgian official responsible in 
 the matter, telling him that if what the Athenaeum stated 
 was the truth I should return the order. Here is his reply: 
 
 " BRUXEI.LES, le 7 e Novembre, 1866. 
 
 " MONSIEUR, M. le Ministre de 1'Interieur me charge d'avoir 1'honneur 
 de repondre a la lettre que vous lui ave/ fait parvenir le 5 de ce mois. 
 
 " C'est a la suite d'une proposition emanant du Jury des recompenses de 
 1'Exposition gcn6rale des Beaux-Arts de 1866, qu'une distinction honori- 
 fique vous a etc conferee par le Gouvernement du Roi. 
 
 " Je vous prie de croire, Monsieur, que dans 1'espece, la consideration du 
 merite des oeuvres envoyees a nos expositions est la seule raison detcr- 
 minante tant des propositions des Jury's, que des decisions que le Gouverne- 
 ment prend ensuite. 
 
 " Pour ce qui vous concerne personnellement, je me plais a ajouter que 
 le succes public a confirm6 pleinement la sanction officielle qui a 6te ac- 
 cordee a votre talent.
 
 THE GREAT ACTORS OF MY YOUTH. 257 
 
 " Je me fa is done un devoir de joindrc mes felicitations & celles qui vous 
 ont dejA et6 adressees par M. le Ministre de 1'Interieur, et je saisis cctte 
 occasion pour vous offrir 1'assurance de mes sentiments lea plus distinguee. 
 " L'Inspecteur des Beauxc-Art, 
 
 "AD. TIN SOCST DK BORKEXFELDT. 
 
 "A Monsieur W. P. Frith, 
 
 " Artiste peintrc & Londrcs." 
 
 On receiving this expected and satisfactory confirmation 
 of my opinion of the Athenceum critic, I wrote to the 
 Times complaining of his conduct, and placing it in such 
 a light as I should have thought would have produced a 
 retractation and an apology. But no, the Athenaeum main- 
 tained silence under proofs of a charge that would have 
 been thought disgraceful by any respectable writer. 
 
 To return to Charles I., after much searching I found a 
 man curiously like the king. He seemed in feeble health, 
 but without any sign of fatal illness upon him; but, strange 
 to say, he sat to me for the last time one Sunday, and be- 
 fore "that day se'nnight all was in the dust" with him as 
 with his royal prototype. Yet another and a sadder death 
 I have to record, that of my old and dear friend John Phil- 
 lip, which began in my studio in front of my picture of 
 Charles, which he had come to criticise. He had been 
 long ailing, but on the day of his visit to me he seemed in 
 unusual health and spirits. He had just told me the story 
 of Disraeli and his " pallor" (related in the previous chap- 
 ter), when he suddenly rubbed his hands furiously, and 
 exclaimed: 
 
 " What is this ? what can be the matter ?" He then 
 staggered and fell into a chair, and said, " I hope to God 
 this is not paralysis !" 
 
 "Nonsense!" said I; "don't frighten yourself 'tis but 
 a bad attack of pins and needles," as he continued rubbing 
 his hands. 
 
 But in an instant his face changed, was drawn terribly 
 on one side, and his utterance became thick and unintel- 
 ligible like that of a drunken man. I sent for a doctor, to 
 whom, when he appeared, Phillip said: 
 
 "This is very strange what is the matter with me?" 
 
 The doctor said nothing for a moment. Then finding, 
 on his direction to the poor fellow to move his left leg,
 
 258 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 that he had lost all power over it, he shook his head, and 
 told me to send for a conveyance and get the dying painter 
 home as soon as possible. My dear old friend lingered for 
 ten days, and then there died one of the greatest painters 
 this country has produced, and one of the noblest and 
 truest-hearted of men. We had been boys together. I 
 regretted him, and regret him still; and right glad I am 
 to find that his son Colin is taking a very high position as 
 a water-color painter, as his admirable works to say noth- 
 ing of his admission into the Old Society of Water-Color 
 Painters sufficiently prove. 
 
 It was the custom, till well into the present century for 
 noblemen to wear their stars on all occasions, and I have 
 heard that certain ribald remarks made by the many- 
 headed on the appearance of these decorated nobles in the 
 streets was the cause of the discontinuance of a practice 
 that fell into desuetude soon after the time when clergy- 
 men ceased to walk about it in their gowns. Knowing 
 this, I thought I might venture to decorate the king, in 
 my picture, with the Order of the Garter. But here came 
 a difficulty, for I was told that the star w r as differently 
 formed to the one now worn. Good-fortune attended my 
 inquiries, for I found that the actual " George " that was 
 given by Charles I. to Bishop Juxon on the scaffold with 
 the word "Remember" was in existence, and in the pos- 
 session of the Duke of Sutherland, who had inherited it 
 from his father, to whom it had been presented by 
 George IV. Cardinal York, the last of the Stuarts, had 
 bequeathed the order to the king. 
 
 I applied to the Duke of Sutherland, who kindly lent 
 me the jewel, and my " Charles " now wears the order that 
 very possibly decorated the real man on the occasion rep- 
 resented in the picture; for it has been conjectured, 
 plausibly I think, that the bishop was to " remember " to 
 give the order to the Prince of Wales, to whom it may 
 have been consigned, in spite of Cromwell and his myr- 
 midons. 
 
 My picture represents nearly a year's incessant work, 
 and my diary shows constant evidence of a settled convic- 
 tion of its success. It was my custom, the first day of the
 
 THE GREAT ACTORS OF MY YOUTH. 259 
 
 year, to express my opinion of my work and my anticipa- 
 tion of the result of it, so as to be able to test the truth 
 or falseness of my judgment. Of course, I was often de- 
 ceived, but the practice is one I would recommend to the 
 young painter, as it may prove both a safeguard against 
 unwarranted enthusiasm and an encouragement in mo- 
 ments of depression. As an example I quote from the 
 diary of 1867, the year of the completion and exhibition 
 of " Charles II.": 
 
 "I find in my last diary that the year '66 began big 
 with the conviction that I was about another, and perhaps 
 a greater, success. Time confirms that idea, and this year 
 finds me slowly, but successfully, completing a picture 
 which has been more than a common delight to me. It 
 is not possible to exaggerate (to convey a notion, even, to 
 the uninitiated) the delight that these things are if you 
 can persuade yourself that you are in the right way. I 
 think I am in that direction hence my pleasure; and I 
 can't believe myself to be such a fool as to feel in this 
 way without good foundation for my feelings. We shall 
 see. Once more work on steadily, faithfully, trustingly, 
 hopefully to the end." 
 
 I recommend the last paragraph to the attention of the 
 student. When the picture went to the exhibition I find 
 I wrote : 
 
 "Picture left, and joy go with it. Of course, alas! it 
 is inferior to the old masters in every quality. It is a 
 good thing as times go. We shall see. I am very likely 
 wrong." 
 
 I have spoken in a previous page of the terrible sensa- 
 tion that thrills the wretched painter on the first sight of 
 a picture on the walls of the Academy. Here is a true 
 and faithful account of mine on the occasion of "Charles 
 II. 's" appearance in Trafalgar Square: 
 
 "First sight of 'Charles' in the exhibition, and never 
 shall I forget it. The picture looked brown and dingy, 
 scarcely recognizable, all the bright colors gone. I 
 wretched in the extreme; couldn't sleep; still all seemed 
 pleased with it." 
 
 The after-success of the picture may show the young
 
 260 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 painter how little faith he may place upon his first impres- 
 sions of his work in a modern exhibition a success, in- 
 deed, that resulted in the necessity of placing a rail round 
 the picture. One more quotation from the inevitable 
 diary, and I have done with it and the " Charles" picture. 
 
 " Monday, June 4, '67. To R.A., where I find a rail 
 round the ' Charles,' to my great surprise and pleasure. 
 This is the third rail round my work in the exhibition 
 first the * Derby Day,' then the 'Roval Marriage,' and now 
 'The Last Sunday of Charles II.' Eureka !" 
 
 With the great actors of my youth I had no personal 
 acquaintance; but with those who have appeared within 
 the last thirty years I have been on more or less intimate 
 terms. Fechter was a frequent guest at Pembridge Villas. 
 He had a taste for sculpture, and some proficiency in the 
 practice of it. John Parry would have been as great as a 
 painter as he was in his own inimitable performances, if 
 he had devoted himself to the practice of painting with 
 the assiduity that he bestowed on his own art. Some of 
 those who may read these lines may remember " Mr. Rose- 
 leaf's Evening Party " that extraordinary scene in which 
 the great mimic made his audience see a whole roomful of 
 people by simulation, and little tricks of expression and 
 movement impossible to describe or to be repeated by 
 another. The whole of the scene was constructed in my 
 studio, and performed for the first time in the drawing- 
 room. With Compton, the best actor of the minor Shake- 
 spearian characters, I was well acquainted. The man I 
 knew best, and with whom I had most sympathy, was the 
 American actor, Jefferson, whose performance of "Rip 
 Van Winkle " can never be forgotten. Out of his art, he 
 was a highly-cultivated man. He, too, would have been a 
 good painter if he had gone the right way of becoming 
 one. As it was (and perhaps as it is, for the admirable 
 artist is still living and acting in America), his practice of 
 painting a picture every morning is not conducive to the 
 long-sustained effort necessary for the production of works 
 of art. Jefferson shrank from the study of details. His 
 ideas were poetic; but his pictures were painted without 
 reference to nature, and consequently they were but
 
 T11E GREAT ACTOBS OF MY YOUTII. 261 
 
 dreams beautiful often, but unreal and unsubstantial as 
 dreams. 
 
 I think it was about the year 1866 that Sothern, with 
 "Lord Dundreary," burst upon the town and took it by 
 storm. The popularity of the actor was very great. I 
 sought his acquaintance and painted his portrait, which is 
 now, I believe, in New York. Sothern was a very amus- 
 ing companion, but given to practical joking to an extent 
 that approached mania. He was also a pretended believer 
 in spirit-rapping, and as great a performer at table-rap- 
 ping as he was on the stage ; and I am ashamed to say I 
 assisted him in some of his deceptions, and my friend 
 Henry Tawell was as wicked as ourselves in that particu- 
 lar, as what I am going to relate will prove. 
 
 Sothern gave a great dinner, at which two young lords, 
 whose names I suppress, were guests, with many others, 
 all more or less believers. The drawing-room at Sothern's 
 was a long room it appeared to be two rooms flung into 
 one at one end of which, after dinner, Tawell was thrown 
 by the actor into a mesmeric trance, in which he gave ac- 
 curate descriptions of the interior of some of the guests' 
 houses, to their utter amazement. I was far from the two 
 criminals at the other end of the room, and close to the 
 two lords, who were looking and listening with faces that 
 spoke faith and wonder. 
 
 "This must be some trick," said I. "The man cannot 
 possibly describe what he has never seen." 
 
 " It is very wonderful," said Lord H . 
 
 " Anyway, let us test him. If he can describe my stu- 
 dio, and tell me the name of the man who sat for me yes- 
 terday (one of our models), I will believe in him." 
 
 " Ah, if he can do that now, it will be extraordinary in- 
 deed," said Lord II . 
 
 "On second thoughts," I said, "I shouldn't think much 
 of his description of the room, because all artists' studios 
 arc much alike ; but if he names the model I will believe." 
 
 " Well, try him," said my lord. 
 
 " No," said I, " you put it to him." 
 
 At the moment Tawell was lying back in an exhausted 
 condition, Sothern standing by him.
 
 262 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND BEMINISCENCES. 
 
 Said Lord H , " Can the gentleman describe Mr. 
 
 Frith's studio, and name the man who sat for him yester- 
 day?" 
 
 Sothern made several passes, and they produced a slow, 
 but accurate, description of the painting-room. 
 
 " Is that right ?" said my lord. 
 
 " Yes," said I ; " but he can't name the model. It is 
 
 impossible. The name is " (in a whisper to Lord H ) 
 
 " Barrel." 
 
 " Frith says the room is right, but how about the model 
 can he tell us the name ?" 
 
 Tawell was very exhausted. Sothern tried passes, some- 
 times slowly, sometimes rapidly, but the medium gave no 
 sound. At last the operator said, 
 
 " I fear my friend is too exhausted." 
 
 " There," said I, " I told you the whole thing is hum- 
 bug." 
 
 "Wait," we heard Sothern say, as he leaned his ear 
 close to Tawell. "Can you name the man who sat to 
 Frith yesterday?" 
 
 Tawell muttered something we could not hear. Sothern, 
 with his ear still closer to Tawell, said, 
 
 " What ? Can't you speak a little louder ?" 
 
 Some more passes and the mesmerized man seemed to 
 be revived into sudden strength again, and in a clear voice 
 said, " Barrel." 
 
 I think I acted my astonishment very well, and I am 
 quite sure the young lords turned as white as ghosts : the 
 idea that the whole thing was prearranged before dinner 
 never entered their minds. I believe both those gentle- 
 men are still living, and if by chance they should read 
 these lines they will know how it was that Tawell knew 
 " who sat for Frith yesterday." 
 
 A Mrs. Marshall was a celebrated medium. She was 
 generally accompanied by a young woman she called her 
 niece when she gave or, rather, sold her services at dif- 
 ferent houses. At one of her performances I was present, 
 and some strange tricks were played. This time I was 
 not a confederate, but a pretended believer, and one of a 
 largo party sitting round a table at a friend's house. There
 
 TUB GREAT ACTORS OF MY YOUTH. 263 
 
 were some ladies who wore large crinolines ; and when the 
 younger Marshall put a candle under the table to enable 
 the spirit to sec to put some coins into a tumbler which 
 was placed there for the purpose, after hearing one or two 
 pieces of money dropped into the glass, I, without really 
 wishing to discover anything of the trick, looked beneath 
 the table to see if the candle was at a safe distance from 
 the crinolines, when I saw the younger cheat moving the 
 coins with her feet towards the tumbler. She had put off 
 her slippers, and her naked toes were apparent as she used 
 them like fingers, and with extraordinary cleverness, for 
 among the coins was a fourpenny-piecc a difficult thing 
 to move about with one's toes. 
 
 Mrs. Marshall gave seances at her own house to all and 
 sundry who were willing to pay five shillings for the 
 amusement, and Sothern, hearing of the elderly medium, 
 went with a friend Toole, I think it was paid his five 
 shillings, and gravely took his place at the table. He be- 
 came greatly awe-stricken at the various manifestations. 
 His excitement and terror became very serious, and at last 
 culminated in a convulsive fit. He foamed at the mouth 
 (by the help of a piece of soap), rolled on the ground, and 
 bit the old woman in the leg. 
 
 A more serious and less defensible practical joke was 
 played by Sothern in the following manner. lie was act- 
 ing in a piece the name of which he mentioned when he 
 told me the story, but I forget it when he noticed a lady 
 and gentleman sitting alone in the stage-box. The lady 
 was handsome. The gentleman, somewhat her senior, sel- 
 dom spoke to his companion ; indeed, they appeared an 
 ill-assorted couple. Sothern's familiar demon was in full 
 power, and when in the course of the play he had to quit 
 the stage for a time, he wrote a note and sent it to the 
 lady, containing, as well as I can recollect, these words: 
 
 " Beloved one ! Now and ever beloved ! Can it be 
 true that you are married ? Is the man with you your 
 husband? Little dreamed I when I came to the theatre 
 that I should see one so inexpressibly dear to me in the 
 possession of another. Can he know can you have for- 
 gotten all that has passed between us ? I dare not sigu
 
 264 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 this with my name. You know it, and I implore you to 
 let me see you once more, and hear from your own lips 
 that you are lost to me forever. Write to the club, as 
 usual." 
 
 Sothern told me he returned to the stage and continued 
 his part, with an eye on the lady just as she received his 
 note. She read it, or the greater part of it, and hastily 
 thrust it into her pocket. Her saturnine companion in- 
 sisted on seeing it. The lady hesitated, then flatly re- 
 fused. The gentleman persisted and the note was produced. 
 
 "I assure you," said Sothern, "the man's expression 
 would have been a study for you. Talk of looking dag- 
 gers he looked broadswords. I am sorry to say I couldn't 
 hear what he said, but I saw what he did ; he jumped up 
 and rushed out of the box, taking the lady with him, and 
 I saw no more of 'em." 
 
 The above is a pretty clear proof that when the love of 
 practical joking takes possession of a man he may indulge 
 it in a manner that is unjustifiable. Another instance ad- 
 mits of defence. The actor was very fond of marmalade, 
 and had ordered rather a large quantity at a shop. When 
 the marmalade was delivered it was found to be faulty in 
 many respects, and Sothern went to the shop and de- 
 manded back the money he had paid for it. The shop- 
 keeper refused, upon which Sothern put an advertisement 
 in two newspapers, announcing that orange-peel in any 
 quantity that may be found at music-halls, theatres, or at 
 other places of private or public resort where oranges are 
 a favorite fruit, will be purchased at the best price by So- 
 and-So, at their well-known establishment at Blank Place. 
 
 It will surprise no one that practical joking, however 
 agreeable to the performer, is so little satisfactory to the 
 victims of it that an angry feeling is set up, costing the 
 joker many a friend. A notable example of this occurred 
 at Sothern's table on an occasion when, as he said, "he 
 had got them, all into a state of mind to believe any- 
 thing." The spirits were present and very demonstrative, 
 table-movements and spectral effects were plentiful, when 
 the company were surprised by an announcement that 
 the spirit of Sheridan was present, and he would like a
 
 TOE GREAT ACTOES OF MY YOUTH. 265 
 
 glass of wine ! This was too much for Sothern, who ex- 
 claimed, 
 
 "Some one is playing a trick ; we all know Sheridan's 
 habits, but it is absurd to suppose that he retains his pro- 
 pensities in a disembodied condition. I must really ask 
 that no one will attempt to trifle in this way." 
 
 The spirits were again appealed to, and the ghost of 
 Sheridan rapped loudly and angrily, again demanding a 
 glass of wine. 
 
 " Well," said Sothern, " this is very strange," filling a 
 glass full of champagne. " Now, to see that no trick is 
 played, do you," speaking to Tawell, who sat next to him, 
 " place yourself beneath the table, and tell the company 
 what takes place." 
 
 Tawell slipped under the table, Sothern held the wine 
 below, and Tawell drank it. 
 
 The effect on the company when the empty glass ap- 
 peared, and Ta well's frightened face with it, was electric. 
 A chorus of grateful raps from Sheridan closed that scene, 
 leaving the audience in what Sothern called " exactly the 
 right condition for further operations." 
 
 To prove how a friend may be hurt and lost I may add 
 that among the guests was an old friend of Sothern's 
 heretofore a sceptic, but on this occasion an enthusiastic 
 believer who had recently lost his mother. The spirit 
 of the departed was present, and the raps announced that 
 if her son would put his hand beneath the table the hand 
 of the dead would touch it. Near the chair of the actor 
 was some iced water ; his naked toes were plunged into 
 it and applied to the believer's hand for a moment, but 
 long enough to produce a startling effect. Then the vic- 
 tim turned pale, the tears started to his eyes, and he fell 
 back sobbing in his chair. The trick was discovered some 
 time afterwards, and the spiritualist lost his friend and 
 no wonder ! 
 
 Sothern told me a curious circumstance in connection 
 with the play of " The American Cousin," originally pro- 
 duced in New York, the principal part being filled by Jef- 
 ferson, whose admirable acting made it, or was intended 
 to have made it, the chief part of the play. Sothern 
 12
 
 260 MY .AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 then acting in the name of Stewart was cast for the in- 
 significant part of Lord Dundreary, much to his disgust. 
 He had other reasons for dislike to the management, and 
 he now determined to revenge himself by making the 
 foolish lord supremely ridiculous. Among the properties 
 he discovered a preposterous dressing-gown. He practised 
 a way of walking, or, rather, skipping about, unlike the 
 locomotion of any creature out of Bedlam. He invented 
 a drawl equally unnatural, and, armed with these weapons, 
 he hoped to damn the piece. To his utter astonishment, 
 the means he had adopted to ruin the play insured its suc- 
 cess, and from that moment Lord Dundreary became its 
 most attractive character. I saw the play several times 
 in London, and on each occasion the actor varied the part 
 by the introduction of allusions, in a Dundreary spirit, to 
 events of the moment, or in what is called " gagging," to 
 any extent. If he found his gag tell upon the audience 
 he repeated it ; if not he changed it for another. On one 
 occasion he told me that, discovering the young lady in 
 the play immersed in a book, and apparently surprised by 
 its contents, he inquired in Dundreary tones what she was 
 reading. The young lady replied that the book was one of 
 Chinese travels, and the writer asserted that criminals con- 
 demned to death in China could, by a money-payment, pro- 
 cure substitutes who underwent the punishment for them. 
 
 " Can this be true ?" asked the young lady. 
 
 " Perfectly," said Dundreary. " My brother Sam is 
 intimately acquainted with some of the Chinese who get 
 their living by it." 
 
 This, Sothern told me, he thought would have " told " 
 with the audience and I confess I should have thought 
 so too ; but except an old gentleman in the stalls, who 
 let off a laugh like a loud bark, " there was not a smile 
 among them," and the Chinese joke was never repeated. 
 
 I hesitate in any allusion to living people, actors or 
 others. I think I may boast that I have an acquaintance, 
 more or less intimate, with most of the best actors of- the 
 present day, and I have the satisfaction of feeling that I 
 was one of the first to foretell the great fame that has 
 been so deservedly won by my friend Irving ; and, cu-
 
 THE GREAT ACTORS OF MY YOUTH. 267 
 
 riously enough, I may say the same as regards Miss Ellen 
 Terry, in whose performance almost en amateur many 
 years ago, I discovered, or thought I did, germs of the 
 genius since so apparent to all the world. But I feel it 
 is time to return to a less congenial subject, namely, my- 
 self and my own doings, and I find that I am again " in 
 trouble " in respect of subject. 
 
 The remainder of the year 1867 was taken up by the 
 execution of small matters, with the exception of one pict- 
 ure from " She Stoops to Conquer ;" the scene chosen 
 being that in which Mrs. Hardcastle desires her cub of a 
 son to stand back to back with Miss Neville to see which 
 is the taller, a position of which Tony takes advantage 
 to bestow a blow upon the lady's head with his own thick 
 skull, to her discomfiture and his mother's disgust. The 
 picture contains four figures, the third being Mr. Hastings, 
 the lover of Miss Neville. The subject is a good one of 
 its class, but far wide of what I desired to illustrate. The 
 picture was pretty successful, and is now in the collection 
 of Mr. Matthews. This, with a portrait and a small sub- 
 ject from Sterne, occupied me till, on reading, or, rather, 
 rereading, Boswcll's " Johnson," I found a scene that 
 might be sufficiently interesting to repay its reproduc- 
 tion, containing, as it does, so many historical and emi- 
 nent characters. The locality is Boswell's lodgings in 
 Bond Street, and the persons present are Boswell, John- 
 son, Garrick, Murphy, Sir Joshua Reynolds, Goldsmith, 
 and others. The guests are assembled before dinner, wait- 
 ing for one who is, d la Landscer, belated. Boswell asks, 
 " Ought six people to be kept waiting for one?" " Why, 
 yes," replies Johnson, "if the one will suffer more by 
 your sitting down than the six will do by waiting." 
 
 In the interval of waiting, Garrick is described as hold- 
 ing the lapels of Johnson's coat, the sage looking down 
 upon him with tender interest. As there was nearly the 
 difference of a foot in the height of the two men, John- 
 son must have regarded the actor from a physical as well 
 as a moral elevation sufficiently striking, and though I 
 took especial pains to ascertain the precise height of the 
 two figures, and placed them on the canvas in their true
 
 268 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND EEMINISCENCES. 
 
 relation to each other, I was told by a critic who had, most 
 probably, never given two thoughts to the matter, that 
 " Johnson was too tall." Boswell sat with watch in hand, 
 while Goldsmith posed before the mirror in all the splen- 
 dor of the celebrated plum-colored coat. Now came the 
 dreadful model grievance the real people were gone, and 
 the substitutes difficult, in some cases impossible, to ob- 
 tain. Excellent authorities in the way of busts and por- 
 traits were plentiful, but to find any one with the least 
 resemblance to Garrick or Johnson was a puzzle indeed. 
 Nollekens' portrait-bust of Johnson was of great service ; 
 it is full of character, and evidently a striking likeness, 
 but much damaged by a flowing head of hair an orna- 
 ment impossible to Johnson or anybody else who habitu- 
 ally wore a wig. Johnson remonstrated with the sculp- 
 tor, and insisted that not only should the wig have been 
 represented, but the coat and neckcloth also, instead of 
 the flowing locks and a sort of towel or other drapery 
 encircling the neck, according to the classic taste of the 
 day. I think the Doctor was right, but Nollekens did 
 not, and positively refused to make the change, for sev- 
 eral reasons; one being that " he had paid a man eighteen- 
 pence to sit for the hair, and he was not going to that ex- 
 pense for nothing." Nollekens was a miser, and in other 
 respects an oddity. Mulready, who remembered calling 
 on him to express his acknowledgment for a vote that the 
 sculptor may, or may not, have given him, on his election 
 as an associate, described the sculptor and his workshop 
 to me the former as a little thin-lipped, mean-looking 
 creature ; the latter as filled with casts of admirable qual- 
 ity. Among them Nollekens showed the young painter 
 a bust, or " busto," as he called it, of Yorick, otherwise 
 Sterne. 
 
 " Yes, that's Yorick's busto that I done (sic) in Rome. 
 And that oh, that's just a bit of accidental natur," al- 
 luding to a lovely female figure which had attracted Mul- 
 ready's admiration. 
 
 Pictures were picturs and nature was natur in the Nol- 
 lekens times. I don't suppose Reynolds ever said picture 
 in his life.
 
 THE GREAT ACTORS OP MY YOUTH. 269 
 
 Landseer had a story of Nollekens worth repeating. 
 George IV., when Prince of Wales, sat to Nollekens for 
 his bust, which was being finished, in marble. The sculp- 
 tor was working close to his model, when a little marble- 
 dust found its way to the collar of the prince's coat. Nol- 
 lekens blew it off, and in the same breath said to the 
 prince: 
 
 " How's your father?" 
 
 The king was just recovering from a long illness. 
 
 " Thank you, Mr. Nollekens, he is much better." 
 
 "Ah! that's all right!" said Nollekens. "It would 
 be a sad thing if he was to die, for we shall never have 
 another king like him." 
 
 " Thank you," said the prince. 
 
 "Ah, sir ! you may depend upon that." 
 
 But I am drifting away from my picture and the diffi- 
 culties of it. After many trials from a variety of models, 
 I succeeded in getting a tolerable resemblance to the 
 various personages, as we know them from prints and 
 pictures, and it was not till after the picture was in the 
 exhibition, unfortunately, that I found I might have se- 
 cured an excellent model for Garrick. And thus the mat- 
 ter fell out : My friend Mr. Cundall, the manager of the 
 Stafford Place branch of the London and Westminster 
 Bank, received a visit from a stranger on a matter of busi- 
 ness connected with the bank. The moment the gentle- 
 man entered the manager's private room his extraordi- 
 nary resemblance to Garrick so struck Cundall that my 
 picture instantly came into his mind, together with a re- 
 gret that it was too late for me to avail myself of so valr 
 able a model. After some talk, the business, whatever it 
 may have been, was concluded, and it was necessary for 
 the stranger to give his name, and the manager's surprise 
 may be imagined when he found it was Garrick. His 
 astonishment was so evident that Mr. Garrick asked the 
 cause of it. This was explained, when the stranger said: 
 
 " Well, the likeness is easily accounted for, for my 
 grandfather was Garrick's brother." 
 
 The female element, considered justly an important fac- 
 tor in all pictures, was conspicuous by its absence from
 
 270 MY AUTOBIOGBAPHY AND EEMINISCENCES. 
 
 the company assembled at Boswell's lodgings in Bond 
 Street, or only on evidence in the form of a pretty servant- 
 girl, who was represented as announcing the late arrival. 
 I think I may boast that having painted so many pretty 
 women, I had acquired a reputation for the feat, and it 
 was a great objection to the "Garrick" picture, both on 
 my own part and that of my friends, that the conditions 
 of the subject debarred me from the advantage that the 
 introduction of the most charming portion of humanity 
 would have afforded me. Many were the predictions that 
 the picture " would never sell," a feeling strongly shared 
 by Mr. Agnew, who bought it from me for, I think, twelve 
 hundred pounds. 
 
 "It is a capital picture!" said that eminent authority; 
 " but we shall have to keep it, Frith." 
 
 That "you should never prophesy unless you know," 
 was very fully proved in this case, for the picture changed 
 hands at the private view, and became the property of 
 Mr. Mendell, of Manchester, at whose death, some years 
 afterwards, the picture was sold at Christie's for four 
 thousand five hundred and sixty-seven pounds ten shil- 
 lings, being the largest price that had been paid for the 
 work of a living artist at that time.
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 "THE SALON D'O B." 
 
 IN the Exhibition of 1868 I was represented by five 
 pictures, namely, the scene from Goldsmith's " She Stoops 
 to Conquer," the "Johnson and Garrick" subject, and 
 three minor works, one of which represented Sterne's 
 " Maria," so pathetically described in the pages of that 
 writer, sitting, with wandering mind, " a look of wistful 
 disorder," her flageolet in her hand, and her goat by her 
 side. Never shall I forget that goat! It was fortunate 
 that I got a strong man to hold it; fortunate, also, that 
 my picture was not destroyed, and myself injured. For 
 the animal violently objected to being painted: it knocked 
 the man over, and butted him as he lay upon the floor; 
 then turned its attention to me, and endeavored to treat 
 me in the same way. I received its first charge on my 
 mahl-stick, which snapped in my defence. My assistant 
 recaptured the brute just as my easel, fortunately a very 
 strong one, was made the means of experiment to try 
 whether the goat's head or the mahogany was the harder; 
 and again he or she, I think it was (females are generally 
 vicious -female goats, I mean) was seized by the horns, 
 and her head bent towards the floor. And now began 
 a series of struggles in which man and goat were mixed 
 together like the Old Guard and our soldiers at Waterloo. 
 For one moment the man had the best of it, and the goat 
 was quiet; then, watching its opportunity, a violent plunge 
 was made, and the man seemed to fly towards the ceil- 
 ing, then down on his back again, and the butting recom- 
 menced. 
 
 It was now necessary to get more assistance, and I sent 
 for one of my sons, a sturdy lad, who delighted in the 
 business. After that we got or better, and I succeeded
 
 272 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AXD BEMINISCENCES. 
 
 in painting an animal which, strange to say, is not unlike 
 a goat. 
 
 The picture of Sterne's "Maria" is now in the posses- 
 sion of one of the brothers Burnand. The two Burnands 
 are specimens of the very best kind of picture-collectors ; 
 men of great taste and judgment though they certainly 
 admired and sometimes bought my pictures : " Nemo mor- 
 talium omnibus horis sapit " ('tis long since I showed my 
 classical knowledge); men who collected works of art 
 from love of them, and of exceptional liberality, and with- 
 out a thought of the mercantile element which so often 
 guides the picture-buyer. Both these gentlemen pos- 
 sessed, and, I am happy to say, still possess, admirable 
 specimens of many of our best artists. 
 
 The model for "Maria" was a pretty, gentle creature, 
 who had a history. She sat to me many times for many 
 pictures; and it was her sad expression as much as her 
 beauty that suggested " Maria " to me, and induced me to 
 try the subject. I drew from her reluctantly on her side 
 something of her history. Her superiority to an ordi- 
 nary model was apparent in many ways; her manner and 
 address were ladylike, and her grammar never caused a 
 shudder. I knew of her mother as being " one who had 
 seen better days," but was not aware that my model pos- 
 sessed a husband, until one day when, seeing palpable evi- 
 dence of recent tears, and, among other distressing symp- 
 toms, something very like the mark of a recent blow, she 
 told me she had been married for some time, and to a 
 wretch who treated her with brutality. The man sought 
 her acquaintance (he was a journeyman something or 
 other, with a tolerable education), and, finding she was a 
 Sunday-school teacher, he professed an ardent desire to 
 join in the good work. She reluctantly consented to his 
 seeing her home, and making the acquaintance of her moth- 
 er, who very soon saw through the man, and cautioned her 
 daughter against him. But the fellow was clever enough 
 to find out the girl's weaknesses and pander to them. He 
 was very assiduous at the Sunday-school, affected a vener- 
 ation for religion and its observances, praised her beauty 
 and helped her to adorn it in short, won her heart and
 
 "THE SALOX D'OR." 273 
 
 her consent to marry him. This last fatal step, in spite 
 of her mother's entreaties, she persisted in taking, and 
 within a month afterwards the hypocrite dropped his 
 mask, ridiculed the religion in which she sincerely be- 
 lieved, deserted her for others, came home occasionally 
 mad-drunk, beat her, and would soon have killed her if 
 she had not taken advice and left him. She hid herself 
 successfully for some time, when, on coming to me one 
 day to sit, I saw, before she spoke, that her retreat had 
 been discovered. The man demanded money, and got it, 
 but left her otherwise undisturbed. He informed her, 
 with coarse language, that she needn't fear his wanting to 
 live with her again, he had had enough of her and her 
 tempers; but so long as she earned money he didn't care 
 how he intended to have a share of it. 
 
 Soon after this my lovely "Maria" disappeared more 
 effectually from my knowledge than she had done from 
 her husband's. I regretted her loss, and made many una- 
 vailing inquiries after her all in vain. I never saw her 
 again but once, and then she was lounging in a splendid 
 carriage, with some children, which, from the hasty glance 
 I had of them, seemed greatly to resemble herself ; but 
 whether her husband is dead and she is married again, or 
 whether she is not married again and her husband is not 
 dead, this deponent knoweth not; but he heartily wishes 
 her well wherever or whatever she may be only remind- 
 ing her that she has been rather late in coming to keep an 
 appointment to enable him to finish a head begun nearly 
 twenty years ago. 
 
 This dilatoriness reminds me of a story told of a sailor 
 who took the opportunity of deserting from his ship on 
 the occasion of his being sent ashore at some island to 
 fetch some fruit for his captain. Fifteen years afterwards 
 the sailor was looking into a print-shop in London, and, 
 turning away to resume his walk, he found himself face to 
 face with his deserted captain. After a look of mutual 
 recognition and astonishment, mixed, on the sailor's part, 
 with a considerable portion of alarm, the captain merely 
 remarked, " You have been a long time getting that 
 fruit !" 
 12*
 
 274 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 My first sight of Boswell and his friends on the Acad- 
 emy walls shocked me as usual. My diary says : 
 
 " To the R.A. Pictures well placed, and looking well 
 all but Johnson, which is hung too low, and looks 
 dingy." 
 
 Dingy though it seemed to me, it was much approved, 
 to my surprise; and, to this moment, I cannot account for 
 its success, nor for the ridiculous price that was afterwards 
 paid for it. 
 
 I suppose few people in public positions escape the cow- 
 ardly pest of anonymous letters. Dickens told me that 
 he received so many as to produce a habit of never read- 
 ing any letter till he first ascertained if there was a name 
 at the bottom of it. If the missive was unsigned, into 
 the fire it went. I never was favored in that way but 
 once when the " Boswell " picture was exhibited. I think 
 the epistle emanated from a disappointed artist, for there 
 was an ass's head on it very well drawn, and between the 
 donkey's ears were my initials, " W.P.F." 
 
 " That's what you are," said the author ; " and the 
 sooner you go to school again, and learn to draw, the bet- 
 ter it will be for the exhibition, as you will not disgrace 
 it as you do now." 
 
 It was my habit in those days to read the " art criti- 
 cisms " in the papers, and, as the unfavorable ones were 
 always sent to me, I had a good deal of reading. In one 
 journal (the Saturday Review, I think) one of my larger 
 pictures was severely handled. The paper was sent to 
 me with the most scathing remarks underlined in lead- 
 pencil; with pencilled remarks in the margin calling my 
 attention to the critic's observations in such phrases as : 
 
 " There you've got it !" " How do you like that ?" 
 " That's a nasty one, ain't it?" and so on. 
 
 I dare, say many such playful attacks have been made 
 upon me since. If so, I hereby advertise the performers 
 that they may save themselves trouble ; for, as I have said 
 before, I never read a word of art criticism, either about 
 myself or others. 
 
 My next venture was in the field of " modern life." I do 
 not remember the subject of it with satisfaction, or write
 
 "THE SALON D'OB." 275 
 
 about it with pleasure; though I and my friends thought 
 well of it at the time of its conception. My idea was to rep- 
 resent two scenes (a double picture). In the first, a young 
 gentleman is asking an elderly one for his consent to a mar- 
 riage with his daughter. In the second, the young lady 
 is waiting sympathetically supported by her mother 
 in great trepidation for the result of the interview. The 
 pictures were placed in one frame, and called " Hope " 
 and " Fear." I cannot say they were successful the sub- 
 ject was considered to belong to the " namby-pamby " 
 school with considerable justice, I fear. They found a 
 
 purchaser, however, in a Mr. X , who was a great 
 
 lover of art, without being much acquainted with its mys- 
 teries. He was a very hospitable, pleasant gentleman, 
 with a charming country-house to which I paid several 
 
 visits. Mr. X had a habit of thinking aloud, which 
 
 (like a similar propensity in Lord Dudley and Ward) was 
 often the cause of amusement and embarrassment to his 
 friends and himself. 
 
 On one of my visits from Saturday to Monday, I went 
 
 to church with my host. X 's house was some mile 
 
 and a half from his place of worship, and he drove me 
 there in a double-bodied kind of phaeton the front seat 
 made to hold two persons, with a smaller seat behind for 
 a servant. We had reached within half a mile of the 
 church, when a lady was seen walking along the road. 
 
 " Confound it !" said X (to himself, as he imagined), 
 
 " that's Mrs. Smith. It will never do to pass her. The 
 man must drive her to church confound her !" Then to 
 me : " You see that lady walking along there ? She is a 
 particular friend of ours, and evidently going to church. 
 I think we must offer her the carriage. Would you mind 
 walking the rest of the way ?" 
 
 " On the contrary," said I, " I should like it." 
 
 Almost as I spoke the carriage stopped by the lady's 
 side. The usual " She would, and she would not," took 
 place, ending in Mrs. Smith seating herself by the groom's 
 
 side, and being carefully wrapped up by Mr. X in a 
 
 fur rug. As X was tenderly covering up the lady's 
 
 knees, he said :
 
 276 MY AUTOBIOGEAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 " Sha'n't take her back, though. She is as well able to 
 walk as we are." 
 
 Fortunately Mrs. Smith was well acquainted with 
 
 X 's infirmity. She smiled an acknowledgment of 
 
 his politeness; and she certainly walked home. 
 
 On another occasion, a large and distinguished company 
 
 was assembled in X 's drawing-room, after one of the 
 
 sumptuous dinners for which he was celebrated. The walls 
 were covered with pictures, the merits of which were free- 
 ly discussed by the guests. I saw X , with one of his 
 
 guests, discussing the qualities of a picture, as was evi- 
 dent by frequent pointing on the part of the connoisseur to 
 portions of the work. 
 
 The guest had to catch a train; and he had no sooner 
 left the room than, in the midst of a momentary stillness, 
 
 X exclaimed, in a loud voice, " I don't care a d n 
 
 what he thinks !" Then, to me, " Frith, do you think 
 there is a want of breadth throughout this picture ? My 
 friend So-and-So says it is dreadfully ' cut up.' " 
 
 I may here relate another instance of thinking aloud 
 that was told me by Vice-chancellor Wigram : 
 
 Sir James Wigram was a guest at one of the state balls 
 given in the days of William IV., and during the evening 
 he found himself close to Queen Adelaide, who was in 
 conversation with Lord Dudley and Ward. The queen 
 had evidently been pestered with questions, and was in an 
 irritable state a condition, I believe, not uncommon with 
 her. Just as Wigram reached the pair, Lord Dudley 
 asked a question. "I have answered that question twice 
 already," said the queen. 
 
 " D n her ! so she has !" thought Lord Dudley, and 
 said it aloud. 
 
 As the pictures of " Hope " and " Fear " progressed I 
 was beset with doubts of their success. My diary says, on 
 the 29th of July: "Upper part of mother's dress worked 
 miserably; doubtful of these subjects; they are weak, I 
 fear." I think the pictures were sold separately eventually 
 a sure sign of failure; for if a story is well told, and of 
 sufficient interest in a series of pictures as in Hogarth, for 
 instance no one would dream of selling them separately.
 
 "THE SALON D'OR." 277 
 
 About this time an exhibition took place at York. A 
 copy, on a small scale, of the Great Exhibition of 1851; 
 pictures, chiefly old masters, playing a prominent part in 
 it. And never was the ignorance of the public in general, 
 and of the owners of the pictures in particular, more ludi- 
 crously displayed. 
 
 A London doctor had formed a large collection of daubs, 
 to which he had attached great names, in happy ignorance 
 of the special qualities for which the painters were distin- 
 guished. So he had a crucifixion, by Ostade; a comic 
 scene of characters dressed in the costume of the time of 
 George I., by Rubens, and so on. And what was stranger, 
 was the fact that the exhibition authorities had agreed in 
 the estimate of the enormous value of these gems, as ap- 
 praised by their owner, to the extent of paying large 
 sums in the way of insurance. Query would an insur- 
 ance office be compelled to pay for the destruction by fire 
 (a fate richly deserved) of a George III. Rubens, if evi- 
 dence were forthcoming to prove the absurdity of its af- 
 filiation? 
 
 Never was a more assiduous student during the whole 
 of his life than William Etty, R. A. Never, so long as his 
 health lasted, did he miss a single night at the Life School, 
 where his studies from the nude were the wonder and ad- 
 miration of liis fellow-students, young and old. Well do I 
 remember the last he made at Somerset House. It was 
 done from a stalwart life-guardsman, and on a pedestal 
 partly supporting the figure was written, " Dulce dulce 
 domiini vale/" 
 
 The Academy migrated to Trafalgar Square in 1837; 
 and there Etty resumed the work that as I heard him 
 say made his life "a long summer's holiday." The 
 journey up-stairs to the pepper-box tried the old man 
 sorely; and many a time did I find him standing, when 
 half-way up the ascent, recovering his breath, and looking 
 enviously if his gentle nature was capable of such a feel- 
 ing at the alert way in which we boys used to slip past 
 him into the school. 
 
 My student-days began in Trafalgar Square, where I 
 was the very first to enter my name in the probationers'
 
 278 MY AUTOBIOGEAPHY AXD REMINISCENCES. 
 
 book, and where, from 1837 to 1869, the most successful, 
 and consequently the happiest, part of my life was spent. 
 
 Apropos of Somerset House, I may relate a story that I 
 heard of the great room there, the scene of the exhibition 
 of all the great English pictures, from Sir Joshua down- 
 wards. Round the walls was a wooden dado of such 
 ancient construction that it had to be removed, and the 
 whole room altered, for the occupation of the new tenants 
 when it was changed into a government office, as it now 
 exists. 
 
 The dado had been so constructed as to leave a narrow 
 space between it and the wall; and, on its removal, great 
 numbers of empty purses, of ancient and modern make, 
 were revealed eloquent of successful pocket-picking and 
 of the cleverness of the thieves in rapidly disposing of 
 recognizable evidence. 
 
 I am sorry to say I cannot give a satisfactory account of 
 my first appearance at Burlington House, where our first ex- 
 hibition took place in 1869. So sure were those in authori- 
 ty that the splendid galleries could not be filled with pre- 
 sentable pictures, that a vacant space w r as left round every 
 exhibit greatly to the advantage of each work, but the 
 cause of the rejection of many meritorious pictures. 
 
 Times change, and w r e with them. That arrangement 
 was never repeated; and at this time, 1887, good works 
 are rejected from want of space. 
 
 My contributions were, besides " Hope " and " Fear," a 
 " Scene from * Don Quixote,' " where the crazy knight 
 finds the damsel Altisidora lying in the arms of a friend, 
 in a pretended faint for love of him; fully believing in 
 the lady's passion, he requests her friend (who declares 
 the love-lorn damsel will not recover while the Don is by) 
 to have a lute placed in his chamber, so that he may com- 
 fort her. 
 
 In my second picture I had an admirable subject, of its 
 class, which I found in a work by Dr. Doran, where 
 Nell Gwynne is described as selling oranges to the gal- 
 lants and their ladies at the King's or the Duke's Theatre, 
 and treating them to many a witty repartee, as well as 
 oranges, in exchange for money and wit, readily offered.
 
 , "THE SALON D'OB." 279 
 
 My other contribution was a portrait of a friend. I 
 changed his broadcloth into steel, and called him " A Man 
 in Armor." The picture proved so strong a likeness that 
 my friend was stopped in the street, questioned in omni- 
 buses, and received other proofs of his identity with the 
 picture, which was, and is, one of my. best. 
 
 I had been so accustomed to compliments on my pict- 
 ures from my brother artists, on the varnishing and pri- 
 vate-view days, that my disappointment was very painful 
 when I found this year's contributions received in silence. 
 What could be the cause ? I could not accuse myself of 
 idleness or carelessness. My feelings may be imagined by 
 the following from my diary: 
 
 " Friday, April 20. Private view never was I so dis- 
 pirited. My pictures don't seem cared for, and I cannot 
 understand it; I suppose I am going wrong." 
 
 The pictures were bought by Messrs. Agnew, and sold 
 again at a profit, I hope; but this I found but a poor con- 
 solation. In endeavoring to discover the causes of compar- 
 ative failure, a proceeding I recommend to the young and 
 thy old painter, a strict survey should be made of the general 
 conduct of work, and a decision arrived at as to whether 
 the best efforts of the painter have been exercised in the 
 production of his less successful pictures. I cannot accuse 
 myself of carelessness, but I think I did too much, for 
 I iind that not only were three elaborate compositions 
 painted in one year, but that I have to credit, or discredit, 
 the year with the " Man in Armor," and also an elaborate 
 little picture from "Twelfth Night," being the scene in 
 which Sir Toby, Maria, Aguecheek, and Fabian arc watch- 
 ing Malvolio as he soliloquizes in the sun. 
 
 My diary says: "Try to do better; get newer subjects 
 all depends on subject." 
 
 The subject difficulty is apparent enough, for I find my- 
 self next employed on the well-worn character of Sir Roger 
 de Coverley and the beautiful widow, a commission from 
 my eccentric friend Mr. X ; and on a still more "used- 
 up" theme, the well-known glove-shop episode in Sterne's 
 " Sentimental Journey." I confess the " Grisette's Pulse" 
 had afforded me a subject for one of my first attempts,
 
 280 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 now to be seen in the Jones Collection at South Kensing- 
 ton. This picture was exhibited at the British Institution, 
 where no one asked the price of it. I then sent it to Bir- 
 mingham, where it was sold for thirty pounds. In due time 
 the picture appeared at Christie's, where it was sold for 
 six hundred guineas. My second treatment of the Sterne 
 was changed, and so was the price I received for it, for, 
 instead of thirty pounds, I received nine hundred from 
 Mr. Coope, in whose collection it still remains. 
 
 It was at this time that the idea seized me of a famous 
 modern-life subject, which I put down in rough pen-and- 
 ink scratches, and afterwards developed into the series 
 called "The Road to Ruin." I had been to Ascot, and 
 been greatly struck by the legalized gambling on that 
 famous race-course, feeling greatly puzzled, like so many 
 of my fellow-creatures, to reconcile with the justice that 
 we are taught to feel should always accompany law, the 
 fact that men may do with impunity in one place what 
 they are severely punished for if they do it in another. If 
 men meet in Hyde Park for the purpose of betting, and 
 are caught in the act, imprisonment will surely follow, 
 though the stakes may only consist of a few shillings. In 
 the Royal Enclosure at Ascot the "curled darlings of the 
 nation " may sacrifice their maternal acres to any extent 
 without the fear of the law. 
 
 I remember asking a man learned in the law to explain 
 this anomaly, and lie acknowledged his inability, at the 
 same time inquiring whether I was aware that there was 
 one law for the rich and another for the poor. 
 
 With a view to the first of " The Road to Ruin" series 
 I went to Cambridge, where I saw a variety of students' 
 rooms, of which photographs were taken; these proved of 
 great service in the carrying-out of the pictures an opera- 
 tion which circumstances caused to be deferred for several 
 years. On a visit to Baden in the year 1843 the gaming- 
 tables were in full blast, and I remember feeling a strong 
 desire to strike out a picture from them; but the subject 
 appeared to me too difficult to be undertaken without 
 much more experience than I had had at that time. 
 When I found that my friend O'Neil was bent on a jour-
 
 "THE SALON D'OR." 281 
 
 ney to Ilomborg, and I found also the tables were to be 
 finally closed in two years from the year I am dealing 
 with 1869 I felt it must be "now or never," if there 
 was a chance for a true representation of the scene to 
 be made. Accordingly to Homburg I travelled, and the 
 following extract from a letter to my sister will give an 
 idea of the first impression made upon me by the gam- 
 blers and their surroundings : 
 
 u My first sight of the clustering crowd round the tables shocked me 
 exceedingly. Instead of the noisy, eager gamblers I expected to see, I 
 found a quiet, business-like, unimpressionable set of people trying to get 
 money without working for it some, perhaps, playing to gratify the ex- 
 citement of the gambling spirit, and indifferent as to the result, but the 
 motive of the majority appeared to me a vulgar greediness after the stakes. 
 Quite time, I thought, that a stop should be put to this, and a stop has been 
 put to it. But how about Ascot? Is England contented to be behind 
 Germany in tolerating an exhibition even more demoralizing than the gam- 
 bling-rooms at llomburg? I confess to a love of gambling, though I 
 deny altogether the disposition to make money by it, and, shocked though 
 I felt at the crowd round the tables in the Salon d'Or, I very soon made 
 one among them see the demoralizing effect ! but, as I never staked gold, 
 I gratified my excitement without much risk. Great numbers of tlialers I 
 won, and, as I continued gambling, I lost them all as a matter of course. 
 
 " ' Soyez content d'un /*<,' suid the good-natured croupier." 
 
 I did better, for I bade adieu to the tables altogether, 
 and amused myself by studying the people with a view 
 to the picture, which afterwards appeared at Burlington 
 House under the title of " The Salon d'Or." The picture 
 was so popular as to require the protection of a rail, and I 
 can truly say in its favor that, whatever may be its merits 
 or demerits as a picture, it is a strictly true representation 
 of a scene passed away forever a painful, even a degrad- 
 ing scene if you will, but one well deserving record as an 
 example of legalized indulgence in one of the bad pas- 
 sions of human nature. The picture was bought by a Mr. 
 Iloffey, with a view to the publication of an engraving. 
 An engraver was engaged a man of some eminence when 
 the subject was a dog or a horse, but whose experience in 
 respect of the human animal was so slight that he was 
 quite at sea in his attempts to reproduce my unfortunate 
 gamblers. I doubt if a worse print was ever made from
 
 282 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 a figure picture since the art of engraving was discovered, 
 and the failure was complete. 
 
 Homburg was the innocent, or wicked, cause of another 
 small artistic effort of mine. It was not very uncommon 
 to see ladies sitting among the orange-trees smoking cigar- 
 ettes. I was attracted to one a very pretty one whose 
 efforts to light her cigarette being unavailing, called to a 
 waiter for a light. A candle was brought, and as the fair 
 smoker stooped to it she presented such a pretty figure, 
 and altogether so paintable an appearance, that I could 
 not resist a momentary sketch, afterwards elaborated into 
 a small picture. I think Hogarth would have made a 
 picture of such an incident, with the addition, perhaps, of 
 matter unpresentable to the present age. It might have 
 adorned our National Gallery, while I was mercilessly at- 
 tacked for painting such a subject at all. I knew very 
 well that if I or any other painter dared to introduce cer- 
 tain incidents (such as bristle over Hogarth's works) into 
 our pictures, they would have no chance of shocking the 
 public that admires the Hogarths on the walls in Trafal- 
 gar Square, for the Council of the Royal Academy would 
 prevent any such catastrophe. 
 
 Before I take leave of Homburg, I may add, for the in- 
 formation of the student, that to insure the verisimilitude 
 of the scene of the " Salon d'Or" I had large photographs 
 made of the room. I am at this moment writing in one 
 of the chairs from the gaming-table. I secured one of 
 the croupier's rakes and empty rouleau-cases, with other 
 material necessary for my work; I also sought, and found, 
 models for every figure. I cannot call attention too often 
 to the absolute necessity for taking full advantage of the 
 assistance that preliminary care affords in every work of 
 art. 
 
 I had nearly forgotten an incident connected with the 
 " Salon d'Or " picture that may amuse. In the immediate 
 foreground sits a roue who turns to a lady standing by 
 him, with whom he -seems to have tender relations, and 
 places in her hand some bank-notes, evidently from his 
 smiling countenance the result of his winnings. The 
 lady receives the money, but whether for the purpose of
 
 "THE SALON D'OE." 283 
 
 risking it again or not, does not appear. The model for 
 the lady was a handsome dark girl whose name I forget. 
 She was rather a stupid person, as what I am about to re- 
 late will prove. The figure was about half -finished, when 
 my model suddenly announced her approaching marriage. 
 
 " I congratulate you," said I. " When is it to be ?" 
 
 " Next Wednesday." 
 
 " Been long engaged ?" inquired I. 
 
 " No, sir. I've no engagements after to-day." 
 
 " That's not what I mean. How long have you known 
 your intended husband?" 
 
 "About a month." 
 
 "What is he?" 
 
 " Don't know." 
 
 " Good gracious ! Do you know you are going to run 
 a terrible risk?" 
 
 "All weddings is risks," replied my philosopher. 
 
 Then came the withering idea over me that the husband 
 might refuse to let his wife sit; and if that should be, where 
 was I? So I gravely recommenced the conversation. 
 
 " Now, you know, when an artist begins a picture from 
 a particular person " (" Not that you are such a very par- 
 ticular person," thought I), " it is absolutely necessary he 
 should finish it from the model from whom he has begun 
 his work. I do hope you will not do me the injury of not 
 giving me the opportunity of finishing what I have begun 
 from you. You will sit for me after your marriage, won't 
 you?" 
 
 " Oh, yes. I told him I wouldn't have him if I was to 
 give up sitting." 
 
 " That's right ! Well, then, when can you come to see 
 me again ?" 
 
 " Well, I can't exactly say, because I have promised to 
 sit for young this, and young that, after we come back 
 from Margate." 
 
 " I thought you said you had no engagements !" 
 
 "Ah, I meant before Wednesday." 
 
 " Suppose we say this day month," I proposed. 
 
 " Eight you are," said my model. " This day month 
 I'll be here."
 
 284 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 As I heard nothing in the interval, it was with some 
 trepidation that I prepared for my sitter on the appointed 
 day; and it was with much satisfaction that, as the clock 
 struck ten, I saw the lady walk into my studio. We got 
 to work immediately, and I found the model never very 
 talkative more gloomy than ever. 
 
 " Well," said I, after a while, " how do you like married 
 life ? I hope you are happy. How does the husband turn 
 out?" 
 
 " Oh, I don't know. He's that jealous" 
 
 " Jealous !" echoed I. 
 
 "Yes, sir. He bothers my life out with his questions. 
 He always wants to know where I been, what I done, what 
 the artists says to me, and all like that. He torments me 
 dreadful." 
 
 " Jealous !" I repeated. " Not jealous of the artists you 
 sit to ?" 
 
 "Yes; he is downright jealous of every one of 'em !" 
 
 "Well," said I, "he will be all right to-night, at all 
 events, for he knew you were coming here. He won't be 
 jealous of me, I suppose ?" 
 
 " Oh, no," said the candid young person. " It's the 
 young ones he's jealous of. He don't mind how many 
 old gents like you I sit to." 
 
 My contributions to the Exhibition of 1871 were the 
 " Salon d'Or," a scene from " Kenilworth," a half-length 
 figure of Gabrielle d'Estree, and some smaller matter. 
 The " Kenilworth " subject contained two figures Amy 
 Robsart and her maid Janet, who was represented adorn- 
 ing her mistress previous to one of Leicester's visits to 
 Cumnor Place. The model for Amy Robsart was the ill- 
 starred Mrs. Rousby a most beautiful creature who 
 may be remembered by many of my readers as an actress 
 of merit, whose career, so full of bright promise, was 
 brought to a sad close by her early death. I knew her 
 before she appeared upon the stage, and those who saw 
 her afterwards lovely as she was can have but a faint 
 idea of her extraordinary beauty as a young girl. What- 
 ever the cause may have been before illness drove her 
 from public life her beauty had faded to such an extent
 
 "THE SALOX D'OR." 285 
 
 as to throw doubt upon those who asserted her claims to 
 supreme loveliness before she entered upon the stage life. 
 I shall never forget the vision of beauty that burst upon 
 us when she entered the drawing-room at Pembridge Villas 
 on her first visit here. 
 
 I painted her in the character of Queen, or rather Prin- 
 cess, Elizabeth, in Tom Taylor's play "'Twixt Axe and 
 Crown." In spite of repeated efforts the beauty quite 
 escaped me, though in other respects the picture was like. 
 As some one said of Wilkie (who had no appreciation of 
 female beauty), " He has made his portrait of Lady Blank " 
 (a great beauty) " very like, barring her beauty, which he 
 has left out altogether." 
 
 I think I may say that Amy Robsart, as represented in 
 my "Kenilworth" picture, was a pretty creature not un- 
 like my model; and though not so lovely, a good deal of 
 her beauty was displayed. If these lines should meet the 
 eye of the owner of the picture an unknown quantity to 
 me he may be pleased to know these details about it. 
 
 My diary for May 1, 1871, says: 
 
 "To R.A., where, to my great delight, I find what I 
 expected, and even more. Such a crowd as I have not 
 seen since the ' Derby Day,' and a policeman to protect 
 the picture. In all probability a rail must be put." 
 
 And on May 3 I find: 
 
 " This morning sees a rail put to my picture. This is 
 the fourth railed-in and railed-at picture and this with- 
 out my stir. Now to try again." 
 
 No one could feel the invidious nature of the special 
 mark of popularity that a rail round a picture implied 
 more than I did, and often and often did I beg the Aca- 
 demy, in conclave assembled, to consent to the placing of 
 rails round all the rooms, and again and again I was de- 
 feated. The delight of the solitary rail triumph is now 
 gone forever, for the long-deferred protection is afforded 
 now in every gallery; and what opened Academic eyes to 
 the necessity for it was the injury done by some malicious 
 person to the pictures in the Exhibition of 1886. Cuts 
 and scratches, nearly always about three feet from the 
 ground, were plentifully bestowed on several pictures, ap-
 
 286 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 parentfy by some instrument easily held close to the pict- 
 ures as the perpetrator of the mischief walked past them. 
 This little amusement will now be difficult, if not impossi- 
 ble, for any one to indulge in without the risk of immediate 
 detection. 
 
 Strange to say, a similar performance was enacted in or 
 about the year 1843. The injuries were inflicted upon 
 pictures by wounds almost identical with those of 1886 
 the same distance from the floor, and of the same character. 
 Some of them, however, were more serious than those of 
 1886, notably in one instance of a very beautiful small 
 " Portrait of a Gentleman," by Corbet, of Shrewsbury a 
 well-known excellent painter of small, highly-finished por- 
 traits. The eyes in the picture were destroyed by cutting 
 them down to the panel on which the portrait was painted. 
 The criminal was never discovered, but it was observed 
 by that born joker, Charles Landseer, that the destroyer 
 of the eyes in Corbet's picture was most likely a school- 
 master in want of pupils! "Another such joke as that, 
 and we will all vote for your expulsion," said one of a 
 group of academicians standing by. 
 
 I cannot refrain from staining my paper with another of 
 C. L.'s perpetrations. A picture was exhibited of a part- 
 ing between two lovers; the gentleman's horse is at the 
 door, and as the rider is about to mount " and ride away," 
 he is exchanging farewell vows with his love, who is lean- 
 ing tenderly towards him out of a window immediately 
 above the door. So constructed was the house by the 
 artist (who was certainly no architect) that there was no 
 space whatever for the lower part of the lady's person be- 
 tween the bottom of the window and, the top of the door. 
 
 "Look !" said I to Landseer, "there is no place for the 
 woman to stand in." 
 
 " She's the man's sweetheart, notwithstanding" replied 
 the punster. 
 
 No sooner are the year's pictures launched before the 
 public than I find myself hard at work in " fresh woods 
 and pastures new." I found a good subject in Froude, 
 who relates on the authority of a French chronicler, I 
 think an incident in the career of that man of many
 
 "THE SALON D'OR." 287 
 
 wives, Henry VIII. a trifling matter, but well adapted 
 to pictorial representation. The chronicler says that 
 Queen Anne Boleyn often accompanied her gentle hus- 
 band on his deer-shooting expeditions in Windsor Forest. 
 It occurred to me to place the royal couple, crossbow in 
 hand, in a kind of leafy shelter, half-hidden by branches 
 and bracken, waiting for the deer to be driven past them. 
 I made Anne Boleyn stooping forward, her crossbow ready, 
 while the king behind her is putting back an intruding 
 branch, as he lovingly looks down at the head that soon 
 after followed suit among the falling heads of that fearful 
 time. The figures were dressed in green, entailing much 
 difficulty, as in the landscape though touched by "Au- 
 tumn's fiery finger" much green predominated; and if I 
 did not succeed in producing what in the slang of to-day 
 is called a " harmony in green," I made a nearer approach 
 to an agreeable arrangement than many of the inexplica- 
 ble nocturnes and symphonies that are too often presented 
 to us now. Authorities for the likeness of Henry and his 
 hapless queen are plentiful. Lord Denbigh possesses a 
 lovely portrait of Anne Boleyn by Holbein, and from a 
 photograph of that picture, together with a well-selected 
 model, I made a tolerable likeness. My friend Sir William 
 Hard man played the part of the king, for that occasion 
 only. The learned Chairman of the Court of Quarter 
 Sessions wore a beard at the time I speak of, which dis- 
 figured him into a strong resemblance to Henry VIII. I 
 took advantage of the beard, and then endeavored to in- 
 duce the wearer to remove it; and though I have not seen 
 Sir William lately, I am told the hirsute deformity has 
 disappeared. Lady llardman's head is still in its natural 
 place, and her husband is very amiable in private life, so 
 the resemblance to the bloodthirsty king ceases with the 
 beard. 
 
 The dramatists of the Restoration, notably Congreve, 
 Wycherley, Vanbrugh, and Farquhar, though mainly 
 painters of the manners of a dissolute time, have always 
 been attractive to me as presenting subjects for pictures; 
 and it occurred to me and a fellow-student to take up one 
 of the plays of Vanbrugh, and illustrate every scene of it
 
 288 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 by slight water-color sketches. Many were the evenings 
 we spent over this labor of love. We always compared 
 our renderings of the same points, and wondered at the 
 dissimilarity of our conceptions. Better practice in com- 
 position of light and shadow cannot be recommended to 
 the student. Though many, indeed most, of the scenes 
 were unworthy of the labor required to reproduce them as 
 oil pictures, I owe one of my best dramatic pictures to 
 Vanbrugh's " Relapse " the play that my friend and I 
 chose for illustration. The scene chosen is that in which 
 Lord Foppington describes his way of passing his time to 
 the two ladies of the piece, Amanda and Berinthia, and 
 that inconstant gentleman Loveless. 
 
 The satins and brocades, the wigs and swords of Queen 
 Anne's time afford seductive material for the painter; and 
 I think I took full advantage of them, and produced a 
 very satisfactory picture. After passing through several 
 hands, it is now in the possession of one of the Brasseys; 
 but whether the peer of that name or his brother, I know 
 not.
 
 CHAPTER XXVIL 
 
 i : i : j i : < T i: i > SUBJECTS. 
 
 MY summer holiday in 1871 was spent at Boulogne, 
 where I found a subject for a large composition suggested 
 by the annual procession in honor of the Virgin patroness 
 of the town. The bishop, with attending priests, number- 
 less banners, living representatives of Scriptural person- 
 ages, wooden copies of holy things, and every variety of 
 Catholic ritual, together with crowds of votaries in long 
 procession, parade the town; and as they go, women bring 
 their children, well or ailing, to be blessed by the chief 
 priest. The scene was brilliant in color, and picturesque 
 in every sense of the word. I think it was one of the 
 popes who, on giving his blessing to an unbeliever in its 
 efficacy, said, "An old man's blessing can do you no 
 harm." Judging from the eagerness of the mothers to 
 obtain the bishop's blessing, and the benign dignity with 
 which it was bestowed, both giver and receiver had per- 
 fect faith in happy results from it. 1 made many sketches; 
 and the longer I thought of the subject the stronger be- 
 came my determination to paint a picture of it. On in- 
 quiring how it came about that the Boulognese had arro- 
 gated to themselves so special a right to the particular 
 protection of the Virgin, I was told that some centuries 
 ago a boat was seen one night at sea, off the harbor of 
 Boulogne, emitting a brilliant light from its bow. Some 
 sailors put off to examine the singular apparition, and on 
 nearing it, to their awe-stricken astonishment, they found 
 that the light proceeded from a figure of the Blessed 
 Virgin sitting solitary in the boat. The men towed the 
 boat into the harbor, and the figure made of wood was 
 conveyed to the cathedral, where it now remains, or I 
 should rather say where rests all that remains of it; for 
 13
 
 290 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 the free-thinkers of the Revolution had so little respect for 
 the holy relic that they destroyed the greater part of it, 
 leaving only one of the hands, in the possession of which 
 the cathedral still rejoices. 
 
 Peace having been signed between Germany and France, 
 enabled me to go to Paris with comfort and safety. I 
 found terrible traces of the war. A German sentinel 
 paced backward and forward at the station at Criel. In 
 Paris itself, the huge stones of the bridge of Neuilly were 
 so knocked to pieces that the passage of it was dangerous. 
 Porte Maillot was a heap of rubbish, and St. Cloud did 
 not contain a habitable dwelling. The Tuileries, so dear 
 to my youthful recollections, had been mercilessly injured 
 by the dreadful Commune. Douglas Jerrold said the lib- 
 erty of England was preserved in brine the brine being 
 the British Channel. The effects of war make one value 
 " the silver streak " that separates happy England from 
 Continental strife. 
 
 My time at Boulogne was mostly spent in reading, with 
 the result of a subject from the life of Lady Mary Wort- 
 ley Montagu. That celebrated beauty and writer was 
 visited early one morning by her father, the Duke of 
 Kingston. The visit was a surprise, for the lady was not 
 fully dressed. Her daughter, afterwards Lady Bute, in 
 describing the scene, says that though she was quite a 
 child at the time, she well remembers the stately duke 
 appearing suddenly in her mother's dressing-room, and the 
 immediate sinking of her mother on her knees, asking and 
 receiving her father's blessing. I represented Lady Mary 
 in her brocade dressing-gown, the duke with the star al- 
 ways worn at that time by those entitled to it, while the 
 future Lady Bute, still in her toy-time, plays about the 
 floor. This picture was bought by George Moore, well 
 known for his active philanthropy, whose sad death a few 
 years ago was deplored by all who knew him, and by 
 numbers whose knowledge of the man was only derived 
 from his acts of beneficence. 
 
 My contributions to the Academy in 1872 consisted of 
 the scene from Vanbrugh, " Lady MaryWortley Montagu," 
 and, most successful of all, a small picture of Boulogne
 
 REJECTED SUBJECTS. 291 
 
 fruit-girls, entitled " At my Window, Boulogne." To the 
 window of our lodgings came two girls, carrying large 
 flat baskets of grapes and peaches. They were dressed in 
 effective costumes, with the high-frilled cap common to 
 their species, and had bright, pretty faces. As they stood 
 in the street resting their baskets on the window-sill the 
 open window forming a frame for them they made 
 " quite a picture." I bought many peaches and grapes, 
 and the girls' dresses and caps also; and judging from the 
 many demands I received for the picture, and the compli- 
 ments paid me upon it, I think I may consider it one of 
 my best. 
 
 An amusing trifle might be written in which overheard 
 remarks made in public galleries upon the works displayed 
 would surprise by their naivete, and also by the surpassing 
 ignorance of the speakers. Here is an example told me 
 by my old friend Faed, R.A., whose delightful renderings 
 of Scottish life are so well known. Some few years ago 
 Faed exhibited a picture called " His Only Pair." A small 
 Scotch boy sits with dangling naked legs upon a table, 
 while his mother mends his only pair of breeks. The 
 urchin is vigorously sucking an orange to beguile the tune 
 of waiting. Two female visitors to the exhibition were in 
 front of the picture. One held the catalogue, and in reply 
 to her friend's inquiry, " What is the subject?" replied: 
 
 " < His Only Pair.' " 
 
 "Pear?" said the connoisseur. "It looks more like an 
 orange." 
 
 Another example occurs to me. A fine portrait of Mrs. 
 Charles Dickens, painted by Maclise, was exhibited in 
 Trafalgar Square. I happened to be close to two ladies 
 who were eagerly scanning the picture, which by a mis- 
 print in the catalogue was called " Mr. Charles Dickens." 
 
 " Why," said one of the visitors, " it is a portrait of a 
 lady; it can't be Mr. Charles Dickens!" 
 
 " Oh, yes, it is," replied her friend. " You know he is 
 a great actor as well as writer; and the picture represents 
 him in some female character. I wonder what the play 
 was." 
 
 Yet another instance. A friend of mine exhibited a
 
 292 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 picture called " A Volunteer." The scene was the deck of 
 a shipwrecked vessel. It is crowded by terrified people 
 apparently emigrants. One of the sailors has volunteered 
 to swim ashore, and is on the point of leaving the ship, 
 carrying a rope to be attached, probably, to some life-sav- 
 ing apparatus. 
 
 " A volunteer T* said an enlightened looker-on. " That's 
 no volunteer where are his regimentals ?" 
 
 In an exhibition, some years ago, I put in an appear- 
 ance with a small work of a girl with a dove on her 
 shoulder. The girl was a gentle-looking, rather dovelike 
 creature; so I christened the picture "Two Doves." I 
 heard a lady who was looking at it say: 
 
 " Two doves ? Why, that must be a misprint. Where 
 is the second dove ?" 
 
 I know some of my younger brethren who icere fond of 
 standing by their pictures to listen to the remarks made 
 upon them. I say were fond of the practice. But the 
 desire to hear genuine opinion seldom lasts long ; for 
 though, in the course of an hour, you may hear pleasant 
 things, your satisfaction will be pretty sure to be marred 
 by remarks the reverse of complimentary. 
 
 An artist, who seldom paints anything but what are 
 called " religious subjects," saw some ladies eagerly scan- 
 ning his work, when a gentleman friend came up to them 
 and said: 
 
 "What's that? Oh, a Scripture piece. Don't waste 
 time with that it's very bad. All their Scripture pict- 
 ures are shocking!" 
 
 My friend the sacred painter has no respect for public 
 opinion. 
 
 The fact of its being " the thing " to go to the Academy 
 Exhibition takes great numbers there who care for art just 
 as much as they know about it, and that is nothing at 
 all. 
 
 A year or two ago I was standing in the Great Gallery 
 at Burlington House, when two young gentlemen saun- 
 tered into it. Then each, standing in the middle of the 
 room, threw languid glances round the walls; and one said 
 to the other :
 
 REJECTED SUBJECTS. 293 
 
 " The things are all very much alike. Come away," and 
 they went away. 
 
 It was my fate in the year 1872 to serve on the Hanging 
 Committee never anything but a painful duty; that year 
 peculiarly so, from the many good pictures (in my opinion, 
 good pictures) that were sent back to their producers, 
 there being no room for them on the walls. And, strange 
 to say, the bad pictures offered to us were as much worse 
 than usual, as the more successful ones were better. The 
 very worst attempts at painting produced in this country 
 or any other were submitted to the committee for 
 acceptance. Among the rest were some drawings said to 
 be done by spirits. They were painted in water-colors, 
 and handsomely framed and glazed, of course, at a con- 
 siderable expense. They were quite indescribable, resem- 
 bling nothing in heaven above or on the earth beneath, 
 and were necessarily laughed out of the rooms. Now, it 
 does appear to me that the spirits must have known that 
 their works would be beyond our comprehension, and, there- 
 fore, sure to be rejected; why, then, suffer their proselytes 
 to be at the mercy of such ignorant people as ourselves ? 
 to say nothing of the unnecessary trouble and expense in- 
 curred by the proprietors of such spiritual things! 
 
 The practice of the Academy as regards the reception 
 of works intended for exhibition is so well known as to 
 make what I am about to tell almost incredible. It is 
 nevertheless true that a lady took a small picture to Bur- 
 lington House, on the day named for receiving pictures, 
 and showed it to one of the porters, telling him it was for 
 exhibition. 
 
 " All right, madam," said the man, offering to receive 
 the picture. 
 
 " No, no !" said the lady. " I must hang it myself. It 
 has been painted for a particular light; and I wish to se- 
 lect the proper place and light myself." 
 
 That work perhaps a great picture disappeared with 
 its producer, and was seen no more. 
 
 I conclude my remarks on the eccentricity of public 
 judgment in the matter of the subject of pictures, by the 
 following example :
 
 294 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 The play of the " Colleen Bawn " may be familiar to 
 many of my readers, and they will remember that an at- 
 tempt was made to drown the heroine by a person called 
 Danny Mann. Just at the time that the play was in the full 
 swing of its popularity, a fine picture by Paul Delaroche 
 was exhibited, called "A Christian Martyr." Death by 
 drowning was the fate awarded to the unfortunate Chris- 
 tian, who was represented as a beautiful young girl, just 
 on the point of sinking to a " muddy death." I have 
 again to accuse the gentler sex of a ludicrous mistake, for 
 I heard one lady say to another : 
 
 " Oh, what a beautiful Irish face ! Look, there's the 
 Colleen Bawn ; and that man on the bank is that wretch 
 Danny Mann, gloating over her, poor thing !" 
 
 My desire to discover materials for my work in modern 
 life never leaves me, and will continue its influence as 
 long as my own life lasts; and, though I "have occasion- 
 ally been betrayed by my love into themes somewhat 
 trifling and commonplace, the conviction that possessed 
 me that I was speaking or, rather, painting the truth, 
 the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, rendered the 
 production of real-life pictures an unmixed delight. In 
 obedience to this impulse I began a small work suggested 
 by some lady-archers, whose feats had amused me at the 
 seaside. I found sufficiently satisfactory models in three 
 of my daughters, one of whom is in the act of shooting, 
 the others standing by, bow in hand; a landscape back- 
 ground foils the figures agreeably enough. The subject 
 was trifling, and totally devoid of character-interest; but 
 the girls are true to nature, and the dresses will be a rec- 
 ord of the female habiliments of the time. 
 
 I made my desire for subjects for pictures so generally 
 known even offering large rewards for suggestions (the 
 only condition being that they should be such as I consid- 
 ered worthy of representation) that I was often the re- 
 cipient of strange advice. A stranger called on me, when 
 a conversation like the following took place : 
 
 " Sir," said the man, " I have been told that you are 
 willing to pay for a fine subject for a picture. What 
 would you be disposed to give for one about as big as 
 your 'Railway Station'?"
 
 REJECTED SUBJECTS. 295 
 
 " If," said I, " you can propose to me a subject for a 
 picture of the size and importance of the one you name, or 
 of the ' Derby Day,' I will give you two hundred pounds 
 for it. What is your subject ?" 
 
 "Well, sir, I should be satisfied with the terms you 
 mention, but the subject is my secret; and I hardly like 
 to mention it, because I should not like it to be known, if 
 you were to refuse it." 
 
 " Oh," I replied, " I will give you my promise not to 
 reveal it if it is worth keeping secret; and I also promise 
 to pay you the sum I name in the event of my painting it. 
 What is it?" 
 
 After further hesitation my visitor said : 
 
 " A review in Hyde Park !" 
 
 " I am afraid," said I, " there is no novelty in that it 
 has been done pretty often, in illustrated papers and in 
 pictures." 
 
 As the man wa"s evidently sincere in his belief that he 
 had discovered a treasure, I tried to enlighten him regard- 
 ing some essentials without which his subject would be 
 " stale, flat, and unprofitable." 
 
 " There must be a main incident of dramatic force, and 
 secondary ones of interest. How could such be evolved 
 from troops manoeuvring and a crowd looking on ?" 
 
 " Ah," said he, " I've thought of all that. I'll tell you 
 how to do it. I should have in front what you call the 
 foreground, ain't it ? a man selling ginger-beer. You 
 must make him just opening a bottle; the beer must be 
 very much up hot day, and that and so the cork flies 
 into a woman's eye; and then " 
 
 " That is enough !" said I. " I don't think your subject 
 would suit me. But if I ever paint a picture of it, you 
 shall have the reward I promised." 
 
 " Well, but wait a bit, sir. Just you think, now there 
 might be a fat woman paying threepence for a stand, and 
 the stand breaks down, and she wants her money back ; 
 and the stand-man says he'll be " 
 
 " Yes, I know; but, really, I won't take up any more of 
 your time. Mine is also valuable, so I must wish you 
 good-morning."
 
 296 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND EEMINISCENCES. 
 
 On another occasion I was favored with a visit from a 
 respectable-looking man, also big with a subject. After 
 preliminary arrangements, and promises of reward, the 
 idea was disclosed : 
 
 " ' There's a sweet little cherub that sits up aloft, 
 Keeping watch o'er the life of poor Jack.' " 
 
 "A cherub!" said I. "I never saw a cherub; don't 
 know what a cherub is like do you? Perhaps you are 
 not aware that artists don't trust to their imaginations for 
 models; at least, I don't. So what am I to do for a model 
 for your cherub ?" 
 
 "A cherub," said the man, with the confidence of one 
 well acquainted with such people, "is a naked child; and 
 you should paint him sitting on the tip-top of the mast 
 of a big ship. You needn't put in the hull of the vessel 
 just a yard-arm, and a bit of sail torn away by the 
 storm; a black sky, and the lightning and thunder" 
 ("Difficult," thought I, "to paint thunder as to represent 
 the same woman doing three different things, as proposed 
 in the review subject") "going it like anything. The 
 mast should be rocking, and the cherub holding on to it 
 like grim death, smiling all the while at the sailors below." 
 
 As the man spoke, my mind, in search of an authority 
 for the cherub, wandered to certain monumental repre- 
 sentations of those creatures; and, unless my memory be- 
 trayed me, the difficulty of sitting on the tip-top of a mast, 
 or, indeed, of sitting at all, was quite apparent in all of 
 them. I hinted as much, and my friend said : 
 
 " Ah, to be sure ! I never thought of that. Well, he 
 must have wings, you know they all have and he might 
 be flying about the mast. Wouldn't that do ?" 
 
 "Very well. Only what becomes of your quotation, 
 which says your sweet little cherub is sitting aloft ?" 
 
 I was again obliged to confess that the subject pro- 
 posed was beyond my powers. 
 
 The name of Whiteley, universal provider, by whom a 
 large portion of Westbourne Grove has been made into a 
 huge establishment, is known all over the world. I have 
 cause to know it, because my requirements are often sup-
 
 REJECTED SUBJECTS. 297 
 
 plied from the emporium presided over by that extraordi- 
 nary man ; but till what I am about to relate took place, 
 I never knew him in the flesh. 
 
 A letter was brought to me asking for an interview on 
 " a matter of business," signed " William Whiteley." I 
 was much puzzled as to what the "business" could be, as 
 I owed Mr. Whiteley nothing at the time; indeed, the 
 principles on which he conducts his business are such as 
 to prevent the possibility of anybody owing Mr. Whiteley 
 anything for an unreasonable time. 
 
 Punctually at 9.30, the appointed hour, the great trader 
 made his appearance, and a shrewd, smart, honest appear- 
 ance it is. 
 
 " Well, Mr. Whiteley," said I, " I am glad to see you " 
 (I was both glad and curious). " What can I do for 
 you ?" 
 
 " Sir," said he, " I am an admirer of your works." 
 
 " I reciprocate the compliment," said I. " I sincerely 
 admire yours." 
 
 Mr. Whiteley bowed, and proceeded to say that he had 
 seen " Ramsgate Sands," and he greatly admired the va- 
 riety of character, the etc., etc. He had also seen the 
 " Railway Station," about which he was complimentary 
 to an extent that my modesty prevents my repeating; and 
 he admired so-and-so running through a whole catalogue 
 of my pictures ending by proposing a subject for a pict- 
 ure, to be called " Whiteley's at Four o'Clock in the Af- 
 ternoon." 
 
 " I should leave it to your discretion, sir, to choose either 
 the inside of the place or the outside. If you take the 
 former, you would have the aristocracy making their pur- 
 chases. You might introduce the young ladies who do 
 me the honor to assist in my establishment, many of whom 
 are very pretty. Then there are what are called shop- 
 men, with fine heads, and every conceivable detail for 
 your back and fore grounds. If, on the other hand, you 
 select the outside of the shops you could introduce the 
 commissionaires, who, as you may have observed, wear a 
 picturesque livery created by me; you would have the 
 nobility and gentry stepping into their carriages, with 
 13*
 
 298 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 forgive my suggestions, they are subject to your criticism 
 street - beggars, toy -sellers think of the contrast be- 
 tween them and my customers and all the variety of 
 character that Westbourne Grove always presents. There 
 is but one stipulation that I venture to make if you select 
 Westbourne Grove for the locality of the work, namely, 
 that the whole length of the shops should be shown, care 
 being taken that the different windows should display the 
 specialties of the establishment." 
 
 As I listened to this extraordinary proposal, I found 
 myself wondering if the proposed picture was intended to 
 act as an advertisement for Whiteley's, when, as if he 
 read my thoughts, Mr. Whiteley said : 
 
 "I never advertise; I never spent a shilling in that way 
 in my life. My notions of the advantages of advertising 
 take the form of good things at so small a profit as to 
 make the purchasers recommend their friends to come to 
 my shops ; and I have found that method of advertising 
 so satisfactory that I feel no inclination to spend the enor- 
 mous sums that some of my brethren in trade find, or 
 think they find, profitable." 
 
 He then proceeded to inform me that he began in a very 
 small way of business in a street off Westbourne Grove, 
 with only two shop-girls to assist. 
 
 " I married one," said he, " and the other no longer a 
 girl is still with me." 
 
 I was greatly interested in my visitor, and sorry that an 
 engagement with my usual ten-o'clock model afforded me 
 so little time to say much more than that I would con- 
 sider his proposal and let him know the result. I thought 
 the matter over, and declined the commission, and have 
 often thought since that, though I should fear to under- 
 take it, much might have been done with it. And if Mr. 
 Whiteley should read my account of our interview I hope 
 he will forgive me for relating it in conjunction with the 
 ridiculous proposals already mentioned. I think his sug- 
 gestion by no means absurd, but very much the contrary; 
 and I also hope he will acknowledge that, in the telling 
 of it, I have extenuated nothing, nor " set down aught in 
 malice."
 
 REJECTED SUBJECTS. 299 
 
 During the trial of the Tichborne claimant a subject 
 was proposed to me. I may here remark that when a 
 painter is hard at work visitors should be resolutely ex- 
 cluded. I have a wife who guards me in that respect like 
 a dragon, and I am thus saved from interruptions which, 
 though they may take up but little time, cause a wrench 
 from one's work that is not only painful, but injurious. 
 So when, one day, my servant informed me that a Captain 
 
 N wanted to see me on a matter of business, I sent 
 
 my "fidus Achates" to inquire what the business was. 
 When I heard that my visitor came, on the part of a 
 committee, to offer me a commission on my own terms to 
 paint a large modern subject, I put down palette and brush- 
 es, full of curiosity to know the nature of the proposal. 
 
 I found Captain N to be unmistakably a gentleman, 
 
 curiously reluctant to disclose his subject till I would 
 promise to paint a picture of it. The reluctance was sur- 
 mounted, and I found it was proposed that I should paint 
 the trial of the Tichborne claimant, then drawing very 
 near its close; the main object being the exhibition of the 
 picture in London and the country, to procure funds for the 
 
 defence of " my ill-used friend," as Captain N called 
 
 him. 
 
 "You will have no difficulty as to sitters, Mr. Frith. 
 The jury have agreed to give you every opportunity; 
 the judge Cockburn, you know has been sounded, and 
 has expressed no objection ; the barristers employed have 
 consented; and the claimant is only too anxious to see the 
 work confided to you." 
 
 " Well, but," said I, " the trial, surely, cannot last much 
 longer; it may be over any day. And, suppose your friend 
 is condemned, he would not be allowed to come here, and 
 I could not go to him." 
 
 " You may rest assured there is not the least chance of 
 an adverse verdict. We will take the risk of that." 
 
 "Indeed," said I; "I don't share your confidence in the 
 favorable result of the trial. I have read all the evidence, 
 and I think the claimant will be severely punished; and I 
 hope you won't mind my saying that I think he richly de- 
 serves what in all probability he will get."
 
 300 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 " Do you, indeed ?" said Captain N- , not in the least 
 
 annoyed. " Then you don't believe him to be Sir Roger 
 Tichborne ?" 
 
 "No, I don't. Do you?" 
 
 " Well, I can't say I believe him to be the real man, be- 
 cause I am quite sure of it; indeed, I wonder how you or 
 any one else can reconcile the unimpeachable evidence in 
 my friend's favor with the idea of imposture. Now, though 
 I have not the honor of your acquaintance, I don't think 
 you will doubt that, what I am about to tell you is abso- 
 lutely true; and, when you have heard it, I shall be curi- 
 ous to know how you can doubt that the man now on his 
 trial is Sir Roger Tichborne. I must tell you that Sir 
 Roger is now living with me; we constantly pass together 
 the time that does not require his presence in court. Well, 
 so recently as the day before yesterday, I went to my tail- 
 or's to pay my account; and as I was writing my check 
 the head of the firm a stanch believer, by the way asked 
 me if the evidence of one who had seen the real Sir Roger 
 (to use the common phrase) before he left the country on his 
 supposed fatal voyage would be of service as a witness, as 
 a man, now in the .employment of a firm of tailors called 
 Bugby & Haynes, was ready and willing to go to the court 
 and swear as he was justified in doing, having seen the 
 claimant in the street to his identity with the Sir Roger 
 whom he well remembered. I thanked my informant, but 
 said that as so many had recognized Sir Roger, another 
 voice on the same side was scarcely worth consideration. 
 However, on thinking the matter over, I felt curious to 
 see the man, as he might be possessed of some convincing 
 proof beyond that of mere recognition. I accordingly 
 sought out the establishment of Messrs. Bugby & Haynes, 
 and found the man I sought in the foreman of the concern, 
 to which, twenty years before, he had been in the inferior 
 position of porter. 
 
 " ' I hear,' said I, ' you are willing to give evidence in 
 favor of Sir Roger Tichborne ? Have you any evidence 
 in his favor beyond your power of recognizing him ? How 
 and where did you see him as a young man ?' 
 
 " ' I will show you,' said he, as he took down an old
 
 REJECTED SUBJECTS. 301 
 
 ledger; 'here you see, sir, is an entry of a pair of leather 
 breeches (we dealt in nothing else then, leather breeches 
 being our specialty) supplied to Roger Tichborne, then on 
 a visit to Sir James Tyrrell, in St. James's Square. I took 
 home those breeches and delivered them to the young 
 gentleman, and he carefully examined them before he 
 would pay the bill. I looked well at him then, and again 
 afterwards, when he called to say he had tried the breech- 
 es, and liked them very much.' 
 
 " * Well, I will let you know if you are wanted.' 
 
 "Last evening I was writing a note in my chambers. 
 Sir Roger was reading opposite to me, when it occurred 
 to me to question him about the leather breeches; and I 
 proceeded to do so, as cautiously as I thought an opposing 
 barrister might do. 
 
 " ' By the way, Sir Roger,' said I, ' what tailor did you 
 patronize when you were in London ? Were your clothes 
 made in London ?' 
 
 " ' Sometimes generally, indeed,' was the reply. 
 
 " ' Do you remember the name of your tailor?' 
 
 " ' Yes, Stultz, always.' 
 
 " ' Then you never dealt with the firm of Bugby & 
 Haynes?' 
 
 "'Haynes and what Bugby? precious ugly name 
 that. No, never heard of 'em;' and he continued his read- 
 ing and I my writing disappointed, I confess, for as he 
 had remembered Stultz, it was not likely he could have 
 forgotten the others. In a minute or so I happened to 
 look from my note to Sir Roger, who had closed his book 
 and seemed absorbed in thought. Then he said: 
 
 " ' What names did you say ?' 
 
 "I repeated them. 
 
 " ' Well,' said he, ' I begin to have a faint recollection 
 of some such people, who made nothing but leather breech- 
 es, and to be sure I remember now quite well being sup- 
 plied with a pair when I was stopping with Tyrrell in St. 
 James's Square. Tyrrell recommended the tailors, and 
 capital breeches they were. I rode more than fifteen 
 hundred miles in those breeches, and then they were not 
 worn out.'
 
 302 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 " ' Now, sir,' said Captain N to me, ' how do you 
 
 get over that ?' " 
 
 I confess I was staggered, but subsequent reflection sup- 
 plied an explanation. The impostor had free access af- 
 forded him by old Lady Tichborne to bills and papers of 
 every description, and he must have seen the account for 
 the leather breeches among them. 
 
 Though the price offered me for painting the trial of the 
 claimant was a very tempting one, I declined it; and it 
 was well I did, for my intended sitter was, very soon after 
 
 my interview with Captain N" , picking oakum instead 
 
 of sitting for his picture. 
 
 Among the suggestions for the employment of my brush 
 was one to be called " All Over but the Shouting." This 
 came to me anonymously; and the theme was to be a crick- 
 et-match at Lord's Harrow and Eton, I think. I was ad- 
 vised to paint the end of the game, when all but the shout- 
 ing is supposed to be over. The advantage of carriages 
 full of ladies getting luncheon, charming young Harrow 
 boys comparing notes with octogenarian Harrow boys, 
 cum multis aliis, were pointed out to me in vain; for I 
 neglected this well-meant suggestion, as I have felt com- 
 pelled to refuse many others. 
 
 The University Boat-race has been named to me as a 
 good subject many times, and in a sense it is a good one; 
 and if I had not painted the "Derby Day" I might be 
 tempted to try it. But a little reflection will show that 
 the incidents on the river-banks would be too much like 
 those at Epsom to enable one to avoid the odious charge 
 of repetition. 
 
 As an example, not only of the kindness of the people in 
 proposing subjects, but also of their suggestions as to the 
 way in which the pictures arising from them should be 
 painted, I subjoin the following paragraphs, which reached 
 me exactly as they are reproduced: 
 
 " About half an hour before the start. Hammersmith Bridge (as large 
 as possible) right across the picture, at the extreme left." 
 
 " The bridge, with its wonderful freight, clearly seen from the Mall ; 
 men on the chains ; carriages of every description.
 
 REJECTED SUBJECTS. 303 
 
 " A steamboat half through the bridge, decorated with small flags, and 
 baring on board a band playing, and passengers ; the funnel lowered." 
 
 " A boat with people seated in, and a fat woman being helped in. The 
 boat is all on one side ; the apparent fright of those seated. 
 
 " Many boats are by the Mall- wall waiting to carry people to the barges. 
 
 " The Thames police-boat clearing the way. 
 
 " Two or three four-oared crews and wager-boats. Barges with people 
 on them. 
 
 " Steamers and barges decorated with flags." 
 
 " The houses on the Mall, namely, 
 
 Bridge House, 
 
 Digby " 
 
 Beach " 
 
 Ashton " 
 
 Ivy Cottage, 
 
 Kent House, 
 would all come out admirably. 
 
 " The Mall to be widened two or three feet, and the houses that slope 
 back to be brought forward as far as the public-house. The Mall is not 
 crowded until just before the race." 
 
 " Blue and red cloth along the balconies, and at the windows. Lovely 
 women with race-glasses in their hands, some in blue silk. 
 
 " A lovely young woman in balcony, dressed in light violet velvet, with 
 a beautiful white Maltese dog in her arms, and having the Oxford ribbon 
 round his neck ; with the sun shining on her she would look most brill- 
 iant" 
 
 " Ladies and gentlemen in every variety of clothing, some in winter, oth- 
 ers in summer; numbers of children, some sitting along the Mall-wall with 
 their feet nearly touching the water. 
 
 "Nigger with wooden leg, and white hat with wide band of light blue 
 paper round it ; he is carrying his fiddle. 
 
 " Girl with her iutended ; his arm round her waist. Dog, evidently 
 lost." 
 
 " Two sweeps standing together, one smoking a short clay, very white, 
 new pipe, and the other filling one, each with Oxford rosette in front of 
 his cap. 
 
 " A man with tin can selling hot meat-pics. A boy has just bought one, 
 and is holding it on the palm of his hand, looking at it with delight. A 
 man standing by has bitten a large piece out of one, and discovered a dead 
 mouse, which he is holding by the tail between his fingers, and U showing 
 the man the hole it came out of. The pieman U laughing ; the other is 
 in a rage."
 
 304 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 " Three men standing together, one holding a pot of beer in pewter; the 
 other two are tossing to see who is to pay. One is holding the coin tightly 
 between his hands, the other is looking doubtfully at a coin in his hand." 
 
 "An old lady in Bath-chair. A little rascal is trying to force her to buy 
 some fusees, putting them close to her face. A girl, on the other side, 
 trying to force her to buy colors ; the old lady looking most indignant ; 
 her attendant is talking to a girl. 
 
 " A young swell smoking a beautifully colored meerschaum pipe, with a 
 thief on each side of him. The one on his left puts both his hands on the 
 swell's shoulders, and is laughing ; the swell turns his head to see the 
 cause. The one on his right is stealing his pin; a policeman standing 
 close by is ordering a little girl to move on." 
 
 " An old gentleman standing near the houses, who has been robbed of 
 his watch ; he is examining the ring of his watch which is left on his 
 chain; he has his tortoise-shell glasses across his nose; a little boy is 
 watching him. 
 
 " A girl with a child asleep in a perambulator ; boys teasing her. 
 
 " Gent and a girl standing together, the girl drinking from a flask. 
 
 " Tall soldier with his short girl." 
 
 " A workman standing next a lady ; the smoke from his pipe blowing 
 into her face ; her peculiar expression. 
 
 " Girl with basket of buttonholes, and others with the race colors." 
 
 If I were to expatiate further, and give other examples 
 of the propensity for proposing subjects to known painters, 
 I should only weary my readers. None but painters know 
 the extreme difficulty of the selection of a moment of 
 time that shall be of sufficient interest and importance to 
 warrant months, and perhaps years, being spent upon a 
 representation of it. I have never been able to adopt one 
 of the innumerable proposals made to me. Literary men, 
 who should know better, always propose subjects that are 
 inexplicable, unless the painter could adopt the method 
 used in the old caricatures, namely, a kind of balloon- 
 shaped form coming from the mouths of the actors in the 
 scene, enclosing the words they are supposed to be saying. 
 All pictures should, as a rule, tell their own story without 
 the aid of book or quotation, though in some instances, no 
 doubt, quotation is necessary for the understanding of the 
 picture. 
 
 My contributions to the Exhibition of 1873 were unim-
 
 REJECTED SUBJECTS. 305 
 
 portant, consisting of the "Lady Archers," already noted; 
 a modern billiard - room, with two ladies playing, and 
 studies of French and English flower-girls. 
 
 "The Procession at Boulogne" then occupied my 
 thoughts and time, and my diary records my struggles 
 with the subject, day after day, till the time for "sending 
 in" in 1874. I fear I have little of interest to relate re- 
 garding the progress of that work. My model for the 
 principal figure was the Abb6 Toursel, a very delightful 
 old priest, who, with his nephew, proved the most patient 
 of sitters; and I was fortunate enough to find other good 
 French models. 
 
 The small army of London models finds many Italians 
 in its ranks, and, as a rule, they are among the steadiest 
 and most patient, both men and women; but Heaven pre- 
 serve me from the boys ! One young gentleman took great 
 delight in tormenting me by incessant fidgeting, pretend- 
 ing to go to sleep, and twisting his countenance into every 
 conceivable distortion. Neither coaxing nor bullying 
 produced any effect. He turned a deaf ear to my com- 
 plaints, remarking on one occasion that he was glad my 
 picture was a big one, otherwise he would expect it to be 
 thrown at his head, as " Mr. Poynter threatened the other 
 day." The best thing the boy did for me was to bring 
 me his uncle, a person whose occupation in his own coun- 
 try had been that of a brigand, which calling he had pur- 
 sued until he was so eagerly sought for by the Italian au- 
 thorities that a sudden absence from his native land became 
 imperative; and he found an asylum in England, and em- 
 ployment among the painters. lie was an amusing fellow 
 making no secret of his former profession. He was 
 forced into it, he said, by Garibaldi; and, in reply to my 
 inquiry as to how that came about, he informed me that 
 he was in the Italian army when the King of Naples was 
 driven off by the Garibaldians; and, being very averse to 
 revolutionary doings, and quite determined never to assist 
 in them, he and several of his comrades took to the moun- 
 tains, where they had a very happy time. My friend was 
 a good-looking fellow far from realizing the popular idea 
 of a brigand though he made a capital gendarme, as my
 
 306 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 I 
 
 picture would have proved if an unexpected event had not 
 put a stop to his career as a model, and very nearly to his 
 life. 
 
 While my picture of him was in progress he heard of 
 the retirement of some of his friends from the mountains, 
 and their successful retreat to Paris, from whence came a 
 warm invitation to join them for a few days. 
 
 "My expenses to be paid, you know, sir. The young 
 Marquis Napolini, a great friend of mine, was one of us. 
 He's got plenty of money. Oh ! that's all right." 
 
 "And how long shall you be away ?" said I. 
 
 " Only two tree week." 
 
 " And you won't forget that I shall want more sittings 
 for your face ?" 
 
 "No; all right." 
 
 But matters in Paris were not all right. For, at a meet- 
 ing of the brigands, a dispute took place, and the young 
 and noble Napolini, being of a choleric nature, and unable 
 to relish some observations of my model, seized a bottle 
 of claret and struck my Italian full in the face with it. 
 Some weeks were passed in hospital, that fearful nephew 
 of his told me with a chuckle; and he also remarked that 
 it was his opinion, from what he had heard, that his uncle 
 would not be of use as a model any more. The young 
 wretch was right, for, when my brigand appeared after his 
 return, I certainly should not have recognized in the bat- 
 tered individual before me the jovial fellow who went to 
 Paris with such a light heart. The handsome nose that 
 I had modelled so carefully was almost gone, and the 
 face was otherwise frightfully scarred and disfigured, 
 so I was reluctantly obliged to seek another model for 
 my gendarme. 
 
 Whether it was that I again tried to do too much for 
 I find I exhibited four other pictures (besides painting 
 small matters) in the Exhibition of 1874 or from some 
 other cause, the "Procession" proved far less successful 
 than I expected. 
 
 Though I cannot agree with Dr. Johnson that Richard- 
 son is a greater writer than Fielding, I am a great admirer 
 and constant reader of his works, and had always a desire
 
 REJECTED SUBJECTS. 307 
 
 to try my hand on a picture of " Pamela," if I should ever 
 find in a model anything approaching the beauty that is 
 suggested by the great author of her letters. What was 
 my surprise and delight when, on visiting an artist, my old 
 friend Maw Egley, I saw in his studio a pretty creature 
 who might have been " Pamela " herself ! My friend was 
 painting a picture of the girl, and, in reply to my inquiry 
 if she were a " regular model," I was told that, perhaps, 
 she might be induced to sit for me, but that she had no 
 intention of following the trade of model. 
 
 She came to me, and I painted a picture of " Pamela " 
 in the act of writing one of her home-letters. She was, 
 and is, a sweet creature; and, though now married and 
 blessed with some small " Pamelas," she retains much of 
 her beauty. 
 
 The charms of my model tempted me to paint two more 
 pictures from her one of which was called "Wandering 
 Thoughts;" the other, " Sleep." 
 
 These pictures were all the size of life; and I contributed 
 yet another life-size work: a girl at her devotions, which I 
 christened " Prayer." 
 
 "Pamela" was by far the best and most popular of the 
 series; indeed, it was, and I fear always will be, the best 
 " single-figure picture " I have ever done. 
 
 In speaking of my principal work of the year 1874,1 
 wish to record the kind assistance I received from Cardinal 
 then Archbishop Manning. The subject was one of 
 great interest to that eminent person; and I am indebted 
 to him for the vestments, robes, mitres, etc., indispensable 
 for the production of the picture. 
 
 By the laws of the Royal Academy all members are 
 entitled to send eight pictures to any of the annual ex- 
 hibitions. This privilege (of which I trust we shall soon 
 deprive ourselves) is not often claimed, and, whenever it 
 is exacted, the result is nearly always as unfortunate for 
 the artist as it is for the public, for it requires the genius 
 of a Reynolds or a Gainsborough to produce eight works 
 in one year that shall be, one and all, worthy of public 
 scrutiny. I am an example of the truth of what I say, for 
 in the year 1875 I, for the first and I hope the last time
 
 308 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 in my life, exhibited eight works. And those worthy of 
 being seen might certainly have been counted on the fin- 
 gers of one hand indeed, I am not sure that there would 
 not have been a finger or two to spare even then. A very 
 elaborate and careful little picture of " Tom Jones " show- 
 ing " Sophia " her own image in the glass as a pledge of his 
 future constancy was creditable enough, and one or two 
 of the rest all half-length, life-sized pictures may have 
 been what is called "up to the mark;" but I cannot say as 
 much for the others, which showed marks of such haste 
 and incompleteness as should never be allowed to appear 
 in any work intended for public exhibition. Quality, and 
 not quantity, should be the guide of the academic con- 
 tributors to the exhibition, as well as of those who have 
 the selection of the works of outsiders.
 
 CHAPTER XXVHI. 
 
 THE PIOUS MODEL. 
 
 AMONG the ignorant and how large that class is as re- 
 gards matters of art it would be impossible to calculate 
 the idea commonly prevails that pictures are evolved out 
 of the painter's inner consciousness, or, in other words, are 
 created out of nothing. The fact that nature is constant- 
 ly referred to, that for the most trifling detail the artist 
 never trusts to his memory, that he not only uses models 
 for the human beings which may fill his compositions, but 
 that he seeks far and wide for the smallest object to be 
 represented, will be a revelation to most people. That be- 
 ing so, the model becomes a most important factor, either 
 as a human being or a detail, to all painters; and the diffi- 
 culty of discovering the needful type becomes sometimes 
 almost impossible. 
 
 If I may presume to be known as an artist, it is as the 
 painter of large compositions, such as the "Derby Day," 
 the " Railway Station," " Ramsgate Sands," etc., etc., and 
 it has been my fate to undergo much tribulation in my 
 search after material in various forms. During the execu- 
 tion of the picture of " Ramsgate Sands," after much 
 search I found an individual exactly suited to my purpose. 
 My servant announced a visitor: 
 
 " A person of the name of Brcdman has called." 
 
 " Is he a model ?" 
 
 " I think so." 
 
 " Good-looking?" 
 
 " No, sir." 
 
 "Show him in." 
 
 Mr. Bredman was a man of about thirty, dressed in a 
 fustian jncket and trousers much the worse for wear; a 
 somewhat heavy countenance with strongly marked char-
 
 310 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 acter ; a serious, indeed solemn, expression in fact, the 
 exact type I had sought for. I engaged him immedi- 
 ately, and, though he had never sat before, I found him 
 an attentive and excellent sitter. 
 
 It is obvious that an artist must talk to his models if 
 he expects to rouse the expression necessary for his work, 
 and it is also obvious that conversation becomes difficult 
 or easy according to the intelligence of the model. I found 
 Bredman far above the average of the ordinary model. 
 He had read most of the books with which I was famil- 
 iar, and with one book, the most important of all, he 
 showed more acquaintance, I am sorry to confess, than 
 I enjoyed myself : indeed, he surprised me by producing 
 a Testament, in which he seemed absorbed during the 
 necessary intervals of rest. On one occasion, I remember, 
 when my wife brought one of our children into the studio, 
 Bredman's solemn face brightened pleasantly as he took 
 the child on to his, not very satisfactory, fustian knee. 
 
 " You seem fond of children," said my wife. 
 
 " Well, mum, I should hope so," said Bredman. " Haven't 
 we got an example here ?" tapping the Testament. 
 
 " Are you married ? Have you any of your own ?" 
 
 " I am married, mum, but have no children yet" 
 
 The peculiar accent on the word " yet " impressed me, 
 and in the course of our work I asked my serious friend 
 if he had hope in the happy direction of a family. 
 
 " Well, yes, sir, please God, before very long." 
 
 Bredman sat to me many times, and though, as I said 
 before, he was familiar with many subjects, his thoughts 
 evidently dwelt most on the most serious of all ; and I 
 found that he was convinced that he was in what he called 
 " a state of grace " that he was one of the elect, in fact. 
 His conversion took place on a certain day in June at a 
 chapel in Tottenham Court Road ; at a special instant of 
 time his sins were forgiven ; from that time forward he 
 was secure, his celestial condition was sin-proof. 
 
 " And I only wish, sir, you was in the happy frame of 
 mind as I have felt in ever since." 
 
 Bredman's affection for his wife seemed very strong. 
 He took much pleasure in telling me, in reply to my in-
 
 THE PIOUS MODEL. 311 
 
 quiries after her, that " It couldn't be very far off ;" and 
 the tears often came into his eyes, and on more than one 
 occasion rolled down his cheeks, when he drew affecting 
 pictures of the danger and suffering that might be in store 
 for her. My model lived somewhere in Southwark, and 
 on a tempestuous night in December he rang my door- 
 bell. It was late ; my servants had gone to bed, and I 
 was about to follow, when the bell stopped me. On open- 
 ing the door, I found Bred man drenched with rain, and 
 in a terrible state of mind. The event had taken place 
 unexpectedly ; no preparation, or scarcely any, had been 
 made ; no baby-clothes. " No nothing hardly," said the 
 weeping man. " Would Mrs. Frith look him out some- 
 thing ?" The doctor said the poor thing must have 
 " strengthening things, port wine," etc., and he had no 
 means. I aroused my wife, and Bredman left with a bun- 
 dle of small habiliments, port wine not being forgotten. 
 Our sittings continued, and each morning I anxiously 
 inquired after the wife and child. 
 
 " The doctor is very kind, sir, very attentive. He says 
 she'll pull through, he thinks ; but she is very bad, and 
 he don't know if the child will live. Oh ! if only she is 
 saved, how truly thankful I shall be !" 
 
 I had recommended the man as a model to several of 
 my brother artists, among the rest to my old friend Mr. 
 Egg, R.A. 
 
 About a fortnight after Mrs. Bredman's confinement I 
 met Mr. Egg, who had received a call from Bredman, and 
 an appeal for assistance in similar terms to those he had 
 made to me. Egg was a bachelor, so baby-clothes were 
 impossible ; but money and wine were supplied abun- 
 dantly. 
 
 A month elapsed, during which I had varying accounts 
 of Mrs. Bredman's condition from her husband. More 
 port wine, and a promise which did not seem enthusias- 
 tically received that Mrs. Frith would go to Southwark 
 as soon as his wife was well enough to see her. 
 
 " It's such a poor place, you know, sir, for a lady to 
 come to ; and the poor thing is so weak and nervous, the 
 doctor says it wouldn't do not yet."
 
 312 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 . I think six weeks had passed since Bredman had been 
 made a happy father, when a friend of mine, a Mr. Bassett, 
 who had frequently seen Bredman sitting to me, called 
 to tell me that he had just received a visit from my model, 
 in great distress at the premature confinement of his wife 
 there were no preparations, no baby-clothes, and so on. 
 Mr. Bassett was not provided with infant habiliments, but 
 he was with money and port wine, both of which were 
 gratefully carried off by my pious friend. 
 
 " Did he tell you when the event took place ?" asked I. 
 
 " Yes," said Bassett, " last night between ten and eleven; 
 and he would have come to me then if it hadn't been so 
 late." 
 
 What a very extraordinary woman Mrs. Bredman must 
 be ! thought I. It then occurred to me that it was de- 
 sirable, in the interest of myself and friends, that I should 
 see this wonderful woman. Accordingly I lost no time 
 in wending my way to Southwark. I easily found Mr. 
 Breclman's lodging, which, as he said, was but a poor 
 place. There was a perpendicular row of bell-handles, 
 and I pulled one after another, till I found the door an- 
 swered by a respectable-looking woman. 
 
 " Does Mr. Bredman live here ?" 
 
 "Yes, sir; but he is not at home: he has been out all 
 day." 
 
 " Is Mrs. Bredman in ?" 
 
 "Who, sir?" 
 
 " Mrs. Bredman." 
 
 " He ain't married ; there ain't no Mrs. Bredman. He 
 has lodged here two years and a half, and I am quite sure 
 he is not married. Why, he is that cheerful and steady; 
 always in, and reading of an evening, when he ain't play- 
 ing with my children, and they are that fond of him !" 
 
 " Oh," said I, " I thank you ; I wish you good-evening." 
 
 It happened that my regenerated friend was engaged 
 to sit for me the morning after my journey to Southwark, 
 and it certainly seemed strange that his landlady had said 
 nothing to him about the inquirer after Mrs. Bredman ; 
 that such was the case was evident by the placid uncon- 
 cern with which my model fell into the attitude in which
 
 I Hi: PIOUS MODEL. 313 
 
 he may be seen in "Ramsgate Sands," where he is de- 
 picted offering a "Tombola" for sale to an old woman 
 who will none of it. 
 
 " Well, Bredman, how's the wife ?" 
 
 " I think she'll pull through, now, sir. She felt a little 
 faint last night ; I gave her some of your port wine, and 
 she got all right. I hope I shall always remember you 
 and Mrs. Frith, and all your kindness." 
 
 " Did you taste it yourself, Bredman ?" 
 
 " Well, I won't deceive you, sir ; she made me take just 
 a drop, and it was that good !" 
 
 " And the baby by the way, is it a boy or a girl ?" 
 
 " A boy, sir. He rather squints just now, and he is a 
 little yellow, but the doctor says those things will mend 
 themselves." 
 
 " Doesn't kneeling like that tire you very much ? Just 
 rest a while." 
 
 " Thank you, sir," and the Testament was produced as 
 usual. 
 
 " Put that book away, Bredman; I don't like to see you 
 handling it just now." 
 
 " Ah, sir, if only you would ' 
 
 " Bredman, do you know what the punishment is for 
 those who obtain money by false pretences ?" 
 
 " No, sir." 
 
 " Well, then, you are very likely to know. You have no 
 wife and no child ; you have obtained clothes and money 
 from me, from Mr. Egg, Mr. Bassett, and probably from 
 others, and you richly deserve Now, what have you 
 got to say for yourself?" 
 
 In an instant the man was sobbing, the tears pouring 
 down his face. He evidently couldn't speak for some 
 moments. Ho then looked up with an expression on his 
 face quite new to me, and he said : 
 
 " I am an infernal rogue, ain't I ?" 
 
 " You are," said I. " Now get out of my room, and 
 never let me see your face again !" 
 
 The man's character became too well known in the pro- 
 fession for the calling of model to be any longer possible 
 for him, and strange as it may appear, though his career 
 14
 
 314 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 as a hypocritical knave was well known to us, a sufficient 
 sum was subscribed by artists to enable him to go to Aus- 
 tralia. He found his way to the diggings, which were in 
 full swing at that time ; and I received a grateful letter 
 from him, still in my possession, in which he informed 
 me he was prospering, and he hoped helping the good 
 cause by the sale of religious works in a store at Ballarat.
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 VISIT TO ITALY. 
 
 IN the early days of the study of art in this country it 
 was thought so necessary for the student to go to Italy, 
 where the finest pictures were supposed to be plentiful 
 and easy of access, that special advantages were offered 
 to those who had gained gold medals in the Royal Acad- 
 emy to enable students with slender purses to spend two 
 years abroad. In those days we had no National Gallery, 
 and, no doubt, Italy contained treasures which have since 
 found their way to this country. However that may be, 
 a visit that I paid to Italy in the year at which these 
 reminiscences have arrived convinced me that, with the 
 exception of Florence, the student will seek in vain for 
 works of the Old Masters to be compared for a moment 
 with those of our own in the National Gallery. 
 
 We are students to the end of our days, but it is not in 
 our juvenescent period that we can appreciate the works 
 of Raphael and Michael Angelo. Those giants put forth 
 their full strength in Rome, and, if that city be visited at 
 all, it should be at a time when the mind's eyes have been 
 opened by long study and experience. As a proof of this 
 it may be remembered that even so great a genius as Rey- 
 nolds who saw the Sistine Chapel and the frescoes in the 
 Vatican when he was but a tyro confesses to his disap- 
 pointment and wonder at the reputation of Michael An- 
 gelo ; though he lived to be thankful that he could fully 
 appreciate that great man, of which he gave a touching 
 proof in the last of his lectures to the students at the 
 Royal Academy, the closing words of which were the name 
 of Michael Angelo. 
 
 Some letters written by me during my visit to Italy have 
 been preserved, and I propose to quote largely from them,
 
 316 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 as they will be found, among other I trust amusing 
 descriptive matter, to contain opinions on art carefully 
 formed, and still unaltered. 
 
 My wife and two daughters accompanied me, and we 
 put ourselves in the care of the best of couriers. Our route 
 lay through Paris to Marseilles, from whence I write : 
 
 " Marseilles is a wonderful place. We seemed to have arrived at the 
 blue sky and heat of Italy. The Mediterranean so blue but not so blue 
 as it is always painted and on the shores of it every conceivable type of 
 human being except the English : I saw not one yesterday. Such fellows ! 
 Greeks, Turks, Spaniards in fact, types of every nation under the sun. 
 And then, the Marseilles women, though seldom pretty, and with no special 
 costume to mark them, are full of character. I saw the flower-girls that 
 
 A talks of, but there is nothing except that they sit in a kind of 
 
 nest under an awning, which is picturesque enough to distinguish them 
 from other flower-girls ; and there was not a pretty one among them. This 
 place is a second Paris on a small scale. Splendid streets, boulevards 
 with arcades of linden-trees the shade from which will be required in 
 summer incessant jingling of horse-bells, peculiar cries, and still more 
 peculiar smells." 
 
 " NICE, April 6. 
 
 "We left Marseilles on Sunday afternoon, and passed through some 
 lovely country to reach this place. Whether it was that my fellow-travel- 
 lers were over-fatigued (one being quite ill) to take interest in it, I can't 
 tell ; but I could get only a languid look up from Miss Braddon or Wilkie 
 Collins when I appealed to them to admire the mountains of Savoy, whose 
 snowy tops were just receiving the last rays of the setting sun wonder- 
 fully like the best scenery of an opera ! There are those pine-trees that 
 grow to a good height and then terminate in a round, black, bushy top 
 so often reproduced by Turner and others. And the rocks and hills in the 
 uncertain, silvery, misty light of evening looking so like what in theatrical 
 phrase are termed flats, as if, at a whistle of a man at the wings, they could 
 be slid along. 
 
 " We arrived at Nice just as evening changed into night, and were de- 
 posited at a charming hotel facing the Mediterranean, with geraniums in 
 full bloom, and palms and cacti growing in profusion from the front down 
 to the sea. I stepped from the window on to a broad marble balcony 
 the sky so clear and pure, the stars seeming brighter and nearer than at 
 home, to a degree that our distance from England did not seem to account 
 for. The night was most lovely, and, though there was no moon, I fancied 
 I could see miles over the sea. Just as I was turning to go back to the 
 dining-room, a clear ringing voice from below struck up the hymn to the 
 Virgin. How perfectly the music seemed in harmony with the scene ! 
 Only a strongish flight of poetic fancy was required to induce one to be- 
 lieve that the lovely tones of the ' Ave Maria ' reached the stars that seemed
 
 VISIT TO ITALY. 317 
 
 " ' It is a blind Italian woman, sir,' said the waiter. ' She always comes 
 on Sundays to sing the Evening Hymn. Dinner ia ready.' 
 
 "Fancy waking next morning and finding the beautiful bay as foggy as 
 London, a pelting rain falling, and the sky when you could see it as 
 unpromising as it could well be. For the present, getting out was out of 
 the question. In the afternoon the weather cleared a little, and we drove 
 through Nice and on to the hills that envelop and environ it, from the top 
 of which you take in the whole panorama of Nice, with the two horns of 
 its crescent form stretching far out into the Mediterranean. Villas of 
 every possible and impossible form nestled among pine and olive trees, 
 castellated whims of idiotic Englishmen, Gambart'a marble palace, magnif- 
 icent hotels, and long rows of houses and shops not so very unlike East- 
 bourne make up the brick and mortar of the scene, and have done their 
 best, or their worst, to spoil the glorious handiwork of Nature." 
 
 " April 7. 
 
 " Yesterday we went to Monaco, where I saw Ilomburg in little, Rouge 
 et Noiron its last legs black legs a very languid affair compared to what 
 I remember it in Germany ; the rooms small and tawdry compared with 
 the Salon d'Or. But Monaco, with its delicious gardens overhanging 
 the sea, lovely beyond description ! The place is heaven, with a hell in the 
 midst of it. As to his altitude the prince of that little country, he had 
 best make hay while the sun shines, fur the time will soon come when the 
 gates of his infernal region will be closed and the devils shut up. The 
 existence of this monarch, with his little kingdom and his little army the 
 whole affair a kind of doll's house! The capital is perched on a lovelv 
 hill ; the streets being but narrow passages, many of them impassable for 
 carriages, and in none could one carriage pass another. And then the wee 
 soldiers tawdry with blue and gold, with their little cocked-hats done up 
 in oilskin, marching about like bantams and keeping sentry over nothing 
 at all are supremely ridiculous, and would be passed with a shrug ami a 
 smile if they did not assist to keep up what is a scandal to Europe. Bis- 
 marck is wanted. 
 
 " We dined at the hotel at Monte Carlo, wolfish women sitting opposite 
 to us, whose gambling we had watched, and whose hunger was as ravenous 
 as their way of satisfying it was revolting. As we left the place at eight 
 o'clock, on our return to Nice, trains were depositing scores of gamblers 
 whose eager rush to the room w:is awful to see. I must not quit Nice 
 without an effort to give you an idea of the house in which my old friend 
 Gambart is passing, if not the evening, the afternoon of a prosperous life. 
 You must try to figure for yourself the kind of place described in the 
 1 Lady of Lyons ' ' a palace lifting to eternal summer its marble walls 
 from out of groves ' of so-and-so ' musical with birds ' and you will arrive 
 at an idea of Gambart's place, barring the birds. It is a long, two-storied 
 building of purest white marble, with statues on the top relieved against 
 the sky ; exquisite in proportion and in taste, outside and in. The rooms, 
 lofty and light, filled, but not overcrowded, with pictures, sculptures, china, 
 and the rest of it. We had luncheon in harmony with the surroundings,
 
 318 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 rare Venetian glass, pretty to look at, but awkward to drink from ; though 
 what was in the glass was as rare as the glass itself. Baron Gudin, the 
 marine painter, was there ; he gave me a very high-flown and eulogistic 
 reception, and showed unmistakable symptoms of an intention of kissing 
 me. I am glad he didn't proceed to that dreadful extremity, for I must 
 have submitted. Neither my pen nor my pencil could do justice to Gam- 
 bart's palace. He has groves of olive-trees, miles of palm- walks (the estate 
 is called Les Palmiers), masses of orange-trees the fruit of which, ripe in 
 April, is, to my taste, inferior to the two-a-penny oranges in London and 
 every variety of flowers in almost tropical luxuriance. ' These were in 
 their full beauty in January,' he says, 'but are now going off a little.' 
 Think of that state of things in Nice, and London in January ! Here, high 
 above the sea, and from a terrace at the bottom of the garden, you get a 
 view of the bay and the whole of Nice such as, I imagine, the whole world 
 cannot surpass. To-day we take the famous drive along the Cornice Road 
 to St. Remo, and to-morrow to Genoa." 
 
 " GENOA, April 10. 
 
 " We left Nice on Wednesday, and arrived at St. Remo, our first Italian 
 stopping-place, in the evening, after the most wonderful drive in the world 
 along the famous Cornice Road no pen nor tongue can give an idea of the 
 beauty of it. After leaving Nice we were nearly two hours ascending the 
 mountains, a high stone wall to the right of us, and to the left mountain 
 after mountain, now close upon us, then rearing themselves in shadowy 
 distance ; valley after valley, sometimes on our level, sometimes far down 
 below. Now the road wound round the summit of a hill, with only a low 
 parapet to protect you from a precipice a thousand feet deep. Then you 
 turned suddenly, and found the blue Mediterranean to vary the scene. 
 What effects of light and shadow on the landscape ! the scattered houses 
 looking like toys so far below, then mile after mile of olive-trees and won- 
 derful Eastern-looking patches of date and palm trees. It was a scene to 
 be remembered and what a feeble idea I have given you of it ! 
 
 " We stopped to rest at Mentone a close, stifling place, much favored 
 by invalids. I think the finest view of all was from the hill, after leaving 
 Mentone, on the top of which is the Italian custom-house. Never can ! 
 forget the look back. Mentone stretches far into the sea at the base of a 
 mountain of magnificent form ; this is repeated by still grander mountain- 
 shapes, piled one upon another till they are lost in distance. Some were 
 snow-topped, and the summits of others seemed suspended in air, from 
 the effect of clouds which lay in misty volume across them. The sun now 
 and again lightened up distant valleys, or glinted for a moment across the 
 mountain-sides. The day was slightly cloudy, and very favorable for see- 
 ing variety of effect ; and I fully appreciated it. We stayed the night at 
 St. Remo a lovely spot and then started for Genoa on a tedious, but 
 grand, journey by rail along the sea to this city of palaces, where we ar- 
 rived in the evening." 
 
 "PiSA, April 12. 
 
 " We only stayed one night in Genoa a place full of interest, and the 
 first at which I found fine pictures only a few of them, but those few
 
 VISIT TO ITALY. 310 
 
 how splendid! The Via Nuora and Nuovissima arc composed of the 
 palaces of the old and modern nobility very few of the former are left 
 The palaces where the Dorias, the Balbis, and the Spinolas lived and plotted 
 are caffs or photographic establishments. So, instead of love-iiiunmr..-, 
 or the interchange of a look or a rapid word that devoted a rival to perdi- 
 tion, you have the rattle of billiard-balls and the smell of collodion. The 
 streets are so narrow between these palaces that two carriages can barely 
 pass. There is no foot-pavement, and how people arc not frequently run 
 over amazes me ; but the high doorways and the massive doors ! and the 
 courtyards, inner court after inner court, till you arrive at marble staircases 
 guarded by marble animals, intended, probably, for lions bigger than any 
 real lions in the world. And when you are at the top of the stairs and 
 ' such a getting up-stairs ' it is you find yourself in rooms with decorations 
 unlike anything you ever saw ; and here and there pictures by Vandyke, 
 painted by that young gentleman when he was a guest, perhaps in the very 
 rooms in which you stand, and placed by him on the walls, in the frames 
 in which you find them. What would those splendid swells who look as 
 if they were born to command the world say if they could see the uses to 
 which their homes have come at last ? Most of the Genoese Vandykes 
 have been sold and removed ; but in the Pallavacini Palace there are several 
 as fine, or finer, than any I have seen, together with Italian and Spanish 
 pictures of great beauty. The Academy of Arts, in which two or three 
 melancholy students were drawing, was a dismal business. The place was 
 filled with bad pictures of the modern Italian school. 
 
 " We were taken through all the schools. In the Life School there was 
 the stuffy, hot feeling I know so well indeed, except that the room is 
 much smaller than that nt Burlington House, I could have fancied myself 
 there. 
 
 "The churches are, of course, splendid in Genoa and everywhere else, 
 but those we have seen up to the present writing have contained no note- 
 worthy pictures ; and, as their other attractions were no attractions to me, 
 I confess I was anxious to avoid them partly on account of the risk of 
 cold to my party as our courier was determined I should not miss one 
 if he could help it. Many fights we had on the church question, but I was 
 nearly always conqueror. 
 
 " We intended to have driven round Genoa the morning we left, but the 
 rain was incessant ; and for the last few days we have had fires, and I 
 have been glad of a great-coat. I therefore know nothing of the splendor 
 of the bny, about which I have heard so much, except what I saw of it as 
 we came in by rail. The railway journeys are lovely, so far that from 
 Genoa to Pisa surpassing everything. The Gulf of Spezzia, where Shelley 
 was drowned, the Carrara marble mountains, and the whole route, form a 
 variety of pictures never to be forgotten. We saw the leaning tower of 
 Pisa and the group of buildings near it in the evening light, but reached 
 Pisa too late to visit them till yesterday morning. I wish I could give you 
 an idea of the old-world look of the things. They stand together the 
 cathedral, the tower, and the Campo Santo alone, silent, but how elo- 
 quent ! I have never before seen any building that conveyed to me so
 
 320 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 complete a sense of what may be called the ' atmosphere of dead centu- 
 ries ' that seemed to encompass them grave and dignified, without the 
 least thing in common with the present time." 
 
 " ROME, April 14. 
 
 " We arrived here at seven to-night, and all I have seen of Home was 
 in a drive through some streets, which are exactly like those of any sec- 
 ond-rate French town the same jingling of horse-bells, the same tall 
 houses with green window-shutters, more French than Italian names on 
 the shops in fact, French all over. I could see the Pincian Hill from 
 my window at the Hotel Russie if it were not too dark so says the land- 
 lord, who looks and talks like an English duke. 
 
 " One of the most charming places we have yet seen is Pisa. The Arno, 
 a muddy, yellow stream, runs through it, and our hotel was on the bank. 
 On looking out of window, on the night of our arrival, we saw a quaint 
 line of Italian buildings, consisting of churches, palaces, tall campanili a 
 beautifully broken, irregular architectural line, relieved darkly against a 
 glorious evening sky. An oddly-shaped, angular house was one of these, 
 and, on inquiry next day as we drove past it, I was informed it was the 
 Palazzo Ugolino. 
 
 " ' And there, sir,' said the driver, ' is the count.' 
 
 "Every one knows Reynolds' ' Ugolino,' that grim old man, sitting hun- 
 gry or perhaps past hunger waiting for death, with his children about 
 him, in the Torre de Fame at Pisa. I turned round and had a good look 
 at the lineal descendant of the starved old count, and beheld a small, 
 good-looking dandy, with a little black mustache, smoking a long, thin 
 Italian cigar ; his cloak thrown over his shoulder in the assassin fashion 
 common in these parts, and walking as the Italian youth is prone to move, 
 like a theatrical supernumerary who has either just committed a murder 
 behind the scenes or is on his way to do it. 
 
 " There is nothing in the way of pictures at Pisa. Those at the Campo 
 Santo, though interesting, could never have been fine frescoes, and are 
 now all but destroyed. 
 
 " The next evening found us at Siena, after a railway journey passing, 
 as usual, through fine scenery, if we could have seen it ; but there was a 
 continuous downpour, causing mists which obscured our views with provok- 
 ing pertinacity. But, from glimpses of mountain and valley, I have no 
 doubt a fine day would have revealed great beauties. Of all the filthy 
 places to stop at how much more to live in commend me to Siena. 
 Never can I forget the drive through those narrow, sloppy streets, the tall, 
 black houses overhanging and choking one, through street after street, till 
 we stopped at a dark, low-roofed entry, and were told we had arrived at 
 our inn. Great Heaven ! "What a place to stop at! We walked up the 
 wet, dirty, uneven flagstones, escorted by a little brigand-like landlord, to 
 a cavernous staircase, so dark that it required a dull oil-lamp even in day- 
 light to direct the feet of us miserable guests up a honeycombed marble 
 staircase till we reached a great, rambling, dirty sitting-room, with chairs 
 BO hard that it was a positive relief to stand. And the bedrooms oh, the
 
 VISIT TO ITALY. 321 
 
 bedrooms '.mine looked as if forty murders had been committed in it. 
 Our dismayed faces, after the comforts of Pisa, may be imagined. ' We 
 won't stop ! Nothing should induce us !' and so on. But we soon found 
 Siena was our master, for the other inns were, if possible, worse ; and, 
 what was worst of all, we could not leave for Rome till Wednesday, for the 
 train left at ten in the morning, and it was now seven at night and 
 4 there is so much to see in Siena, signer.' So we ate our dirty dinner, 
 waited upon by the dirtiest waiter eyes ever beheld, and went to bed on 
 straw mattresses, which made a horrible noise when we moved. I was 
 awakened at two in the morning by a series of hollow groans coming from 
 the room next to mine, like the last signs of life in a man being murdered. 
 I sat up in bed and simply said to myself, 'That is a queer noise!' when 
 it was repeated with additions and improvements. I soon became awake 
 to the fact, which was that my neighbor had a bad attack of nightmare ; 
 and I don't know which disturbance was the worse, the nightmare or the 
 finale to ' Lucia,' to which he treated me as I was dressing in the morning. 
 After a dirty breakfast, served by the dirty waiter, we sallied forth to the 
 cathedral, which repaid us to some extent for the discomfort we had en- 
 dured. It is truly magnificent, with its wealth of ornament, its lovely in- 
 laid marbles and mosaics. It is built of black and white marble in alter- 
 nate layers, so the effect of the columns is something like a lady's black- 
 and-white-barred stocking, not altogether pleasing to my eye. 
 
 " The school of painting in Siena was one of the most famous in Italy. 
 In the Academy there was a large collection of what Flatow called 'the 
 Chamber-of-Horror pattern,' not half so good as ours in the National Gal- 
 lery, and some of it with little more pretension to be classed as real art 
 than that of Japan or China. But in one of the churches there is an ex- 
 quUitc Crucifixion by Perugino, Raphael's master ; and the library of the 
 cathedral is decorated with frescoes by Pintoricchio, a friend and fellow- 
 pupil of Raphael's. These are wonderful works, and for the first time in 
 my life I felt the full beauty of fresco: this sensation to be strengthened 
 and confirmed to its utmost extent by what I saw by Raphael in Rome. 
 There are no doubt some very picturesque buildings in Siena, notably the 
 town-hall in the great piazza, with its thin, tall tower, and lots of churches 
 filled with wretched pictures ; but he who misses Siena will not miss much 
 besides dirt and discomfort. IIow glad I was to find myself spinning 
 along through exquisite scenery on the brightest of bright mornings, leav- 
 ing Siena behind, and having Rome in front ! Never, to my last day, shall 
 I forget the first sight of Rome, or, rather, of the dome of St. Peter's on 
 the horizon, marking the place of the Eternal City." 
 
 "RoHK, April 18, 1875. 
 
 " My head is in such confusion from all I have seen in Rome that I 
 shall find it difficult to convey to you any of the wonders of the place. 
 Modern Rome is a huge French town, less Italian than Pisa or Siena a 
 great deal. But ancient Rome, or, rather, the ruins of it what can I say 
 of them that has not been much better said already ? It is impossible to 
 give a notion of the sensations that take possession of you on the first 
 14*
 
 322 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 sight of the Forum, with its triumphal arch and its time-mouldered col- 
 umns, the Via Sacra running through it, paved with the very slabs of rough 
 stone, unlike in shape and color to anything in the world, over which poured 
 the thousands thronging to the bloody shows at the Coliseum ! 
 
 " It must be a dull imagination indeed that does not repair the broken 
 seats, replace the enormous awning, and see the row upon row of passion- 
 ate eyes watching the struggle of the gladiators, or enjoying with brutal 
 pleasure the sufferings of the Christians. Certainly if the Christians suf- 
 fered eighteen hundred years ago, they have much the best of it now ; for, 
 instead of worshipping in secret catacombs, they are now housed in such 
 ' poems in stone ' as prove, in their absolute perfection, the hopelessness 
 of rivalry, and go far to reconcile us (in the impossibility of excelling these 
 works of the mighty dead) to the constant reproduction of them by mod- 
 ern architects. 
 
 " I think I may safely assert that there are more bad pictures in Rome 
 than in any city in the world. The good pictures may be counted on your 
 ten fingers, always excepting the works of Raphael and Michael Angelo ; 
 indeed, I doubt if I have seen ten, though I have visited so many palaces 
 inhabited by the descendants of the Colonnas, Dorias, Farnesi, Cenci, and 
 the rest of them ; but then the ten are magnificent. In one palace, the 
 Farnesina, there is a gallery filled with Raphael's frescoes ; in another 
 the ' Sacred and Profane Love,' by Titian, perhaps the finest picture in the 
 world; a splendid portrait of a villainous-looking pope, by Velasquez; a 
 ' Danae,' by Correggio, his best work out of Parma ; and a few works of 
 the Italian school. 
 
 " We went yesterday to a monastery to see a lot of mouldering remains 
 of lamps, spoons, broken armor, etc., said to be contemporary with the 
 Caesars, the ruins of whose palace still exist in huge, ugly masses, round 
 which the east wind blew with an icy sharpness in April, unsurpassable 
 on a winter's day in the Highlands. I think I have seen more villainous 
 faces in Rome than I ever saw before, both in men and women the for- 
 mer look as if they would gladly cut your throat for sixpence, and the lat- 
 ter as if they would assist in the operation. The graves of Keats and 
 Shelley, which we saw yesterday, are tenderly cared for. 
 
 " I had two delightful hours this afternoon alone with Michael Angelo 
 and Raphael in the Sistine Chapel and the Vatican. I left the place fully 
 persuaded that the two men were superhuman, unrivalled, and forever un- 
 approachable. The study of their works ends in the conviction that the 
 painters implicitly believed in the divine truth of the themes they illus- 
 trated nothing else, notwithstanding their God-gifted geniu.*, could have 
 inspired them ; and, difficult as it is to believe that Raphael really took it 
 for granted that saints, armed with long swords, appeared in the sky at a 
 moment when fortune was. going against one of the popes in battle, and so 
 turned the tables on his enemies, I think the assumption must be allowed." 
 
 " NAPLES, April 23. 
 
 "We left Rome on Wednesday, and at a distance of at least fifty miles 
 from Naples, Vesuvius loomed upon us; more gigantic, and in all ways
 
 VISIT TO ITALY. 323 
 
 grander, than we expected. The smoke from the cone looked at first like 
 a little white cloud resting on the summit; but a nearer approach showed 
 us its movability, and we very soon could distinguish the volumes of smoke 
 as they ascended into the evening air, and then moved away in cloudlike 
 forms. 
 
 " As we drove through Naples from the station I felt the keenest disap- 
 pointment. There is an Italian proverb, 'See Naples, and then die' of 
 the smells, I should add ; for of all the dirty places and dirty people I 
 ever saw, the like of those we passed through on our way to the hotel sur- 
 passed all previous experience. But at lust we turned towards the bny, 
 and then the glorious sight that met my eyes was ample compensation. 
 Something like Nice, Naples forms a huge crescent, backed up by hills of 
 every shape and color ; with Vesuvius looking like a king among his vas- 
 sals as he towers above the rest. Every variety of color pearly-gray, 
 golden-brown, and the tenderest negative green mixing together in the 
 evening light, pervaded the mountains ; and they seemed almost upon you 
 in the pellucid air. But oh ! the dirty, colorless, unpicturesque brutes that 
 made the living element in this magic scene ! I had imagined the luzza- 
 roni of Naples with red caps, faded velvet jackets of every shade of color, 
 naked legs and thighs, mending nets, chatting to dark-eyed beauties, and 
 so on ; instead of which they are drabby, shabby, dirty creatures, ugly and 
 revolting in every way. Parts of Naples, away from the fashionable quar- 
 ter, strongly remind one of the worst parts of Ramsgate, Folkestone, or 
 Hastings. You might fancy yourself at either of those places, and this in 
 front of that eternally lovely bay ! If the creatures lived at iloundsditch, 
 we might have fancied that their surroundings had demoralized them ; but 
 they never seem to look at anything but one another's heads, or into the 
 filthy messes they are eating. 
 
 " The museum at Naples contains some of the finest sculpture in the 
 world, to say nothing of the Pompeian relics, more interesting, perhaps, 
 to the casual observer. 
 
 " On Friday we spent the day at Herculaneum and Pompeii. It was a 
 long drive through Portici, and not a pretty one filili and beggars all the 
 way. We stopped at nn inn to order luncheon ; and while it was pre- 
 paring we drove to the Pompeian Amphitheatre, which stands alone at 
 present, on the outskirts of what was Pompeii the greater part of which 
 is still buried under volcanic ashes. And there stands the arena not 
 circular, as I had fancied, but elliptical most of the stone seats still stand- 
 ing one above the other in long tiers. The dens of the animals, the wait- 
 ing-room of the gladiators, might have been occupied yesterday ! To a 
 reader of Bulwer, how specially interesting! the empty look of the place 
 so often filled by eager thousands; the awful contrast between the still- 
 ness now, and the mingled roars of beasts, and men worse than beasts, 
 that rose into the great sky thousands of years ago ! Then there are the 
 very seats, in the best part larger and more commodious, in which the 
 aristocracy sat. Separate boxes for the ladies at the top (the women never 
 sat with the men) were broken and grass-grown, but all so nearly com- 
 plete, that a very little would restore the amphitheatre to its original con-
 
 324 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND KEMINISCENCES. 
 
 dition. As we drove to it we passed on the side of the road what ap- 
 peared to me a cluster of mud-hovels ; very small, dirty, and drabby, roof- 
 less and miserable, without a vestige of color, or column, or statue ; and a 
 modern shed with new red tiles here and there, put up apparently to pro- 
 tect something. I looked. I heard the courier, whom everybody here 
 treats with great respect and calls Signor Corriere, say : ' Dere you haf 
 Pompeii, sir !' ' Well, of all the sells in the world !' we all exclaimed ; 
 and very foolish we were to be so rashly guided by first impressions, for 
 the roofless, colorless place that Pompeii certainly seems at a distance, re- 
 solved itself, on nearer approach, into the most wonderful little city in the 
 world ; but it seems built for pigmies. The streets are eleven feet wide 
 at their widest ; the houses were never more than one story high, and 
 they were all built on the same plan ; but the frescoes and other decora- 
 tions are very varied and beautiful. 
 
 " Our guide through the ruins was a Neapolitan soldier ; and what with 
 his comical French, and his still more comical manners, he kept us highly 
 amused. He seemed to think what he had to describe ought to interest 
 us as much as if he were showing the gates of heaven ; and the way in 
 which he said in English (the only words he could speak in that language) 
 ' by and by, sare, by and by,' when we attempted to anticipate his narra- 
 tive, was indescribable. He called me ' Mosseu ' at every word, and was 
 altogether inimitable in look, manners, and everything. I was surprised 
 to find that not more than a third of the little city is uncovered ; and the 
 excavations are now going on with great vigor. Discoveries of deep in- 
 terest are made every day ; and as we wandered about we could see the 
 workmen as busy as bees pickaxing away the lava and ashes, like a lot 
 of English navvies. A friend of our conductor's said something to him 
 that made him start ; and he left us, only to return running and gesticu- 
 lating like a madman. ' Mosseu, on a trouvay oone cadavre.' The deuce 
 they have, thought I; that will be something to see. Fancy the thrilling 
 interest with which I approached the excavations, and saw the men kneel- 
 ing and carefully picking away the volcanic matter from the body of a 
 woman so perfect that you could not only distinguish the sex, but you felt 
 sure she had been beautiful ! Anything more pathetic could not be con- 
 ceived a young mother with little children huddled about her ; one hand 
 covered her face, and with the other she had tried to protect a child from 
 the pitiless shower of sulphurous ashes and boiling water that over- 
 whelmed them in that awful time. She conveyed to me, as she lay there, 
 the struggle she had made to escape, through darkness so dense ac- 
 cording to Pliny, who was in it that people could not see each other, 
 though they might be touching ; and at last in despair had thrown herself 
 down to die, and be concealed under the fatal ashes for eighteen centu- 
 ries ; then to be uncovered before the eyes of the present writer. I only 
 saw the upper part of the body down to a little below the waist brought 
 to light, the excavators telling us they were obliged to be so tender with 
 their work that it might be many hours before the whole figure was 
 revealed. 
 
 " Hcrculaneum is very like Pompeii, but the extent excavated is much
 
 VISIT TO ITALY. 325 
 
 smaller. Instead of the shower of ashes that overwhelmed Pompeii, lava, 
 in some places thirty feet thick, had been poured upon lierculaneum ; 
 forming a surface hard as flint The difficulty of removing such an ob- 
 struction may be imagined. 
 
 "The wonderful freshness of the Pompcian houses, as they are laid 
 open to the light of day, is astonishing; and the things they find! On a 
 plate were some walnuts, some cracked and opened, some whole ; a bunch 
 of grapes ; three or four olives in a dish, one cut in half, nnd the knife ly- 
 ing by. As to the frescoes and inscriptions, they look aj if they had just 
 been executed. 
 
 " I must now take leave of Pompeii and return to Naples, from whence 
 we took a drive along the bay to Baiae, where we had an al-fretco lunch 
 that was delightful. We drove up to an Italian inn albergo, they call it 
 which has been uncommonly well imitated on the stage. We were con- 
 ducted up some stairs, outside the house, to a terrace overlooking the sea, 
 with the island of Capri in the distance. The landlord and landlady bus- 
 tled about, just as they do at a theatre. I felt I was acting a part, and 
 had only come on to the terrace from the side scenes. 
 
 " ' What can we have to eat ?' 
 
 " ' Well, signer ' (that's to myself), ' we can give you oysters from Lago ' 
 something or other, to which he pointed ' or these fishes, noble sir, which 
 were alive an hour ago.' 
 
 " ' Serve the banquet,' said I to the corrierr, who was interpreter, of 
 course ; and anything more enjoyable never was enjoyed. 
 
 " The landlord's eyes glistened, and his earrings twinkled with delight 
 at our praises of his food, above all of the wine of his own growing. 
 
 " ' Let the signer observe it is too early yet ; if he will come later he 
 will find the veranda, covering the terrace where he sits, a mass of 
 grapes.' 
 
 " The signer leans over the balcony smoking. The landlord desires to 
 know if the noble Englishman would like them to dance the Tarantella. 
 ' Yes, that is what he would like.' So from some depth below come up 
 two girls helpers or servants of the inn, perhaps with naked feet; and 
 such dresses ; about as unlike the stage as possible very dirty, but such 
 color! We could hear the rattle of the castanets a- the dancers came up- 
 stairs, followed by the jolly landlady, who carried a huge tambourine- 
 They ?et to work at once ; they twisted, they wriggled, they poiissetted op- 
 posite each other, swinging round and round ; the castanets constantly 
 crackling and keeping time to the tambourine. It was delightful to 
 watch the supple, stayless figures pcforming the national dance as if they 
 enjoyed it to the full. When the performers were thoroughly out of 
 breath we stopped them with some money, and took our leave of Ha'ui- 
 and them. 
 
 " We returned to Rome from Naples, and from thence we went to Flor- 
 ence, via Perugia. The latter is a delicious place, thoroughly Italian, 
 without Italian disagreeables. It is a very old city, wonderfully pictu- 
 resque; with its quaint, time-worn buildings crowning one of the Um- 
 brian hills, and overlooking the lovely valley, or, rather, valleys, of the
 
 326 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 Tiber. Of the view from my window I despair of giving you an idea, so 
 utterly unlike is it to anything you could see in England, or, indeed, any- 
 where but in Italy. Perhaps if you can fancy the view from Richmond 
 Hill magnified and repeated a thousand times, stretching for scores upon 
 scores of miles, you may get a faint idea ; but where are the eternal Apen- 
 nines to close up the distance? Where is the undulating country, huge 
 wave after wave, like a mighty sea melting away into faint aerial dis- 
 tance, dotted with giant yew or fir trees, and the ever-lovely olive and 
 vine now and again with the little cities and scattered hamlets shining in 
 sunlight? 
 
 " That gray clump at the foot of the snow-topped mountain, which you 
 can just make out to be a city, though it looks as if you could cover it 
 with your handkerchief, is Assisi, where we shall go presently. From my 
 standpoint I fancy I can trace the source of the backgrounds in the pict- 
 ures of Perugino, Raphael, and the rest of the Umbrian school ; indeed, 
 the resemblance of the landscape to that in the pictures, and the people to 
 the artists' models, is palpable. As to Messieurs Cimabue, Giotto, and 
 even Perugino, I fear I must confess I am sick of them. There is an un- 
 doubted earnestness, begot of belief, that amounts at times to solemnity, 
 and gives to what these men did an air of simple truth that is greatly to 
 be admired ; but it is conveyed to you through the medium of such im- 
 perfect art, such infantine attempts to produce what is shown in such 
 perfection in later times, that what is meant to be solemn is often ludi- 
 crous, and simplicity is pushed into lameness and insipidity; in fact, these 
 pictures are curiosities, and not works of art at all in the true sense of the 
 term. 
 
 " We drove to Assisi such a drive ! and saw the famous church, or 
 rather churches, for the immense pile consists of three churches built 
 over one another ; the whole covering the canonized bones of St. Francis 
 of Assisi, the remarkable person who preached to a congregation of birds. 
 The decorations in the upper church are entirely the work of Giotto; and 
 though they are in a sadly perished condition, the subjects can still be 
 traced. In one large fresco you find St. Francis represented in his 
 youthful days so misconducting himself that his father thought he was 
 mad, and seemed on the point of giving him a good thrashing for not at- 
 tending to his work, when an angel appears and informs the old gentleman 
 of the future destiny of his son. The old man, who is full of character, 
 looks at the angel with a kind of ' Can I believe my eyes ' expression ; 
 mixed with a look which conveyed to me the notion that the appearance 
 of the supernatural figure was suspected to be a trick of Francis's who 
 looks an idle dog to frighten his father. However, the stern parent's 
 heart is softened, his hand is stayed ; and Francis goes into the world and 
 proceeds to heal sick people, and cast out the ugliest devils that were 
 ever seen in this world or any other. Francis sees as many visions as he 
 pleases ; has the most familiar intercourse with the heavenly choir, from 
 the principal personages down to the smallest cherub ; and finally succeeds 
 in deluding himself, and millions of others, into absolute belief in such 
 follies a belief which they proceeded to prove to all the world by placing
 
 VISIT TO ITALY. 327 
 
 over the body of this weak-minded, hysterical monk a dream in stone, too 
 lovely for words; every inch of it colored and carved with a thoroughness 
 :ind a beauty that nothing but faith could bring about ; but faith in what ': 
 a series of impostures or self-delusions, or perhaps both. 
 
 " From my youth up I had been told by the happy people fresh from 
 Italy of the treasures in Florence. ' Until you have seen the Uffizi and 
 the Pitti Galleries,' said my travelled friends, 'you know nothing of the 
 powers of Raphael, Titian, and Correggio, to say nothing of the smaller 
 masters.' My delight in finding myself in Florence may be imagined; 
 though the hotel was so thronged that we were consigned to the third 
 floor, my bedroom being so close to a bell-tower that I could almost touch 
 it Florence seems to have hundreds of such towers seldom silent 
 so the chances of rest in their vicinity are remote; it was therefore 
 after a somewhat sleepless niglit that I paid my first visit to the Uffizi 
 Palace. 
 
 " In the tribune stands ' the statue that enchants the world.' I confess 
 I am not of that world, for I think the figure affected and idealized till 
 nature has almost left it. I had drawn from it often ; and the more I 
 knew of my art and of the Venus de' Medici, the less I thought of the lat- 
 ter, and the more surprised I was at its reputation : its sister Venus of 
 Milo immeasurably surpasses it in every quality. Close by the Medicean 
 Venus hangs that of Titian. A lovely reclining figure, said to be a por- 
 trait of the mistress of one of the Dukes d' Urbino. This picture displays 
 every charm of art in absolute perfection. The Uffizi Gallery bristles with 
 splendid specimens of all the great masters. Raphael's Circular Madonna, 
 with the holy Child, smiles ut you as the baker's daughter smiled upon the 
 painter; but the rapt expression of the San Sisto picture, which conveys 
 to you the impression that tlie ' most blessed among women ' is entirely ab- 
 sorbed in the consciousness of her awful destiny is absent from the Ma- 
 donna dclla Seggiola, who is but a lovely mother, caressing a no less lovely 
 child. Here we have one of the few specimens of Botticelli that my feeble 
 powers enable me to appreciate. I think I feel fully the beauties of the 
 Uffizi picture, which equals, if it does not surpass, the three angels in our 
 National Gallery a work that always gives me exquisite pleasure. But 
 this master so often disfigures his pictures by bad drawing and worse paint- 
 ing, and by such a revelling in ugliness notably seen in his * Venuscs' in 
 our collection as to make it a matter of wonder to me how admirers can 
 be found for them." 
 
 But I must hurry away from Florence, and again draw 
 upon letters written at the time from my experiences of 
 Italian travel: 
 
 "IIoTKL DASIKLI, VENICE, May 11, 1875. 
 
 " Here I am in Venice such a Venice, going infinitely beyond all I 
 could have conceived of it in exquisite beauty ! Instead of a cab at the 
 station, I took a gondola. Two Italians, just like organ-grinders in Lon- 
 don, one at the prow, the other at the stern, urged the black, hearsclike
 
 328 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 thing swiftly and silently along tlie water streets; past masses of gorgeous 
 palaces, and marble churches, with the most exquisite tracery of delicious 
 architectural detail that the mind of poet ever conceived. Such color, 
 lighted up here and there by the evening sun, and such associations con- 
 nected with every place ! 
 
 " ' What bridge is that ?' 
 
 " ' The Rialto.' 
 
 " ' And the smaller one, under which we have just passed ?' 
 
 " ' That, signer, is the Ponte dei Sospiri.' 
 
 " I had scarcely time to note the doge's palace on the one side, and the 
 awful prison, with its rusted, clamped, trebly-barred, niched windows on 
 the other, before we were out into the wide lagoon ; and, seeming to float 
 in the glorious light, was the Church of the Salute with its attendant lovely 
 surroundings." 
 
 "May 13. 
 
 " The Princess of Prussia is in this hotel, and the Venetians improvised 
 a water fete on the Grand Canal in honor of the royal visit. I did not in- 
 tend to have assisted at it, but a friend who had challenged me in the 
 picture-galleries had hired a boat, and it required very little pressure to in- 
 duce me to take a place in it ; and we soon found our gondola making one 
 among scores of others, most of them decorated with paper lanterns of 
 every conceivable form. 
 
 " We glided silently about, waiting for a big barge which presently ap- 
 peared ; a mass of light and flowers, in the midst of which was a military 
 band and chorus-singers from the opera. We on the gondolas surrounded 
 and followed the barge as it moved almost imperceptibly along ; the music 
 from the instruments rising up into the quiet air, thrilling and enchanting 
 us. We paused opposite this hotel in honor of the princess ; and then the 
 human voices, in what seemed to me delicious accord, broke in upon the 
 night ; and as the last strains from the band died away, again we moved 
 slowly in a serried mass. The figures of the gondoliers as they bent to 
 their work, now cutting dark against a mass of light, now lighted into 
 brilliancy as a blue or red light showed them up as clearly as the bright- 
 est sun. I don't exaggerate when I say that we were so jammed together 
 that you might have walked dryshod from one side of the Grand Canal to 
 the other ; and though I constantly found the bright steel prow of a gon- 
 dola close to my arm, or to my back, such was the wonderful skill of the 
 fellows that a violent blow never struck a boat, much less a human being, 
 the whole night through ; though at times the crowding would have alarmed 
 the timid. 
 
 " At our approach every detail of delicate tracery of some splendid palace 
 would be artificially lighted, seeming to welcome us. The steps of the 
 churches blazed with blue and red fire ; hundreds of faces lighted into a 
 ruddy glow, or a ghastly blue from the whiter light; then all on shore 
 dark again. Still we move slowly on, tho music swells and echoes up 
 the side canals ; and all the while the quiet moon looks down upon us 
 with her usual inscrutable indifference to all that goes on below. It was
 
 VISIT TO ITALY. 329 
 
 getting very late, so we left the procession at the Rialto, and went to our 
 hotel. 
 
 "The Academy at Venice contains the generally admitted chtf-dcntvre 
 of Tintoretto, the ' Miracle of St. Mark,' and the ' Great Assumption ' by 
 Titian, both works bestowing immortality in this world on their pro- 
 ducers. I should be wearisome if I were to name a tithe of the great 
 works that honor Venice. In no other place are you able thoroughly to 
 gauge the powers of Paul Veronese and Tintoretto, that unapproached and 
 unapproachable pair. Titian, too though a lamentable fire destroyed the 
 'Peter Martyr,' one of his grandest pictures, if we may judge by good copies 
 from it displays all liis strength ; unfortunately too often impaired by the 
 bad light in the churches, and by the height over the altars where the sa- 
 cred pictures have been hanging since the time of their production. The 
 doge's palace contains splendid examples of Paul Veronese, notably the 
 ' Europa,' which looks as fresh as if il had been painted yesterday. To 
 those who have never seen Venice it is impossible to impart the sensation 
 with which one finds one's self standing on the marble steps from whence 
 the head of Marino Faliero rolled from his shoulders; or with which one 
 sees the crape-covered space in the long line of portraits of the doges, on 
 which are inscribed his name and crime. I have walked on the Rialto, 
 where Shylock was taunted by Antonio. I have stood in front of the empty 
 seats of the Council of Ten, on the spot from which Othello addressed the 
 ' potent, grave, and reverend signiors.' I have been on the Bridge of Sighs, 
 and into the fearful prisons below; have seen the exact spot where the 
 headless bodies of the two Foscari were dropped into the secret water 
 and never, so long as 'memory holds her scat,' can these things pass 
 from me, 
 
 " I am familiar with the works of the Bolognese school, and, though 
 familiarity has not bred contempt, it has failed to create admiration ; and, 
 as I was told that I could not judge the painters fairly without seeing them 
 in their full strength at Bologna, leaving my family in Venice, I pro- 
 ceeded thither in charge of an excellent courier, Gustave, of whom I may 
 take this opportunity of giving a little account Gustave Zimmermann, a 
 Swiss by birth, a courier by profession, is a wiry man ; iron-gray, rather 
 thin, above middle height, and about fifty years old. He has a sharp, irri- 
 table face, a long upper lip, curving outward in the middle, and nice teeth ; 
 with a laugh rather too much like the grin of a monkey. His nostrils are 
 set at sharp angles at the end of his nose, and they dilate and turn out- 
 ward in a way that denotes the irritability of temper to which he is cer- 
 tainly subject ; and if we get home without some of these Italian fellows 
 sticking a knife into him, I shall be glad. To see him and them gestic- 
 ulate ovc~r half a franc is a sight ! He leaves the extortioners with his eyes 
 flashing, muttering: 'Damn rascals! damn tiefs! Dese fellows, dey tink 
 you come into doir damn country joost to put your hands into your pockatea 
 and gift dem all you have got; dat is what dey link you have come for, 
 damn rogues !' 
 
 "One of our party was always alarmed, and not unnaturally, at some of 
 the perilous-looking points of our precipitous drives ; and Gustavo's de-
 
 330 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND BEMINISCENCES. 
 
 light at the terror and his demoniac grin as he says, ' Ah ! miss is not 
 comfortable; ah! dere is no fear, no danger' should have been repro- 
 bated instead of encouraged by our laughter. Then he would say, ' Now 
 we are joost coming to a terrib' place, where a lady and a leetel child were 
 both keeled ;' and his demoniac smile spreads over his monkey-face. 
 
 " I do not think Gustavo's determination to take me into every church 
 in every town we visit arises from the promptings that usually take people 
 to church ; for I fear he has no settled belief of any kind. He hates priests 
 and despises relics ; often saying, ' What a power dose fellows haf over de 
 poor people to get money out of dem ! Look at dose marples ; what dey 
 must haf cost ! and den to hombogue de people with dose kind of tings !' 
 flying at the relics with which the churches abound. 
 
 "His broken English is irresistible. He calls the Virgin, the Wirgin ; 
 the government, the gowernament ; and ' dose kind of tings ' is a compre- 
 hensive phrase that he uses to avoid details, as well as to express con- 
 tempt. 
 
 "When we were at Naples he told me I must go and see Wurgle's 
 grave. 
 
 " ' Who on earth is Wurgle ?' said I. 
 
 " ' Well, you see, he he wass he wass a boet, or some of dose sort of 
 tings.' 
 
 " ' A poet a poet,' I repeated to myself ; ' why, you must mean Virgil.' 
 
 " ' Yaas, yaas ; that is what I say.' 
 
 " On the occasion of a visit to one of his favorite churches, when he 
 would stand with his ' Murray,' and read to us in slow, broken English, I 
 asked him about a picture of a Martyrdom that he and I were looking at. 
 He did not hear me distinctly, or else did not understand my inquiry, for 
 he said, mistaking the word ' martyrdom :' 
 
 " ' Who has murtered dem, ah ? I cannot say dat. I should tink dey 
 haf murtered one another.' 
 
 " I must now take leave of Gustavo Zimmermann, giving only one more 
 instance of 'English as she is spoke' by him. On the evening of our ar- 
 rival at an Italian inn, before going to bed, Gustave came for the usual 
 order for next morning's breakfast. Soles were decided upon. I took my 
 ordinary walk in the hotel garden before breakfast. Presently our trusty 
 courier approached me and said, in solemn tones, ' Dere is no soles dere 
 is only whitening.' 1 " 
 
 " BOLOGNA, May 15. 
 
 " The brothers Caracci, with Guido and Guercino, were the most prom- 
 inent members of the Bolognese school ; indeed, they were the founders 
 of it, and an ugly school it is coarse, big, exaggerated, and black. Their 
 works gave me little or no pleasure. Guido is certainly a stronger man 
 than I thought him ; but after Titian, Paul Veronese, and Tintoretto, he and 
 his school 'pale their ineffectual fire.' Bologna a part of one of whose 
 sausages we had for our luncheon yesterday is a quaint old place. The 
 first impression it makes upon you, as you drive to your hotel, is that it is 
 all arcades and arches ; for in front of every house in all the streets is a
 
 VISIT TO ITALY. 331 
 
 broad pavement, arched over to keep pedestrians in continual shade, I sup- 
 pose; so you seem to drive through miles of Regent Street Quadrant 
 (since done away), with the difference that at Bologna the columns are 
 connected with each other by arches. There are some fine churches, but I 
 resolutely refused to enter them, as they could not boast of pictures worth 
 a visit." 
 
 I rejoined my family at Venice, and left for Milan, on 
 our way to the Italian lakes, which we reached on the 
 22d of May. I write: 
 
 " We left Milan on the afternoon of Tuesday, and took the steamer at 
 Como, a place at the foot of the lake of that name, and in two or three 
 hours we traversed the larger and better part of it. The mountains are 
 covered with mulberry, olive, and other trees rising abruptly from the edge 
 of the water ; they are of every variety of size and form, and as you ap- 
 proach or recede from them they assume colors varying from the most 
 velvety green to tender, pearly, delicate gray. Towns and villages are scat- 
 tered here and there on the edges of the lake, and sometimes climb a little 
 way up the mountains, which seem to shelter and protect them. Right 
 and left of you open up the most lovely bays and nooks, sometimes stretch- 
 ing for miles ; in short, enchantment prevails in this favored spot Add 
 to the beauty of the scenery the most balmy air ; with sunlight which 
 seems to brighten and penetrate every thing," in a way quite unfamiliar to 
 our befogged eyes ; the loveliest flowers growing in profusion everywhere 
 all vegetation in the full summer swing of England fancy all this, and 
 you will get a faint notion of the charms of Como. As to Maggiore, 
 where we are now, it is the realization of a poet's dream ; the view from 
 the window of this room would satisfy the longings of the most romantic 
 dreamer, and would exceed all that he could weave out of his excited 
 brain. 
 
 " I can see many miles straight ahead over the lake, and my view is 
 bounded by mountains wrapped in a delicious, gray, moving mist. Right 
 and left of these, mountains again jagged, sugar-loafed, pyramidal each 
 casting its neighbor into partial shade. Here and there towns with their 
 tall campanili, looking not unlike rough agates set in emerald, at the 
 mountains' feet; then the lake like burnished steel, and then the islands! 
 Isola Bella, Pescatori, I.-ola Madre, and others, dotted here and there on 
 the surface of the water; with the white houses and the dark cypresses 
 reflected in the depths below them. Gustavc's promise as we steamed by 
 the rugged shores of Lake Lugano before Maggiorc burst upon us in all 
 its glory that * You shall now see somcting, dere is such mountains and 
 heels and walleys, and dose sort of tings,' was more than realized."
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 THE BEARDED MODEL. 
 
 I BELIEVE I speak elsewhere of its having been my 
 practice, after going through a rather severe course of 
 drawing from the antique, to scour the streets in search 
 of models, from whom I made studies in oil the size of 
 life. I had painted Italian organ-boys who always went 
 to sleep chair-menders, knife-grinders, and many others, 
 when the desire possessed me to seek for a man, an old 
 one if possible, who wore a full beard. Fifty years ago 
 long beards were as rare as a shaven face is likely to be in 
 a few years from this time. Mustaches, except on the lips 
 of military men, were considered signs of foppery and 
 general want of principle. The head of a well-known firm 
 of drapers in Regent Street refused to take a shopman 
 who wore mustaches, or men who parted their hair down 
 the middle. And to this day the employees at one of the 
 great banks in the Strand are compelled to be clean shaven. 
 To illustrate this, I may instance the case of an old ser- 
 vant of the bank, who was attacked severely by erysipelas 
 in the face and head. Even after convalescence the ten- 
 derness of the skin made shaving impossible, but the old 
 clerk begged to be allowed to return to his desk. He was 
 told by one of the principals, in a kind note in answer to 
 his application, that the bank would endeavor to get on 
 without him until his face was in a condition to bear the 
 attention of his razor. 
 
 Another example I well remember was that of a book- 
 illustrator, named Stuart, who, according to his own no- 
 tion, ought to have been on the throne of England instead 
 of drawing on insensible wood-blocks. He could trace 
 his descent from James I. He could sing Jacobite songs, 
 and very well, too, and he was certainly very like Charles I.
 
 THE BEARDED MODEL. 333 
 
 There was not the least doubt about his pedigree, in 
 his own mind; and he was such a nuisance when once 
 launched into the long list of proofs of his royal blood 
 that we declared our unanimous conviction of the justice 
 of his claims, and implored him to put them forward in 
 the proper quarter, as we were powerless in the matter. 
 The Stuart beard, exactly like Vandyke's portrait of 
 Charles, was the treasured ornament of our friend's face, 
 and though he was assured that the publishers felt such a 
 doubt of his abilities, and such a conviction of his utterly 
 unreliable character and general dishonesty in consequence 
 of his beard (one man going so far as to tell him it cost 
 him two hundred a year), he refused to remove it. 
 
 In due course the Vandyke-brown beard became streaked 
 with silver, then quite white, and our poor friend became 
 poor indeed, and would have died in extreme poverty had 
 he not received well-deserved assistance from a fund es- 
 tablished to meet cases like his. 
 
 It will be pretty clear, if what I have said is true, as it 
 most assuredly is, that the difficulty of finding a bearded 
 model would be great; and for some time I was baffled, 
 until one day, when crossing Soho Square, my attention 
 was drawn to a crowd of little boys, who seemed to be 
 teasing an old man in the manner of the London street 
 boy. 
 
 " Why don't you go and get your 'air cut ?" said one. 
 
 "Yah! where's your bundle of old clothes? yer ain't 
 got 'em in that 'ere basket, 'ave you ?" said another. 
 " Let's 'ave a look ? You're a Jew, you know now ain't 
 you ?" and so on. 
 
 All this because the old man wore a long gray beard, 
 then such a rarity. The young gentlemen had mistaken 
 their man in more senses than one. He was not a Jew, nor 
 was he the feeble creature that he looked; for, as I reached 
 the group, he had taken two of the biggest boys, one in 
 each hand, and was knocking their heads together till they 
 yelled in a key delightful to hear. He was a little out of 
 breath as he threw them head over heels on to the pave- 
 ment, but soon recovered, and, picking up his basket, 
 turned to me and asked me if I wanted any apples, at the
 
 334 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 same time opening his basket and showing me his stock. 
 This was my chance, and I proceeded to take advantage 
 of it. I did want a great many apples, and if he would 
 bring some to an address I gave him, he would find me a 
 good customer. The old man, whose name I found was 
 Ennis, kept his appointment, and was shown into my 
 painting-room. 
 
 There was a slight look of alarm at the semi-darkened 
 room, the high window, and the lay figure, to which he 
 gave a very wide berth. An individual who is as igno- 
 rant of the requirements of art as my apple-merchant was, 
 must be approached with much caution. A too hasty 
 avowal of my intentions had on several occasions placed 
 me in positions of difficulty, not to say danger. A pictu- 
 resque orange-girl, after using unquotable language, threat- 
 ened me with the police; and an Irishwoman, whose face 
 would have been a fortune to me, told me that I was an 
 impudent young ruffian, and the sooner I "made myself 
 scarce " the better it would be for me. I found Ennis was 
 of Irish extraction, and there was an expression in his eye 
 that acted like a danger-signal. After buying apples 
 enough to satisfy him, I tried to interest him in some of 
 the bric-d-brac common to an artist's studio. 
 
 " What's that thing ?" 
 
 " That," said I, " is called a fez. It's what people wear 
 in the East instead of a hat." 
 
 "How rum!" 
 
 " It's very comfortable, mind you," said I. " Just you 
 put it on." 
 
 No sooner said than done, and the old man took an ad- 
 miring look at himself in my cheval glass. I fully shared 
 his admiration, for the dull red of the cap, the furrowed 
 face, and the silvery beard made a study that Rembrandt 
 would have relished, and to which none but that genius 
 could do full justice. The sale of his stock had put my 
 man into good-hum.or, and I ventured to ask him how old 
 he was. 
 
 " How old ? I don't know." 
 
 " When is your birthday I suppose you have one ?" 
 
 " No, I ain't."
 
 TOE BEARDED MODEL. 335 
 
 " Were you born in Ireland ?" 
 
 "No Kent 'opping-time; that's all I know about it. 
 My father and mother was Irish ; come over 'opping." 
 
 " Did you ever have your likeness taken ?" 
 
 "Yes, once, when I was a boy. A deaf gent done it; 
 leastways he had a trumpet, and I shouted at 'im." 
 
 " A deaf man ?" (Gracious goodness, could it be Rey- 
 nolds !) "What kind of man was he where did he 
 live ?" 
 
 " What kind of man ? Ah ! it's a vast of years ago, 
 you see, and I didn't take particular notice. Civil spoken 
 he was, and gave me a kind of crook to hold." 
 
 " Can't you remember where he lived ?" 
 
 " No, I forget." 
 
 "Now, Ennis," said I, "do you mind telling me what 
 profit you make in a day by selling apples ?" 
 
 " W T ell, you see you haven't got a drop of spirits 
 handy, have you ? I think I have a kind of chill; but I'm 
 used to that. It ain't only apples. Every morning of my 
 life except Sundays, and I'd go then if I could I goes 
 at daylight, four in summer, seven in winter, to Com- 
 mon Garden Market, and buys things, sometimes one 
 thing and sometimes another, vegetables and that ; and 
 some days I makes a profit, and some days I doesn't. 
 You've heard of the Gordon Riots, ain't you? Ah! I was 
 in them; it was in the year seventeen hundred and eighty, 
 that was." 
 
 " Have another glass of the rum ; it is very old, and 
 won't hurt you." 
 
 " Old it is right you are, sir like me; but all the bet- 
 ter for that. Well, as I was a-saying, them riots. I'd 
 been to the market, and when I come away to go 'ome to 
 my breakfast, which my daughter always give me; she's 
 gone too, long ago I lives along with my great-grand- 
 daughter now I walks along with the crowd till we 
 come to a street I forget the name on it and there was 
 a lot of soldiers a-standing in a line; and if you'll believe 
 me, just as wo was all pushing about in front of 'em I 
 was all of a confusion, and didn't know hardly what I was 
 a-doing of, pushed about lu-re and there the soldiers up
 
 336 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 with their guns and fires bang into the middle of us. 
 Some of 'em near me tumbles about as if they was drunk. 
 The soldiers had shot a lot of 'em, and why they didn't 
 shoot me I never could make out to this day. Well, sir, I 
 was pretty strong then, and I ain't weak now, as you see 
 by them boys in the square as was insulting of me. So I 
 shoves my way back among the people, till I see a sort of 
 entry kind of place into a little sort of street, and I gets 
 in there, where I could see no soldiers, nor didn't want to; 
 and I makes up my mind just to wait till things was quiet 
 again. Well, would you believe me, there came some car- 
 penter-looking chaps with boards and things, and they 
 barricaded up both ends of this 'ere passage. What they 
 done it for I dun know. They offered to let me out, but I 
 says, 'No, thank you,' for I knew there was soldiers at 
 both ends. So there I was all that precious day, and my 
 daughter a-crying and a-wondering what had become of 
 me. All day long I could hear the mob a-yelling and 
 a -roaring things thrown out o' windows seemingly. 
 There, I never heard nothing like it before nor since; and 
 I that hungry ! If I'd had apples, or oranges, or carrots, 
 or turnips, or anything I could eat in my basket that day 
 I'd stuck to my basket, mind you; but what do you 
 think it was what I had got from the market that morn- 
 ing? Why, artichokes, and they ain't good to eat; least- 
 ways, not raw." 
 
 "Another glass of rum, Ennis, eh? No? well, half 
 one." 
 
 " Thank you kindly, sir. Well, them carpenter chaps 
 come at dark and took down their boards, and lets me out; 
 and one of 'em says, ' Look here, young chap, where do 
 you live?' and I up and told him. And says he, 'You'll 
 have to go roundabout, for there's lots of soldiers a-camped 
 out,' he says, ' in the streets, and they won't let nobody 
 pass nowhere.' 'All right, and thank you,' says I. So 
 I shoulders my basket, and you may believe me or not, I 
 passed by places "that had been burnt out fine houses 
 they was, and crowds standing staring at 'em but I takes 
 no notice, and home I goes, and up-stairs I goes, and 
 shoves my basket under my bed, where I always puts it
 
 THE BEARDED MODEL. 337 
 
 till I goes out to sell in the morning; and my daughter give 
 me my breakfast and supper all in one." 
 
 The rum, and the red cap, and a little flush on the 
 withered cheeks, the old lips and beard a little quivering 
 in the excitement of his story, made up a picture that I so 
 longed to try my hand at that I plunged into the real 
 business of the day. 
 
 " Now look here, Ennis," said I, " you have not told me 
 what your time is worth to you; but I will tell you what 
 it is worth to me, if you will give me the chance of taking 
 your likeness with that red cap on your bond. I will give 
 you five shillings for three hours of your time." 
 
 This demand plunged my friend into deep contempla- 
 tion. He seemed to be trying to remember something. 
 
 " No," he said, after a pause, " I couldn't take it off', I 
 should get cold. No more I couldn't none of my clothes." 
 
 " Take what off ?" said I. 
 
 " This 'ere beard," he said, handling it. " You see, my 
 hand got a bit shaky, and I was always a-cutting of my- 
 self. One morning my granddaughter screeched out that 
 I had cut my throat." 
 
 "Goodness, no !" I interrupted; it's your beard I want 
 beyond everything." 
 
 " Oh, all right then ! You'll want my coat and waist- 
 coat and shirt off, as the deaf gent did, and you see I was 
 young then and didn't mind it ; but I should get the rheu- 
 matics or something. No, I couldn't do it." 
 
 "Bless the man ! I don't want you to take off any of 
 your clothes. I only want just to take your likeness that 
 is, the likeness of your face." 
 
 " Oh, is that all ? Then why did the old gent make 
 me take off all but my trousers, and give me a crook to 
 hold ? There was a lamb in the picture as the old gent 
 done. If you should want a lamb to set, a friend of mine, 
 a butch" 
 
 "No, no; it's you I want, and neither lamb nor butcher." 
 
 " Well, sir" (after more consideration), "I see no harm 
 in it five bob for three hours. You won't mind throw- 
 ing in a glass or two of that rum ? You see, I'm subject 
 to a chill, and sitting still is apt to bring it on." 
 15
 
 338 MY AUTOBIOGBAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 Upon this happy conclusion a day was fixed for the first 
 sitting. 
 
 Painters of the present generation do not, except in rare 
 instances, admire the work of Sir Thomas Lawrence; and 
 they would scarcely credit the influence which that artist 
 exercised over the minds and practice of the young men 
 of my early days. 'Tis true he had been dead six or seven 
 years before I began my profession; but his spirit seemed 
 to be among us, guiding us generally, I think, in a wrong 
 direction. At any rate, I managed to copy some of his 
 worst faults very successfully, and one or two of my fel- 
 low-students followed my example. It is not surprising, 
 then, that I contrived to give a flavor of Lawrence to my 
 rendering of old Ennis. I flattered him, I made him smile. 
 I put those liquid touches into his eyes that Lawrence 
 found in all eyes; and although I confess I did not see 
 them in my old man, they ought to have been there, and 
 there they are accordingly to this day. 
 
 I wish I could remember much of the old man's talk, 
 but memory betrays me. 1838 was the year he first sat 
 for me: he could not have been less than eighty years old, 
 probably some years more. He remembered when um- 
 brellas "came in wogue" what that year was I don't 
 know; he also picked blackberries in the Oxford Road 
 (now Oxford Street), opposite to the building formerly 
 known as the Pantheon. I recommended him as a model 
 (a business to which he never took kindly) to many of my 
 fellow-students, especially to Douglas Cowper; but it is 
 with my own rendering of him that I have to do. As I 
 have said, I made many life-studies for practice, and as 
 soon as they were done and fresh canvas was required, I 
 sent them to an auction - room, kept by one Jones, where, 
 if they sold for what they were worth, public estimation 
 of them was not extravagant, for the best of them never 
 realized more than a few shillings, and Ennis, fez and all, 
 sold for four and ninepeuce. Well do I recollect the pre- 
 cise sum, because I bought a hat with it. Four-and-nine- 
 penny hats may be remembered by elderly people, who 
 may have been more fortunate in their purchases than I 
 was. The first shower of rain finished mine; perhaps it
 
 1 Hi; BEARDED MODEL. 339 
 
 was not a good one. Those hats, no doubt, varied in ex- 
 cellence, like other things. It was very shiny, and till the 
 wet weather I was envied by the envious. The hat dis- 
 appeared very soon indeed after the picture; the former 
 I never saw again, the latter or what turned out to be a 
 copy of it greeted ray wandering eyes in a picture-shop 
 in York four years afterwards. My first impression was 
 that I looked upon my own work; I recognized the fez, 
 the gray beard, the smile (which seemed to have increased 
 a good deal), and all the rest of it; but a nearer inspec- 
 tion proved to me that the picture was a copy, and some- 
 what smaller than the original. 
 
 " What is the price of the old man with the gray beard, 
 in the window ?" 
 
 " Two guineas, sir." 
 
 " Pray who is it by ?" 
 
 " By Mr. Rivers, of Hull, sir. We have had several of 
 them from him; they sell readily." 
 
 " What ! for two guineas apiece?" 
 
 "Oh dear, yes, sir. They are good sound works of art; 
 we can recommend them. Considered in the Lawrence 
 style, sir." 
 
 Strange coincidence ! Rivers was a schoolfellow, and 
 is now an old friend of mine. I knew he was an artist, 
 practising in Hull, and from letters received from him 
 from time to time, I gathered that he was immortalizing 
 aldermen, merchants, sea-captains, and others. Why, then, 
 copy my picture ? How and where did he get it ? Did 
 he know the author of it? These questions I couldn't 
 answer, and the whole matter passed out of my mind. 
 About a year after my vision of the fez and the gray- 
 bearded old man in the York picture-shop, my friend 
 Rivers called on me in London. I returned his call, and' 
 found him pleasantly located in the artist quarter in New- 
 man Street, where the high windows cut up into the third 
 floor may still be seen. I was shown into his studio, and 
 the first object that met my astonished gaze was my pict- 
 ure of " Ennis Effcndi," magnificently framed, in a place 
 of honor over the chimney-piece. Rivers came in as I 
 was studying my own work. After the customary greet-
 
 340 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 ings, and expressing the real pleasure with which I wel- 
 comed him to London, my sincere wishes for his success, 
 and so on, my eyes again wandered to the red cap and the 
 gray beard. 
 
 " Ah, my boy," said Rivers, " that's a fine thing, isn't 
 it?" 
 
 " Pretty well. Who is it by ?" 
 
 " Pretty well!" with contempt. "You are a nice fellow 
 to call a head like that ' Pretty well. Who is it by ?' 
 You ought to know who it's by !" 
 
 " Well, I do," thought I ; but I said : 
 
 " It looks to me like an imitation of Lawrence.'* 
 
 " An imitation ? Do you mean to tell me that anybody 
 but Lawrence could have painted those eyes ? Now, do 
 look at them close. Here, get upon that chair. Oh ! you 
 won't hurt the chair ; besides, it isn't mine. Proof enough 
 for you, if you know anything of Lawrence's work, and 
 you ought to know ; besides, look here, I have a warranty 
 that I got with it, when I bought it in Newcastle. Here 
 you are. Something Effendi. I can't quite read the name 
 an old fellow in the suite of one of those swells that 
 Lawrence painted abroad." 
 
 I was really sorry to dispel my old friend's illusion; but 
 there was no help for it. 
 
 " Lawrence, eh ?" said I. " The devil a bit; I painted it 
 myself. It's a portrait of an old fellow I found selling 
 apples in the street." 
 
 Rivers knew me too well to doubt what I said. He was 
 dumfounded for a moment. He then said: 
 
 " Do you " (a pause between each word) " mean to 
 say that you painted that picture? Why, I have 
 made at least six copies of it, and sold them for thirty 
 shillings apiece." Then, after another pause, "All I have 
 got to say is, that the sooner you paint some more pictures 
 like it, the better, for it goes a deuced sight beyond any- 
 thing of yours that I have ever seen." 
 
 After this dreadful blow Rivers confessed that he could 
 no longer bear the sight of his Lawrence. He soon sold 
 it; and the subject, a very sore one to him, was never re- 
 curred to again.
 
 THE BEARDED MODEL. 341 
 
 Ennis never became what is called a regular model. 
 He was easily offended; and a refusal to buy an unreason- 
 able quantity of apples, or a doubt expressed of their ex- 
 cellence, would produce a prompt refusal to sit on any 
 terms. 
 
 Douglas Cowper, who was far ahead of the rest of us, 
 spoiled the old man very much. He overpaid him, and 
 made himself ill with oranges and apples ; but what was 
 most delightful to the vain old creature, was the defer- 
 ence which Cowper pretended to pay to his criticisms, 
 affecting to tone down here, and brighten there, under 
 the direction of the aged critic. 
 
 It was in the days of Ennis that I attempted my first 
 composition. His venerable appearance, as I have said 
 elsewhere, suggested Scott's " Last Minstrel," and a dread- 
 ful minstrel I made of him the wicked old man jeering 
 at my efforts, and throwing Cowper at my head constantly. 
 
 He never pronounced a name correctly. I was " Thrift," 
 Cowper was " Cowpin," Bridges was " Bridgen,"and so on. 
 
 " Why, you've made me look a hundred ; and I ain't as 
 ugly as that, I know. Jest you see what Cowpin done of 
 me in his piece." (He called our works "pieces" gener- 
 ally, " picture " sometimes.) 
 
 I had but just completed my "Minstrel," when the old 
 man died. His great-granddaughter, who always accom- 
 panied him in his latter days to " Common Garden," told 
 me that Ennis stopped suddenly on his homeward journey 
 one morning, put down his basket, and said, "My lass, 
 I'm struck with death !" 
 
 He managed to crawl feebly home, lay down on his bed, 
 and in a few hours he was dead. 
 
 I shall not let the fear of being charged with blowing 
 my own trumpet deter me from relating here the ultimate 
 fate of my friend Rivers' picture, " Ennis Effendi." The 
 public became slowly aware of his merits, and a bold con- 
 noisseur gave between forty and fifty guineas for him at 
 Christie's, where he bore the real name of his author, and 
 he is now settled in perpetuity for he is an heirloom in 
 a fine mansion near Grosvenor Square, with his history 
 recorded on his back.
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 "THE KOAD TO RUIN." 
 
 MY Italian trip is over. A rapid run to Paris via Tu- 
 rin, a sight of the Salon Exhibition and a sorry sight it 
 was and I find myself at home and at work again. My 
 foreign travel may be credited, or discredited, with two 
 pictures one, the more important, being a subject sug- 
 gested by a visit to the dungeons below the doge's pal- 
 ace ; the other by a sudden attack made upon me one 
 morning by a flower-seller, when I was taking my usual 
 early walk on the Cascine at Naples. Before I could re- 
 cover from my surprise, my young assailant had seized 
 me by my coat-collar and planted in one of its button- 
 holes a bright little nosegay. Remonstrance was out of 
 the question. I must ransom myself, and I did so by pay- 
 ing a price which, judging from the smile with which it 
 was received, and the " Thank you, excellenza," was per- 
 fectly satisfactory. At last, thought I, here is a subject 
 trifling enough by which I can fulfil my long-standing 
 promise to my old Scottish friend, who, as my readers 
 may remember, bargained for a picture, the important 
 feature of which must be my own portrait ; and my like- 
 ness is " now added " to quote Madame Tussaud to a 
 " chamber of horrors," or a charming collection, as the taste 
 and judgment of beholders may determine. The more 
 important picture was a more serious effort. No thought- 
 ful visitor to those dreadful dungeons in Venice can fail 
 to people them with imaginary victims, political and so- 
 cial. My thoughts took the shape of an unfounded charge 
 of social crime, of which a beautiful woman should be 
 the victim. A monk stands in the narrow passage close 
 to the window of her cell, at which he attends to hear the 
 innocent prisoner's confession. The lady, whose patrician
 
 "THE ROAD TO EUIN." 343 
 
 dress proclaims her rank, seizes the bars, and, with her 
 face pressed against them, pours into the ear of the monk, 
 not a confession, but a passionate protest of her inno- 
 cence, together with an imploring appeal for deliverance. 
 The confessor listens with a mixed expression of incredu- 
 lity, sympathy, and helplessness ; knowing too well how 
 slight are the chances of innocence escaping, when Italian 
 power and passion have determined to punish. I had ar- 
 ranged my composition, settled the position and attitude 
 of the monk, and progressed to my satisfaction with the 
 female figure, when I found myself in trouble for the 
 monk. I was refused a model from a monastery in Lon- 
 don, and at my wits' end, when a strange event occurred. 
 My readers will find in my story of " The Pious Model " 
 in a former chapter of these reminiscences how he went 
 to Australia and established a store for the sale of relig- 
 ious literature at Ballarat. From the day of my receiving 
 Mr. Bredman's letter containing that interesting announce- 
 ment, over a quarter of a century of silence had passed, 
 so far as any intelligence of that worthy had reached me. 
 My surprise may be imagined when my servant informed 
 me that " a person of the name of Bredman, who says he 
 sat to you a long time ago, would like to see you." " Let 
 him in," said I, and in came my pious friend. The five- 
 and-twenty years had scarcely touched him. Not a streak 
 of gray in his shiny black hair, hardly a wrinkle added 
 to his Chadband face; but his outward man, how changed! 
 Instead of the greasy fustian jacket of old, and the trou- 
 sers patched to such an extent that the original material 
 was difficult to distinguish, the whole man was sheathed 
 in a suit of shining black. My old model offered me his 
 hand, and I took it rejoicing, for I had found a model for 
 my monk. 
 
 " Well, Bredman, I am really glad to see you. I need 
 not ask you how you are ; but what does that suit of black 
 mean ? You are not wearing it in mourning for any one, 
 I hope." 
 
 " Yes, I am, sir ; I've come to England to take a legacy. 
 Two hundred pounds comes to me from my father-in-law; 
 very old man, just dead."
 
 344 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 " Your wife's father ?" said I, laying peculiar stress on 
 the word " wife." 
 
 " Yes, sir," said Bredraan, with the old smile. 
 
 " Large family, Bredman ?" I inquired, also with my 
 old smile. 
 
 " Well, that's as may be, sir ; I think it was large enough 
 nine of 'em. We lost two seven left." 
 
 " Why, this is worse than the first wife, Bredman eh ?" 
 
 No reply, but a broader smile. 
 
 " Now is this little account true, or is it like the other? 
 Is there a real wife and family this time, Bredman ?" 
 
 " Yes, sir; upon my word, it is all right this time. My 
 sons are in the Bush, doing well, all of 'em " (" I trust not 
 bushranging," was my mental comment) ; " my daughters 
 married pretty middling, too." 
 
 "And you what has been your business ?" 
 
 " Oh, one thing and another. I was town-crier at Mel- 
 bourne for some years ; and now I am under-steward on 
 board an Australian liner : attends to the ladies and gents 
 pays well when they're ill ; cleans boots and such. But 
 now I shall be in London for some months till this law busi- 
 ness is settled, and should be very glad of some sitting." 
 
 An engagement was made. Bredman proved that his 
 old qualities as a model had not degenerated ; nor did I 
 find him attempting any of his old tricks. I employed 
 him for other pictures, and he makes one among the bet- 
 ting-men in the picture I afterwards painted of " The 
 Royal Enclosure at Ascot," one of the series called " The 
 Road to Ruin." 
 
 I christened my Venetian picture " Under the Doge's 
 Palace," and it was exhibited in 1876. My other contri- 
 butions to the Exhibition of 1876 were: "A Scene from 
 the ' Vicar of Wakefield ' The Squire teaching the Young 
 Ladies Picquet and the Boys to Box," which illustrates 
 the following quotation : " The intervals between conver- 
 sation were employed in teaching my daughters picquet, 
 or sometimes in setting my two little ones to box to 
 make them sharp, as he called it." An illustration of 
 Moliere, and a small picture called " The Lovers' Seat," 
 completed my list.
 
 "THE ROAD TO RUIN." 345 
 
 About this time a committee was formed to make ar- 
 rangements for the production of a statue of Lord Byron, 
 to be paid for by public subscriptions, and placed in a 
 prominent position in London. I was asked to serve on 
 the committee, and, with my friends Elmore and Woolner, 
 formed the professional element in it. Our brother-com- 
 mitteemen vrere all distinguished individuals; by far the 
 most interesting to me being Trelawney, a very old and 
 striking-looking man, the well-known friend of Byron. 
 The committee met in the classic rooms of Mr. Murray, 
 in Albemarle Street, the courteous owner being also a 
 member. To see the rooms so often honored by the pres- 
 ence of such men as Byron, Scott, and Moore to say 
 nothing of so many only less great and to be surrounded 
 by their portraits, was very delightful to me ; but to be 
 talked to by Trelawney was more delightful still. He sat 
 next to me on one occasion, and talked much of Byron ; 
 frequently mentioning the elder Murray, whose son was 
 well within earshot, as a capital fellow, liberal to a de- 
 gree, and in Byron's case he found his honesty pay, " for 
 Byron told me," said Trelawney, " that all he had received 
 from Murray was between twenty and thirty thousand 
 pounds nearer twenty than thirty ; and that Murray made 
 over seventy thousand by Byron. Not bad business that 
 eh ?" 
 
 The result of the committee's work is known to all. 
 Being in a minority an adverse minority, indeed the 
 professional members of the committee can claim no credit 
 for the selection of the sculptor, nor are they to be blamed 
 if the statue is considered unsatisfactory. We were out- 
 voted by gentlemen who were God-gifted with a knowl- 
 edge of art which all our lives' devotion had failed to give 
 us in their opinion. Disraeli said "the critics are those 
 who have failed in literature and art." With the judges 
 of literary work I have no concern; but in respect of those 
 whose business it is to write public criticisms on art, I 
 have to say that few of the gentlemen or ladies who praise 
 or condemn modern painters and sculptors have practised 
 art in any form, so the charge of their having failed in it 
 falls to the ground. They are people of some literarv 
 15*
 
 346 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 attainment, as is evident by their writing. But the mys- 
 tery attending their wonderful knowledge of art in all its 
 forms is one of those things if I may use the words of 
 that eminent peer, Lord Dundreary " that no fellow can 
 understand." When I bring to my memory the many in- 
 stances of the diffidence in expressing opinion on art so 
 often witnessed by myself in such men as Landseer, Turn- 
 er, and others nearly as eminent, I cannot help being 
 awe-struck by the laying down of the law by our modern 
 experts. Infallibility is not monopolized by the pope ; 
 but what can be said for a public which is led by printed 
 opinion expressed by persons who would not be listened to 
 for a moment if their efficiency as judges could be gauged. 
 If we could be judged by our peers, as literary men are, 
 we should be profited, in all probability. What would 
 writers say if a body of artists were emploj^ed to direct 
 public taste in literary matters ? Surely the two positions 
 are equally absurd. I must now return to my own doings. 
 For a long time I had the desire to paint a story in a 
 series of pictures, and I began to make chalk-studies of the 
 different groups for the five pictures called "The Road 
 to Ruin." Without any pretension to do my work on Ho- 
 garthian lines, I thought I could show some of the evils of 
 gambling; my idea being a kind of gambler's progress, 
 avoiding the satirical vein of Hogarth, for which I knew 
 myself to be unfitted. I desired to trace the career of a 
 youth from his college days to his ruin and death a 
 victim to one of the most fatal vices. In the first scene 
 my hero is entertaining a party of friends in his college- 
 room, who have played at cards all night. One of them, 
 perhaps the youngest, has fallen asleep on a sofa, while 
 the rest are still engaged in furious play. The window- 
 curtain is drawn aside by one of the non-players, and the 
 dawn is evident by the lighting up of the towers of an 
 opposite college by the earliest rays of the sun. Another 
 guest blows out a candle no longer needed. In the second 
 picture my youth has grown to manhood, and is engaged 
 in far more dangerous play than three-card loo; for he is 
 the centre of attraction in the Royal Enclosure at Ascot to 
 a horde of betting-men, who are offering him chance after
 
 "THE HOAD TO BUIN." 347 
 
 chance of immediate or prospective ruin. That they have 
 succeeded is made evident by the third of the series, 
 where the young man is seen in his ancestral home with 
 his wife and children in the hands of bailiffs who have 
 arrested him for debt. An interval, more or less long, is 
 supposed to elapse between the third and fourth acts, when 
 wo tind him away from his native land endeavoring to 
 earn a subsistence by writing plays; while his wife devotes 
 herself to painting in water-colors in the hope of selling 
 her work, and thus adding to their slender means. A 
 French landlady presses for her rent, the wife appeals to 
 the woman, and the husband is in despair. Matters are 
 supposed to go from bad to worse, till at last, driven to 
 desperation, my luckless hero is seen in the fifth and last 
 picture fastening the door of a miserable attic, with an 
 expression on his face that, assisted by a pistol ready to 
 his hand, admits of but one interpretation death by his 
 own hand. For these different pictures careful chalk- 
 drawings were made, groups rearranged, compositions 
 changed; in fact, all the thinking part of the business was 
 settled before the small oil-sketches were made. With 
 this preliminary care, alterations in the final pictures are 
 avoided, time is actually saved, and the work of the artist, 
 undisturbed by changes unavoidable without this care 
 is more likely to endure than those so often commenced 
 without due study and precaution. 
 
 Being a worshipper of Shelley, and having read every- 
 thing respecting him that came in my way, it was with 
 great pleasure that I made the acquaintance of his son, 
 Sir Percy Shelley, and his delightful wife, whose invitation 
 to their house at Boscombe I eagerly accepted. It was 
 not a matter of surprise to find a room full of Shelley 
 relics: there is the wave-washed ^Eschylus found upon the 
 drowned poet's body; likenesses of him in abundance; locks 
 of his fair hair; and much of his manuscript, adorned here 
 and there with pen-and-ink sketches which show great 
 artistic power. There is the portrait of his wife, the 
 daughter of Godwin, a rather ideal likeness of a lady I 
 can well remember seeing at one of the soirees at the Royal 
 Academy; another of her mother, by Opie; and one also
 
 348 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 of Godwin, by Northcote. I can trace a likeness to the 
 poet in his son, who seems to inherit his father's love of 
 the sea. It was at Sir Percy's table that I met Mr. Grant- 
 ley Berkeley, a very original and amusing person, whose 
 bachelor home, not far from Boscombe, was so contrived 
 as to gratify its owner's sporting tastes, and also the tastes 
 of those interested in past times, when the Berkeleys 
 played conspicuous parts in their country's history. Here 
 is the bed from Berkeley Castle in which Edward II. was 
 done to an awful doath; and round about the room were 
 relics almost as interesting. 
 
 One life only stopped the way to wealth and title for 
 Mr. Grantley Berkeley, the direct heir to the earldom of 
 Fitzhardinge; death came to the aspirant, who died as he 
 had lived, plain Grantley Berkeley. 
 
 Before I made the acquaintance of the Shelleys I had 
 done a slight sketch of one of the love-scenes that took 
 place between the poet and Mary Godwin in old St. Pan- 
 eras Churchyard. I found the graveyard still in existence, 
 and I found a tombstone that might have been the one 
 on which so many passionate words were spoken; and on 
 it I placed my figures. The Boscombe portraits were my 
 authority for the likenesses, but I failed to realize my own 
 idea of either of the personages. It would require powers 
 far beyond mine to do justice to the theme I had chosen. 
 I did my best, and subjected myself to a proverb which I 
 fear can be justly applied to my performance. 
 
 In the year 1877 I did not contribute to the Annual Ex- 
 hibition; the whole of that year being taken up in inces- 
 sant work at the pictures of " The Road to Ruin." The 
 difficulties in respect of models and material were in- 
 creased by the variety of men, women, and matter required. 
 Genius, as everybody knows, is often accompanied by 
 grievous failings in one form or other; and the greater 
 the genius the more glaring are the shortcomings. The 
 artist's model in his or her highest development for 
 which genius is but a mild term is not exempt from 
 serious drawbacks. He " drinks," perhaps, and an indul- 
 gence in that luxury is apt to engender forgetf ulness of 
 engagements; or he comes to his work one hour late, but
 
 "THE ROAD TO RUIN." 349 
 
 before he has recovered from a previous night's debauch: 
 he is then either gloomy, with a tendency to impertinence, 
 or he chatters till he distracts the unhappy man whose 
 time has been wasted, and whose efforts to paint from a 
 restless, fidgety creature leave a deplorable result. No 
 matter, you have begun from the man, and you must finish 
 from him; you are his victim, and you must endure and 
 suffer much. But the worm turns at last, and then, having 
 completed your figure, you remark: 
 
 " Now, Green, attend to what I am going to say. You 
 are a perfect genius at sitting when you are all right; you 
 tell capital stories, and you are generally respectful, but 
 you drink." 
 
 " Drink, sir !" interrupts Mr. Green ; " why, I am a tee- 
 totaler ; I took the pledge some time since !" 
 
 " Very likely, and you most certainly broke it before 
 you came to me the other day. Now if you come to me 
 in that condition again, or if you fail once more in being 
 punctual to the time named, you may bid farewell to any 
 employment by me." 
 
 " All right, sir," says Green; but it was not all right, for 
 the annoyance was repeated. I immediately sent Green 
 about his business, and I have never seen him since. I 
 here tell one of his stories, which was new to me. 
 
 A Scottish clergyman preached a series of sermons on 
 the Miracles, and in one of them he took for his text the 
 swallowing of the prophet Jonah by the whale. The 
 reverend gentleman either took exception to the transla- 
 tion of the word " whale," or he affected to do so, for the 
 purpose of showing his knowledge of varieties of fish; 
 for after describing several, and showing in each case, 
 from the construction of the creature, that swallowinjj a 
 
 ' O 
 
 human being was a matter of impossibility, he then evi- 
 dently leading up to the usually received explanation of 
 the miracle discussed the shark, or the s/iairk, as he called 
 it, as being the fish so highly honored. " But no," said 
 the clergyman, it couldna be a shairk; the teeth of the 
 creetur would have destroyed " 
 
 "Ech, meenister," cried out an old woman who was sit- 
 ting below the pulpit, " wasna the beast a whale ?"
 
 350 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 "A whale, a whale, ye blethering auld deevil! what do 
 ye know about it ? What do ye mean by taking the Word 
 of God out of my mouth?" 
 
 Mr. Green stood to me for many figures in " The Road 
 to Ruin," and I parted from him with real regret. I was 
 obliged to discharge another of the higher order of model 
 for a very different reason. Mr. Gloster was a young, 
 good-looking fellow, who wrote an excellent hand to use 
 a common phrase was well-read, intelligent, and incom- 
 prehensible. I am convinced the man was perfectly 
 honest and sober; and the tone of his voice, his manner 
 when he was not disgustingly familiar and his conver- 
 sation, were those of a gentleman ; and how it happened 
 that he took up the business of a professional model, in 
 preference to so many for which he was undoubtedly well 
 fitted, I know not. He was very ready in assuming any 
 expression or attitude that was explained to him, but he 
 very much objected to difficult positions; and after endur- 
 ing a pose a little painful for a short time he would say, 
 with a deep groan: 
 
 "This is awful! Oh, you needn't laugh; just try it 
 yourself, and see how you like it!" 
 
 The value of Mr. Gloster may be imagined when such 
 an uncommon address as the above was endured patiently. 
 The man put himself on a level with me at once, and at 
 times his insolence was very difficult to bear. He told 
 me he had no notion of social distinction everybody was 
 as good as anybody else; and he considered himself rather 
 better. Artists wouldn't employ him if they didn't want 
 him; and he shouldn't go to them if he didn't want them; 
 and he didn't see what obligation there was on either side. 
 
 " Was he often without employment ?" 
 
 "Yes, he was; and then he starved. If he got any 
 money, he would spend it and have a jolly good dinner, 
 and go without dinner next day." 
 
 " Wasn't that rather foolish ?" 
 
 "No; and if it was, what had anybody got to do with 
 it? he didn't care," and so on. 
 
 The man tried me dreadfully; but there again, I had 
 begun several figures from him he looked the gentleman,
 
 "THE ROAD TO BUIN." 351 
 
 and wore the clothes I provided with an air impossi- 
 ble to the ordinary model, so I bore with him for a long 
 time. It is my habit to employ the same model all day, 
 providing him with dinner at noon; I gave instructions 
 that sufficient food should always be supplied. No doubt 
 the supply, as well as the kind of food, varied; but it was 
 very difficult to please Mr. Gloster. 
 
 "Look here," he said to me one day, "this is a poor 
 reward for standing in that infernal attitude all the morn- 
 ing. The servant must take me for a blackbird." 
 
 This pretty speech because there was rather less meat 
 than usual. The last feather that kills the camel came at 
 last, and it was in this way: 
 
 My servant brought Gloster a large plateful of cold 
 veal for his dinner. I saw it, and said: 
 
 " Well, they have given you enough to eat this time." 
 
 " Yes," said the man, " there's a lot of it. I hate veal, 
 particularly cold veal! If there had been anything I like 
 down-stairs, I should have had little enough of it. I say" 
 (to the servant, who was leaving the room), " can't you 
 get me some bacon, or pickles, or something to give this 
 stuff a relish ?" 
 
 "No," said the girl, "I can't." 
 
 "Now," said I, " Mr. Gloster, do you know that if you 
 had to deal with some painters they would have turned 
 you out of their rooms for such a speech as that ?" 
 
 " Ah! I dare say they are precious fools, some of them; 
 but you are not one." 
 
 He was mistaken I was ; and from that day to this I 
 have never set eyes on Mr. Gloster ; though I hear of him 
 occasionally, and his reign everywhere seems short. A 
 friend of mine told me the following little anecdote: 
 
 A chop was sent to Mr. Gloster, while my friend took 
 his own luncheon in his dining-room. When the servant 
 placed the food before the model he asked her very polite- 
 ly if she had a pair of spectacles. 
 
 " No," said the girl ; " what should I do with spec- 
 tacles?" 
 
 " Ah, to be sure ! Well, now, what age may the cook 
 be?"
 
 352 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 " I don't know," was the reply. 
 
 " "Well, would you mind asking her if she could oblige 
 me with a pair? I wouldn't keep them a minute." 
 
 The message was conveyed to the cook, who indignant- 
 ly said: 
 
 " Drat the man! What does he think I want with spec- 
 tacles ? I have got no such thing! Go and ask him what 
 he wants spectacles for." 
 
 "The cook doesn't wear spectacles," said the girl, ad- 
 dressing the model, "and there ain't such a thing in tho 
 house; and she wishes to know what you want spectacles 
 for." 
 
 " Well," said Gloster, looking intently into his plate (on 
 which, my friend said, there was a small chop), " I want 
 to see what this is; it's undiscoverable with the naked 
 eye !" 
 
 My experience of the ladies who honor us by sitting is 
 extensive. As a rule, they are all that could be desired 
 patient, kindly, long-suffering, and well-behaved. I con- 
 fess to a strong liking for many of my models, male and 
 female. I am grateful to them for valuable assistance, and 
 never in my life have I had the least " difficulty " with the 
 greater number of them; indeed, instances of misbehavior 
 among the females are very rare indeed, and they usually 
 consist of unpunctuality, which is a deadly sin. The kind- 
 ness of lady friends rendered the employment of the pro- 
 fessional model almost needless in the pictures of "The. 
 Road to Ruin." These works were exhibited in 1878, and, 
 judging by the public attention they received, may be said 
 to have been successful. The policeman and the rail were 
 again required; and I received many compliments, and no 
 doubt much abuse. The copyright was purchased by the 
 Art Union of London, and the pictures were etched by 
 one of the greatest professors of that art in France; but 
 from some cause or other (the fault, probably, was in the 
 pictures) the etchings were not successful.
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 THE PONT II ILL STOEY. 
 
 TUB late Mr. Phillips, tbe well-known Bond Street auc- 
 tioneer, was an intimate friend of my uncle Scaife's, at 
 whose house I frequently met him ; and though I was a 
 very young student fifty years ago, and quite incapable of 
 properly appreciating fine works of art, I often, at Mr. 
 Phillips' suggestion, visited his rooms whenever great 
 collections were dispersed there. Hearing that a Holy 
 Family by Raphael was to be sold, I went to see it, and 
 though it was of doubtful authenticity, I thought it was a 
 very fine picture. I was discussing its merits with all 
 the ignorant assurance of youth with Mr. Phillips in his 
 office, when an elderly gentleman walked briskly past the 
 door on his way to the gallery. He was a short man, 
 dressed in a green coat with brass buttons, leather breeches, 
 and top-boots, and his hair was powdered. " That is Mr. 
 Beckford," said Phillips. I had just read " Vathek," and 
 was very curious to see the author of it; so I rushed up- 
 stairs to the auction-rooms, and found the great little man 
 studying the so-called Raphael. I stood close to the pict- 
 ure and studied Mr. Beckford, who proceeded to criticise 
 the work in language of which my respectable peu can 
 give my readers but a faint idea. It must not be thought 
 that the remarks were addressed to me or to anybody but the 
 speaker himself. "That d d thing a Raphael! Great 
 heavens ! think of that now ! Can there be such d d 
 fools as to believe that a Raphael ! What a d d fool 
 I was to come here!" and without a glance at other pict- 
 ures the critic departed. 
 
 It was many years after this that a distant connection 
 of mine, who, I must premise, was a person of an inquiring 
 mind, found .himself involved in a curious adventure. My
 
 354 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 relative had been in business, from which he retired at an 
 unusually early time of life, having acquired a handsome 
 competence. He was married, but childless, and having 
 bought a house in the salubrious city of Bath, he retired 
 there, and passed his time in reading and in finding out 
 everything he could about all the people in the place. 
 There was one house, and that the most interesting of all, 
 that shut its door against my inquisitive friend and every- 
 body else. Fonthill Abbey, or Fonthill Splendor, as it 
 was sometimes called, situated a few miles from Bath, was 
 a treasure-house of beauty. Every picture was said to be 
 a gem, and the gardens were unequalled by any in Eng- 
 land, the whole being guarded by a dragon in the form of 
 Mr. Beckford. " Not only," says an authority, " had the 
 art-treasures of that princely place been sealed against the 
 public, but the park itself known by rumor as a beauti- 
 ful spot had for several years been enclosed by a most 
 formidable wall, about seven miles in circuit, twelve feet 
 high, and crowned by a chevaux-de-frise" These formi- 
 dable obstacles my distant cousin undertook to surmount, 
 and he laid a wager of a considerable sum that he would 
 walk in the gardens, and even penetrate into the house 
 itself. 
 
 Having nothing better to do, he spent many an anxious 
 hour in watching the great gate in the wall, in the hope 
 that by some inadvertence it might be left open and un- 
 guarded ; and one day that happy moment arrived. The 
 porter was ill, and his wife opened the gate to a tradesman, 
 who, after depositing his goods at the lodge (no butcher 
 or baker was permitted to go to the abbey itself), retired, 
 leaving the gate open, relying probably upon the woman's 
 shutting it. Quick as thought my relative passed the 
 awful portals, and made his way across the park. Guided 
 by the high tower called " Beckford's Folly " my in- 
 quisitive friend made his way to the gardens, and not 
 being able immediately to find the entrance, was leaning 
 on a low wall that shut the gardens from the park, and 
 taking his fill of delight at the gorgeous display the 
 gardens being in full beauty when a man with a spud 
 in his hand perhaps the head-gardener approached,
 
 THE FONTHILL STORY. 355 
 
 and asked the intruder how he came there, and what he 
 wanted. 
 
 " The fact is, I found the gate in the wall open, and 
 having heard a great deal about this beautiful place, I 
 thought I should like to see it." 
 
 "Ah!" said the gardener, "you would, would you? 
 "Well, you can't see much where you are. Do you think 
 you could manage to jump over the wall ? If you can, I 
 will show you the gardens." 
 
 My cousin looked over the wall, and found such a pal- 
 pable obstacle in the shape of a deep ditch on the other 
 side of it, that he wondered at the proposal. 
 
 "Oh, I forgot the ditch! Well, go to the door; you 
 will find it about a couple of hundred yards to your right, 
 and I will admit you." 
 
 In a very short time, to his great delight, my cousin 
 found himself listening to the learned names of rare plants 
 and inhaling the perfume of lovely flowers. Then the 
 fruit-gardens and hot-houses "acres of them," as he 
 afterwards declared were submitted to his inspection. 
 After the beauties of the gardens and grounds had been 
 thoroughly explored, and the wager half won, the inquisi- 
 tive one's pleasure may be imagined when his guide said: 
 
 " Now, would you like to see the house and its contents ? 
 There are some rare things in it fine pictures and so on. 
 Do you know anything about pictures ?" 
 
 " I think I do, and should, above all things, like to see 
 those of which I have heard so much ; but are you sure 
 that you will not get yourself into a scrape with Mr. Beck- 
 ford ? I've heard he is so very particular." 
 
 " Oh, no !" said the gardener. " I don't think Mr. Beck- 
 ford will mind what I do. You see, I have known him 
 all my life, and he lets me do pretty well as I like here." 
 
 "Then I shall only be too much obliged." 
 
 " Follow me, then," said the guide. 
 
 My distant cousin was really a man of considerable taste 
 and culture, a great lover of art, with some knowledge of 
 the old masters and the different schools; and he often 
 surprised his guide, who, catalogue in hand, named the 
 different pictures and their authors, by his acute and often
 
 356 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 correct criticisms. So intimate was his acquaintance with 
 the styles of some of the different painters, that he was 
 frequently able to anticipate his guide's information. 
 "When the pictures had been thoroughly examined there 
 remained bric-d-brac of all kinds costly suits of armor, 
 jewelry of all ages, bridal coffers beautifully painted by 
 Italian artists, numbers of ancient and modern musical 
 instruments, with other treasures, all to be carefully and 
 delightedly examined, till, the day nearing fast towards 
 evening, the visitor prepared to depart, and was com- 
 mencing a speech of thanks in his best manner, when the 
 gardener said, looking at his watch: 
 
 "Why, bless me, it's five o'clock! ain't you hungry? 
 You must stop and have some dinner." 
 
 " No, really, I couldn't think of taking such a liberty. 
 I am sure Mr. Beckford would be offended." 
 
 " No, he wouldn't. You must stop and dine with me ; 
 I am Mr. Beckford." 
 
 My far-off cousin's state of mind may be imagined. He 
 had won his wager, and he was asked, actually asked, to 
 dine with the man whose name was a terror to the tourist, 
 whose walks abroad were so rare that his personal appear- 
 ance was unknown to his neighbors. What a thing to 
 relate to his circle at Bath! How Mr. Beckford had been 
 belied, to be sure! The dinner was magnificent, served 
 on massive plate the wines of the rarest vintage. Rarer 
 still was Mr. Beckford's conversation. He entertained his 
 guest with stories of Italian travel, with anecdotes of the 
 great in whose society he had mixed, till he found the 
 shallowness of it; in short, with the outpouring of a mind 
 of great power and thorough cultivation. My cousin was 
 well-read enough to be able to appreciate the conversation 
 and contribute to it, and thus the evening passed delight- 
 fully away. Candles were lighted, and host and guest 
 talked till a fine Louis Quatorze clock struck eleven. Mr. 
 Beckford rose and left the room. The guest drew his 
 chair to the fire, and waited the return of his host. He 
 thought he must have dozed, for he started to find the 
 room in semi-darkness, and one of the solemn powdered 
 footmen putting out the lights.
 
 THE FONTHILL STOEY. 357 
 
 " Where is Mr. Beckford ?" said my cousin. 
 
 "Mr. Beckford has gone to bed," said the man, as he 
 extinguished the last candle. 
 
 The dining-room door was open, and there was a dim 
 light in the hall. 
 
 "This is very strange," said my cousin; "I expected 
 Mr. Beckford back again. I wished to thank him for his 
 hospitality." 
 
 This was said as the guest followed the footman to the 
 front-door. That functionary opened it wide, and said: 
 
 "Mr. Beckford ordered me to present his compliments 
 to you, sir, and I am to say that, as you found your way 
 into Fonthill Abbey without assistance, you may find your 
 way out again as best you can; and he hopes you will take 
 care to avoid the bloodhounds that are let loose in the gar- 
 dens every night. I wish you good-evening. No, thank 
 you, sir ; Mr. Beckford never allows vails." 
 
 My cousin climbed into the branches of the first tree 
 that promised a safe shelter from the dogs, and there wait- 
 ed for daylight; and it was not till the sun showed him- 
 self that he made his way, terror attending each step, 
 through the gardens into the park, and so to Bath. " The 
 wager was won," said my relative ; " but not for fifty mill- 
 ion times the amount would I again pass such a night as I 
 did at Fonthill Abbey." 
 
 I am in a position to assure my reader that this story of 
 Fonthill Abbey is absolutely true.
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 "THE RACE FOB WEALTH." 
 
 As I approach the present time I feel a difficulty in 
 speaking of my own work. Indeed, the task at any time 
 is not an agreeable one; but it is made easier in the case 
 of pictures which have long taken a settled place, so to 
 speak, in public estimation. Time was required to effect 
 that ; and time must pass, and a good deal of it, before 
 modern work can be estimated at its true value. Notori- 
 ety is not fame; and when it is remembered that an ob- 
 scure artist, called Glover, found ready sale for his land- 
 scapes, while Gainsborough's were neglected ; that Rom- 
 ney fell out of fashion while in the plenitude of his power ; 
 that Constable only sold his works with difficulty, and at 
 very small prices ; and that Turner had a whole gallery 
 full of pictures that he could not sell, it is wrong to rely 
 on popularity as a proof of merit, or the neglect engen- 
 dered by fashion and fed by ignorance (which is the fate 
 of all painters sooner or later) .as evidence of failing powers. 
 
 In this year a great international exhibition was held in 
 Paris, when the English school of painters received wor- 
 thy recognition. Most of the principal British painters 
 were well represented, and the French artists, to their 
 great surprise, it is said, found that there was really a 
 school of art in England worthy the name. I went to 
 Paris with two friends, one of whom was Millais, and we 
 were received very graciously by many of the French 
 painters ; Millais, of course, carrying away, as he deserved, 
 the lion's share of the applause. We were not surprised 
 at the kindness of our reception, but the houses palaces 
 would be the better name in which some of the artists 
 lived surprised me very much. Millais and Lcighton are 
 pretty decently lodged, but Detaille and Meissonier out-
 
 "THE BACE FOR WEALTH." 359 
 
 strip them in splendor. I had never seen either of these 
 gentlemen before, and when I was introduced to a demon- 
 strative little man, as brisk as a boy of twenty attired in 
 black dress-trousers and a blue-silk blouse, open in front, 
 disclosing a bright-red shirt, a long gray beard falling over 
 the latter as M. Meissonier, I had an example before me 
 of the truth of the saying that big souls often locate them- 
 selves in small bodies. Detaille is a soldierly-looking man, 
 reminding one of the figures he draws so well; but his 
 house ! and his bed ! the latter a marvellous structure 
 we had a sight of it from his studio; black-and-gold splen- 
 dor I told him I should be afraid to sleep in it. 
 
 We met our old friend Gambart in Paris, with whom 
 was De Keyser, the head of the Academy at Antwerp. 
 He had come to Paris mainly to paint portraits of Millais 
 and my humble self for introduction into a large compo- 
 sition to be executed by him on the walls of Gambart's 
 house at Nice. We take our place in a group of contem- 
 porary painters. 
 
 Sarah Bernhardt, actress, sculptor, and painter, is a 
 friend of Mr. Gambart's, and as we were desirous of an in- 
 troduction to a person so celebrated, a day was fixed for 
 our visit. We were admitted, through large gates, into a 
 garden, with little tables dotted about. Carpeted steps 
 led up to the chief entrance; we passed it, and found our- 
 selves in a large hall, furnished with magnificence, in the 
 shape of sculpture, armor, clocks, etc. Only a rapid glance 
 was possible, as we were ushered immediately into the stu- 
 dio many more sculptures, in various states of incomplete- 
 ness, huge tropical plants, and unfinished pictures and, as 
 we entered, a boy dressed in white, with yellow hair, sprang 
 from a sofa and greeted us warmly. The seeming boy 
 was Miss Sarah Bernhardt, whose masculine attire was 
 assumed for the convenience it afforded for the practice 
 of the art she loves far more than that in which she is so 
 famous. She made the astounding declaration to me that 
 she hated acting, and would rather succeed in painting or 
 sculpture, or both, than in any other earthly calling. 
 
 Of her painting I cannot speak, for I saw no completed 
 work ; but her sculpture surprised us all, and left little
 
 360 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 doubt that, if she devoted herself entirely to that art, she 
 would take a high place among its professors. We saw 
 her play in Voltaire's " Zaire," and also in Victor Hugo's 
 " Hernani," and from these performances, and what I have 
 seen since, I consider Sarah Bernhardt by far the greatest 
 actress I ever saw. Old playgoers say she is surpassed by 
 Rachel; that actress I never saw, but I cannot conceive it 
 possible for acting to go beyond that of this wonderful 
 woman. 
 
 Encouraged by the success of the "Road to Ruin," I 
 immediately embarked in a new venture a series of five 
 pictures, representing the career of a fraudulent financier, 
 or promoter of bubble companies, a character not uncom- 
 mon in 1877, or, perhaps, even at the present time. I 
 wished to illustrate, also, the common passion for specu- 
 lation, and the destruction that so often attends the in- 
 dulgence of it to the lives and fortunes of the financier's 
 dupes. I planned my first scene in the office of the finan- 
 cier eventually called the spider the principal flies being 
 an innocent-looking clergyman, who, with his wife and 
 daughters, are examining samples of ore supposed to be 
 the product of a mine a map of which is conspicuous on 
 the wall containing untold wealth. The office is filled 
 with other believers a pretty widow with her little son, 
 a rough country gentleman in overcoat and riding-boots, 
 a foreigner who bows obsequiously to the great projector 
 as he enters from an inner office in which clerks are seen 
 writing while a picture-dealer attends with "a gem," 
 which he hopes to sell to the great man, whose taste for 
 art is not incompatible with his love of other people's 
 money. Other flies buzz round the web. 
 
 The second picture represents the spider at home. He 
 is here discovered in a handsome drawing-room, receiving 
 guests who have been invited to an entertainment. He 
 stands in evening dress extolling the merits of a large 
 picture to a group of his guests, one of whom, a pretty 
 girl, shows by her smothered laugh that she appreciates 
 the vulgar ignorance of the connoisseur, whose art-terms 
 are evidently ludicrously misapplied. The double draw- 
 ing-room contains many figures, some of whom may be
 
 "THE BACK FOB WEALTH." 361 
 
 recognized as the clients in the first scene at the office ; 
 others are of " the upper ten," whose admiration of suc- 
 cess, combined with the hope of sharing in it, so often be- 
 trays them into strange company. 
 
 If "misfortune makes a man acquainted with strange 
 bedfellows," the converse is no less true ; for who has not 
 been startled by the appearance of an uncouth and vulgar 
 figure in what is called "high society," who, on inquiry, 
 has proved to have had but one cause for his admission, 
 namely, the possession of great wealth, and the reputa- 
 tion of having acquired it by successful speculation ; the 
 secret of which his hosts hope to ascertain and practise ? 
 
 After this moral reflection, for which I must ask pardon, 
 I proceed with my description. My host's wife, of a vul- 
 gar type, receives more guests announced by the butler, 
 the open door allowing evidence of the approaching ban- 
 quet to be seen. Hungry guests examine their watches, 
 other guests arrive, and the company goes to a dinner 
 which must be left to my reader's imagination. 
 
 In the third of the series the crash has come. The fool- 
 ish clergyman sits at his breakfast-table, with his head 
 bent to the blow. His wife, with terrified face, reads the 
 confirmation of her worst fears in the newspaper, which a 
 retreating footman has brought. Two daughters have 
 risen, terror-stricken, from their chairs, and a little mid- 
 shipman son looks at the scene with a puzzled expression, 
 in which fear predominates. The catastrophe is complete : 
 the little fortune has been invested in the mine, and the 
 whole of it lost. But my hero has been overbold ; he has 
 produced ore which his impending trial proves to be the 
 product of a mine, but not of the one in which his unhap- 
 py victims took shares. He is arrested, and takes his 
 place in the dock at the Old Bailey, where we must now 
 follow him, and also arrive at the fourth of the scenes in 
 "The Race for Wealth." See the financier there stand- 
 ing, with blanched face, listening to the evidence given 
 by the clergyman, which, if proved, will consign him to 
 penal servitude. His victims recognizable as those in 
 his office in the opening of my story stand ready to add 
 their testimony. The widow, the foreigner, the country 
 16
 
 362 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 gentleman are there ; and so, also, are some of his aristo- 
 cratic guests, one of whom studies his miserable face by 
 the aid of an opera-glass. The counsel and the jury ex- 
 amine the real and the spurious specimens of ore. The 
 evidence is overwhelming, the verdict is pronounced ; and 
 that it is " Guilty " is proved by the final scene, where, in 
 prison-garb, the luckless adventurer takes his dismal exer- 
 cise, with his fellow-convicts, in the great quadrangle of 
 Millbank jail. And so ends my tale ; and my object is 
 accomplished rightly or wrongly conceived that both 
 those who, in their eagerness to become rich, rush into 
 rash speculation, and the man who cheats them, should all 
 be punished. In the comic paper called Fun the admira- 
 ble artist of that journal, Mr. Sullivan, laid hold of my 
 puppets, and made them play a different game. He rep- 
 resented the clergyman as ruined, it is true; but he de- 
 clined to punish the swindler, who rolls along a street in 
 his carriage, accompanied by his vulgar wife, without the 
 least display of sympathy for the poor parson, who is re- 
 duced to sweeping a crossing over which the carriage has 
 just passed. I will not dispute the probability of the truth 
 of my friend Sullivan's version, for I know instances of it; 
 but, naturally, I prefer my own. With a view to truth- 
 fulness, I visited several offices in the City stockbrokers 
 and others in order that my swindler's surroundings in 
 his place of business should be en regie ; but I found so 
 strong an objection on the part of my stockbroking friends 
 to any of their offices being used for my purpose that I 
 was obliged to evolve one out of my inner consciousness. 
 Having no such scruples, I did not hesitate to use my own 
 drawing-room as a reception-room for my hero's company; 
 and, the Old Bailey being common property, I found no 
 difficulty in taking measurements and photographs of that 
 dreadful place. I examined every part of it. I made my 
 way from Newgate through subterranean passages to the 
 dock, in which I took my place as an imaginary criminal. 
 I tried to realize the impression that the sight of the judge, 
 with the sword of justice over him, together with a crowd- 
 ed court, would produce on the half-dazed eyes of the poor 
 wretch who had come upon the scene through those dim
 
 "THE BACE FOB WEALTH." 363 
 
 passages. I hear of an intention to pull down the old 
 court, which is, no doubt, in many respects inconvenient. 
 If that should happen my trial-scene will acquire an addi- 
 tional interest; for, well or ill done, it is an exact repre- 
 sentation of the Old Bailey. 
 
 I derived great assistance from the eminent personages 
 whose duties so often take them there, who all expressed 
 their willingness to sit for my picture. First, the judge, 
 my old friend Baron Huddleston, in the kindest manner 
 donned his robes, and sat so well for me that a good like- 
 ness is the result. Valuable assistance was afforded by 
 Alderman Sir Thomas Gabriel, who takes his place on the 
 bench near the judge. I may say the same of the officers 
 of the court, and of the clerk of arraigns, Mr. Avory, 
 whose portrait is considered very like him. The barris- 
 ters in the picture represent Sergeant Ballantine, Mr. Po- 
 land, and Montagu Williams, all of whom gave up many 
 hours of valuable time in my favor. I did not omit the 
 well-known face of Mr. George Lewis, nor can I forget to 
 thank him in this place for his good offices. With respect 
 to the prison at Millbank, admission was difficult, unless I 
 qualified myself by a proceeding which, however easy it 
 might make my entrance, would effectually preclude my 
 voluntary exit. Armed, then, with a letter of introduction 
 from a high personage, I sought the Governor of Millbank, 
 and in Captain Talbot Harvey I found a man in authority 
 who most readily promised me every kind of assistance, 
 only requiring compliance with certain easy conditions. 
 I should see many prisoners, but I must not speak to any 
 of them. I minutely explained my object. 
 
 " Yes, you shall see the prisoners taking their constitu- 
 tional in one of the courtyards." 
 
 " How far are they apart as they walk ?" 
 
 " Well, far enough to prevent the probability of com- 
 munication though, in spite of every care to prevent it, 
 they manage to speak, but very rarely; for the first nine 
 months of their punishment they are condemned to dead 
 silence. You will want a prison-dress to paint from ? Ah, 
 that will be difficult. We shall see. Now I will take you 
 where you like." Then, looking at the clock, the gov-
 
 364 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 ernor added, " This is just the time the prisoners take 
 their walk." 
 
 My guide conducted me, accompanied by a tall warder, 
 through passages and doors which were unlocked to ad- 
 mit us to other passages, and always carefully locked be- 
 hind us, till we arrived at a large irregular quadrangle, 
 where fifty or sixty men in fustian suits, marked with the 
 broad arrow, were walking rapidly one after another, al- 
 ways preserving the prescribed distance, in a dreadful 
 circle ; not a sound but the monotonous tramp. Two 
 warders only, placed at opposite sides of the circle, were 
 enough to control this ghastly assembly. The first thought 
 of a stranger would be that the warders were in danger^ 
 and I expressed myself to that effect to the governor. 
 
 " Oh, no, there is no fear. A preconcerted attack is im- 
 possible ; and, should an attempt be made by any of the 
 more violent, the rest would help the officers." 
 
 Noticing the pale faces, made additionally grim by 
 partly-grown beards, I remarked : 
 
 "I thought the prisoners were always shaved !" 
 
 " Yes," said Captain Harvey, " we used to shave them 
 all ; but it was found so difficult to keep the razors in or- 
 der, and the poor fellows complained so much of the pain 
 of being shaved by bad razors, that we cut their beards 
 short instead." 
 
 As the prisoners passed and repassed us, I noticed faces 
 that retained an air of breeding and refinement (some so 
 young !) that the prison-dress and the stubby beard could 
 not efface ; and I displayed a perhaps pardonable curiosity 
 to know the name and crime of one whose walk, even, be- 
 trayed the gentleman. 
 
 " No," said my courteous guide ; " it would be quite 
 irregular to disclose the name or the crime of any prisoner, 
 and for one good reason, among many others : you might 
 possibly meet the very man you inquire about in society, 
 and that before very long; and it would be manifestly 
 wrong in us to deprive him of the advantage his evening 
 dress and full-grown beard would give him in evading 
 discovery of his unfortunate antecedents. I may perhaps 
 surprise you when I tell you that several of those you see
 
 "THE RACE FOB WEALTH." 365 
 
 exercising are going through their second and third terms 
 of five years' penal servitude. Strange, isn't it ? I should 
 have thought one term would be enough, but no ; and the 
 way they will deny their previous convictions is curious. 
 One man (whose face I knew again in a moment), when I 
 said to him, ' So here you are again !' declared, with a won- 
 derful assumption of innocent truthfulness, ' Me, sir ; no, 
 sir. I never was in prison in my life before.' I was stag- 
 gered for a moment, but a second look convinced me. I 
 sent for a collection of photographs, selected the gentle- 
 man's likeness (taken, as all prisoners are, after convic- 
 tion), and, showing it to him, said, 'That's you, isn't it?' 
 
 " ' Well, sir,' said the man, turning the photograph about 
 and looking at it with the air of a connoisseur, ' I shouldn't 
 have knowed it myself;' then, with an air of frankness, 
 ' but if a gent like you says it's me, it don't become such 
 a cove as me to contradict you, you know, sir.' " 
 
 In my sketch of the prisoners exercising, I had commit- 
 ted the important mistake of making them walk within 
 speaking-distance of each other ; the dress I had imagined 
 was as unlike as possible to the real one ; and of the archi- 
 tecture of a prison-yard I was fortunately ignorant. These 
 mistakes were now to be easily rectified, provided I could 
 be permitted to take photographs of the quadrangle, and 
 be furnished with one of the convict's dresses. There was 
 much hesitation on the part of the authorities before the 
 dress was lent o me; and it was only on my undertaking 
 that I would avoid the slightest resemblance to any of the 
 prisoners whose exercise I had watched, that my request 
 was granted. I need scarcely say that I carefully selected 
 types that may some day take their constitutional at Mill- 
 bank, but are at present more or less respectable members 
 of society. I went several times to the prison, and was 
 consigned to a warder who, less reticent than the govern- 
 or, but equally careful not to infringe rules, told me some 
 amusing stories of the prisoners, one of which shall be re- 
 corded. 
 
 The burglar Peace whose crimes and fate are well 
 known was what the warder styled " a first-class prison- 
 er." He had served a long period of imprisonment before
 
 366 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 he committed the murders which consigned him to the 
 scaffold; and during the latter portion of it he was al- 
 lowed, partly as an indulgence for his good behavior, to 
 practise an art in which he displayed much ingenuity; 
 namely, that of cutting out of a rough kind of cardboard 
 a variety of objects birds, beasts, fishes, houses, and the 
 like. The royal arms was a favorite subject. I was 
 shown one of these, and really the lion and the unicorn 
 showed the true feeling of an artist. He colored his pro- 
 ductions when paints were available. 
 
 "A little too glaring," the warder said, "but very 
 pretty. He was a good talker too, sir, was Peace ; he 
 wouldn't mind telling lots of burgling stories. He was a 
 first-class burglar, we considered him. Well, one day he 
 said to me : 
 
 " ' What a sad thing it is that when once a person gets 
 a character for being untruthful nobody will believe what 
 he says ! Now, to give you an idea, Mr. Green,' says he 
 (Green's my name, sir), 'there, was a friend of mine, a 
 chemist, at Clapham. He had a prejudice against me be- 
 cause I had told him lies now and then ; and one day I was 
 in his shop smoking a cigar. I'd gone for some physic, 
 not feeling quite the thing; and he says to me, says he, 
 sniffing up : 
 
 " ' " That's a fine cigar you are smoking, Peace," he 
 says. "Where might you have got those cigars?" 
 
 " < " I stole 'em," I said. 
 
 " ' " Did you ?" says he, laughing. "I wish you would 
 steal some for me." 
 
 "'"Well, I will," said I; and a few days after I goes 
 into his shop with half a boxful of same cigars. " There 
 you are," says I; "I have stolen some for you, as I prom- 
 ised." Well, he laughs again more than ever ; but he 
 didn't believe me, though I assure you I had told him the 
 truth.' " 
 
 An innocent man was very nearly being hanged for one 
 of Mr. Peace's murders. On being discharged from the 
 care of my friend Mr. Green, Peace at once resumed his 
 burglarious profession. He always went armed, as a pre- 
 caution, and, to use his own words, " not with any idea
 
 "THE RACE FOB WEALTH." 367 
 
 of hurting nobody;" and it was only when he found him- 
 self so hard pressed, after committing a burglary, as to 
 leave him the choice of being taken by a policeman or of 
 shooting him, that, much to his regret, he was compelled 
 to use his revolver, and the policeman fell dead. An in- 
 nocent man was tried for this murder, found guilty of it, 
 and condemned to death; but as some doubt arose with 
 respect to an alibi, upon which the poor fellow had relied, 
 his sentence was commuted into imprisonment for life. 
 Peace's success encouraged him to further efforts, many 
 of them being rewarded with the result that his genius 
 deserved, till one luckless night, after a very hazardous 
 operation, he was again interrupted; " most unfairly," he 
 said, " for he only wanted to go away quietly." 
 
 The owner of the house or, to quote Peace again, of 
 "the crib that he had cracked" surprised Mr. Peace as 
 he was leaving the premises laden with the " swag," seized 
 the burglar, and paid for his courage with his life. Peace 
 was arrested, and made a full confession of this and other 
 murders, entirely exculpating the poor man who was lin- 
 gering in prison, where he had already passed more than 
 two years. The innocent man was, of course, instantly 
 released, receiving what the law calls " a free pardon " 
 for a crime that he had not committed. In Peace's con- 
 fession he acknowledged the justice of his doom in these 
 words : 
 
 " Well, I am a-going to be executed, and I suppose I've 
 no call to complain ; but what I say is this, I'm going to 
 be hung for what I done, but never intended" I may 
 close my account of Mr. Peace's career with a horribly 
 grim joke said to have been perpetrated by one of the 
 witnesses of his execution. The rope was round the crim- 
 inal's neck, and the executioner was on the point of draw- 
 ing the bolt, when the criminal exclaimed : 
 
 "Wait a bit; give me some water just a drop." 
 
 As the words left his lips they were closed forever. 
 
 " He asked for a drop" said the hardened bystander, 
 " and he has got it." 
 
 It is a little remarkable that the penitentiary at Mill- 
 bank is like the Old Bailey doomed to destruction, and
 
 368 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 will soon cease to be a prison. I think, therefore, that the 
 courtyard with its surrounding cells which forms the 
 mise-en-sc&ne of my picture, precisely copied from nature 
 as it is, may be interesting as a record of prison life at 
 this time. 
 
 The series of " The Race for Wealth " was exhibited in 
 King Street, St. James's, and visited by great numbers of 
 people. The pictures were translated by photogravure, 
 but whether from the faults of the pictures, or of the 
 method in which they were reproduced, the result was far 
 from satisfactory. 
 
 My summer holiday of 1879 was spent at Tenby. 
 Though it has been my habit to insist upon enforced idle- 
 ness, as regards the actual' practice of my profession, for 
 at least a month or six weeks of every year, I have nei- 
 ther been able, nor willing, to banish from my mind all 
 thought of fresh material for my work ; and the sight of 
 the Welsh fishwomen with their picturesque costumes 
 suggested subjects for a variety of pictures. It was com- 
 mon to see these women, with their high Welsh hats and 
 bright petticoats, offering their wares to the visitors ; bar- 
 gains being struck as the ladies stood at their windows. 
 One such scene I determined to paint, and that picture 
 together with a single figure-piece were my only contri- 
 butions to the Exhibition of 1880; my principal work 
 being shown elsewhere. After an interval of eight years 
 I found myself again a member of the dreadful and 
 dreaded hanging committee. I can say for myself, and I 
 feel sure I can say for my colleagues, that we tried to do 
 our "spiriting gently;" but I fear we did not escape cen- 
 sure for not performing impossibilities ; and so long as 
 would-be exhibitors are allowed to send in any number 
 of pictures in the hope of one or two being selected, con- 
 fusion and unintentional injustice must occur.
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 A MYSTERIOUS S I T T E B. 
 
 THE first fog of the season made its hated appearance 
 early in October of the year 1853, and I had cast my de- 
 spairing eyes many times up to the square patch of opaque 
 pea-soup atmosphere that showed itself at the window of 
 my studio, in the hope that I might discover a favorable 
 change in its determined opposition to the practice of the 
 fine arts, when my servant entered the room and presented 
 me with a card. 
 
 " The gentleman is in the drawing-room, and would like 
 to see you on particular business." 
 
 "Mr. William Rivers," said the card. 
 
 I found my visitor to be a tall, gentlemanly-looking man 
 about thirty, wlfo, after profuse apology for taking the 
 liberty of calling on me, said in a strangely nervous and 
 agitated manner that he had seen some of my works in 
 the possession of a friend, and though they were not por- 
 traits, he hoped that is, he feared that though it might 
 not be my habit to still, perhaps, I might under certain 
 circumstances (what on earth is the man driving at ? 
 thought I) I might I might be induced here the ner- 
 vousness became so embarrassing that I suggested an ad- 
 journment to my painting-room, more in the hope of giv- 
 ing the gentleman time to collect himself than with the 
 desire of showing him the work I had in progress. The 
 fog had cleared sufficiently to enable my visitor to see a 
 small picture, then on the easel, and nearly completed. I 
 immediately found I had to do with a man who had not 
 only a love of art, but a knowledge of its principles. But 
 he could not talk about the little scene from "The Bride 
 of Lammermoor " forever; the object of his visit must be 
 broached, and then the nervous condition took possession 
 16*
 
 370 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 of him more completely than before. After an awkward 
 silence, he said: 
 
 " It is not for myself. I have no interest that is, I am 
 interested for my friend Street. He lives in Nottingham 
 you know Nottingham ? No ? Ah yes well, she is his 
 sister young lady yes, he would like you to paint her 
 portrait." (Is this all? what is there to be nervous about ? 
 I said to myself.) 
 
 "I never paint portraits," was my reply; and I explained 
 my reason on seeing the blank look of disappointment that 
 the handsome face assumed. I showed him a female figure 
 painted from a model, for which I had received a sum as 
 large, or perhaps larger, than I could charge for a portrait of 
 a similar size ; and I told him that in painting it I had no 
 thought about likeness, which in a portrait is essential. I 
 had no one but myself to please. Artists' models are 
 selected on account of some charm of feature or expres- 
 sion they are all, more or less, agreeable objects of con- 
 templation; whereas the man who undertakes a portrait 
 may be condemned to spend hour after hour in studying 
 the ugly or the commonplace, and please nobody after all. 
 
 The stranger's face brightened as he said: 
 
 "But suppose now, for the sake of argument (sic) sup- 
 pose that you have a beautiful girl proposed to you, quite, 
 I should say yes, more so than that you have just done, 
 and she would sit quite still, you know, and so on suit 
 herself to your time, and that sort of thing in short, 
 make herself very agreeable in every way, would you un- 
 dertake to oblige my friend and and me ?" 
 
 After a moment's pause, I said: 
 
 " Well, if the lady is what you describe, and she will 
 fulfil the conditions you name, I will do my best to please 
 all concerned." 
 
 " Will you ? will you ?" he exclaimed, in a paroxysm of 
 agitation. " Well then, I hope, Mr. Frith, that I shall not 
 a a that my visit, I mean that I shall be able to go to 
 my to Mr. Street at Nottingham, I mean and say you 
 consent to paint his sister. That you will agree with ev- 
 erybody in thinking her a lovely girl, I have no doubt at 
 all. When can she take her first sitting ?"
 
 A MYSTERIOUS SITTEE. 371 
 
 " Ah ! by the way," said I, " I can't go to Nottingham, 
 you know. How is that to be managed ?" 
 
 " I may say," was the reply, " that my friend Street has 
 left me carte blanclie as to terras, so there will be no diffi- 
 culty about that; and Miss Street, she she oh, of course, 
 not. Nottingham ? Oh, no ! She is in London, and will 
 remain some months longer at least, that is, I believe so; 
 and I hope a you will find her a " 
 
 " Where is she staying ?" 
 
 "Staying stay ' here the nervousness increased 
 frightfully. "Her address? She lives that is, she re- 
 sides at present she is staying but perhaps you will be 
 good enough not to mention my name to the lady she is 
 with, if you please, because she does not know me, and I 
 don't want her to hear my name in the matter of the pict- 
 ure Miss Street is staying with a Mrs. Baker at present, 
 who lives yes I will send you the address; and you bear 
 in mind that my name is not to be mentioned." 
 
 " Of course you may depend on me in that respect." 
 
 " Oh, thank you ! Let me see I hope to be in Notting- 
 ham to night. Yes, this is Thursday; Friday too late. 
 You shall hear from me on Saturday, Mr. Frith, without 
 fail. You will be ready for first sitting Monday, you say. 
 Mrs. Baker's address is 501 St. John's Wood Road. Satur- 
 day without fail. Good - day. Don't trouble yourself to 
 come to the door. Ah ! it has cleared up, I see. What 
 convenient things these hansoms are ! Pray don't stand 
 in the air without your hat. Good-day !" And Mr. Rivers, 
 still strangely agitated, jumped into his cab, and was 
 whirled off townwards. 
 
 After he had gone, and I thought the matter over, I did 
 not feel comfortable about it. Why did he shrink from 
 telling me the address, and then tell it ? And why was he 
 so nervous ? Perhaps the young lady was not so pretty 
 after all only beautiful in his eyes, for he was evidently 
 ah ! the more I thought of it the less I liked Mr. Will- 
 iam Rivers, with his hesitating manner so like guilt, his 
 St. John's Wood Road, and his Mrs. Baker ! 
 
 However, on the Saturday morning I received a note 
 from Mr. Rivers, telling me that I might expect Miss
 
 372 MY AUTOBIOGEAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 Street and Mrs. Baker at ten o'clock on Monday; and 
 punctually to the moment they arrived. I found Mrs. 
 Baker to be a lady of a certain age; still handsome, port- 
 ly, and of excellent manners; a little over-precise perhaps, 
 and utterly opposed to my preconceived idea of her. I 
 may mention here what I afterwards discovered, namely, 
 that Mrs. Baker had formerly kept a large establishment 
 for young ladies, and now received only two or three for 
 the purpose of "finishing" their education, Miss Street 
 being one of these. 
 
 I need not tell those who have done me the honor to 
 read thus far in my reminiscences, that, unsatisfactory as 
 the productions of my pencil may be, I am still more un- 
 fortunate when I assume the pen; and as I most certainly 
 failed to do justice to my lovely model with my brush, I 
 cannot hope to convey a clear idea of her with the less 
 familiar pen. She was tall, and graceful in every move- 
 ment. Her head was small, perfectly formed, with a pro- 
 fusion of dark hair; her throat, like that which Anne 
 Boleyn must have clasped with her pretty little hands 
 when she made that cheerful remark to the headsman, 
 white and round as what you will, except snow or ala- 
 baster; very tender gray eyes, with long dark lashes; a 
 straight nose, with proudly curved nostrils; and the love- 
 liest of lovely mouths. Every turn of her head and every 
 change of attitude disclosed a fresh beauty; and it was 
 anxious work to select a position which, when once 
 chosen, had to be fixed on canvas forever. But at last, 
 after many turnings and twistings, and a strangled yawn 
 or two from Mrs. Baker, an outline was made, and I set 
 my model free; arranging for the "first painting" on the 
 following day. 
 
 An account of the sittings would be wearisome. I knew 
 from her sweet face she would sit well, and that she did 
 most patiently; and when she saw me more than ordinarily 
 dispirited and anxious, with downright failure staring me 
 in the face and chilling me to the marrow, she would con- 
 quer all sense of fatigue, and again I saw the expression I 
 would have given the world to catch. Mrs. Baker never 
 came after the first visit. Miss Bloxam, a dowdy, good
 
 A MYSTERIOUS SITTKB. 373 
 
 little soul, who seemed to have all the pillow-cases in St. 
 John's Wood to make or mend, accompanied my sitter, 
 and was harmless and good-natured enough. 
 
 I remembered my promise to Mr. Rivers, and never 
 mentioned his name; but Miss Street often spoke of her 
 brother, and impressed me with the idea that she had a 
 deep affection for him. Sometimes I spoke of Notting- 
 ham as her home, and asked her when she expected to 
 leave London and reside entirely with her brother ; but to 
 this inquiry, and others as to her friends in Nottingham- 
 shire, I received short and hesitating replies. She had no 
 present intention of leaving town, she said, and she seemed 
 to know none of the Nottinghamshire families with whom 
 I happened to be acquainted. 
 
 When the head of the portrait was near completion I 
 was doubtful as to the likeness ; and though Miss Bloxam 
 gave a favorable opinion, I thought it would be desirable 
 to communicate directly with the lady's brother, instead 
 of through a friend, whose acts he might subsequently dis- 
 avow. I accordingly wrote such a letter to Mr. Rivers 
 as I thought would insure me an answer from the prin- 
 cipal in the affair; but the reply was from Mr. Rivers, who 
 merely desired me to do my best, being empowered to 
 assure me that, like or unlike, the picture was to be con- 
 sidered Mr. Street's. So I advanced the head still further, 
 and Mr. Street having sent a splendid yellow-satin dress 
 from Nottingham a dress which harmonized admirably 
 with Miss Street's complexion I clothed my lay figure 
 in the gorgeous robes, and by dint of painting, now in the 
 dark, now in the light, I finished the costume. I think it was 
 on the day when I had put the last touches to the black 
 lace on the dress that a lady and gentleman called the 
 lady an extremely elegant person, and the gentleman, 
 whom she introduced as her brother, a tall, handsome, 
 soldierly-looking man with a black mustache and, after 
 many apologies for their intrusion, asked to be allowed to 
 see Miss Street's portrait. With all the politeness I could 
 summon for the occasion, I declined to show the portrait 
 until after Miss Street had given me another, and, as I 
 hoped, a final sitting; this would take place in a few days,
 
 374 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 and if they would favor me with a call in about a fort- 
 night, they should have their wish. Both the lady and 
 her brother seemed to know Miss Street and Mrs. Baker 
 very well, and the gentleman asked me if Mrs. Baker was 
 present during the sittings. I thought he seemed pleased 
 when I answered in the negative ; but he said nothing, and 
 they took their leave. For a fortnight after this I saw 
 nothing of my beautiful sitter, the weather being so mis- 
 erable with fog and darkness that painting at all, much 
 less finishing, was out of the question ; but on the first 
 struggle of the sun to show himself I betook myself to St. 
 John's Wood Road to arrange for a sitting the next day. 
 I found Mrs. Baker's house, and was shown into a very 
 handsome drawing-room, where sat Mrs. Baker herself. 
 She received me very graciously, and I told her my errand. 
 Then she lifted her eyebrows gently, and said : 
 
 " Miss Street's portrait ! Ah, I perceive, then, you have 
 not had a visit from Mr. Street." 
 
 I told her I had never seen Mr. Street in my life. 
 
 " Dear me !" she said, very placidly ; " Miss Street is 
 out of town." 
 
 " Out of town !" I exclaimed. " Why, Miss Street in- 
 formed me that it was not only not probable, but that her 
 arrangements made it impossible for her to leave London 
 before Christmas, and " 
 
 " No doubt ; and I can quite clear Miss Street of at- 
 tempting to deceive, in this case at any rate," said Mrs. 
 Baker, with emphasis. "She had no idea she was about 
 to leave London ; of that I am quite sure." 
 
 " Well," said I, feeling rather bewildered, " may I ask 
 when she is expected to return ?" 
 
 " When Miss Street is expected to return here, do you 
 mean? She is not expected to return to this house, nor 
 would she be permitted to do so." 
 
 After this blow I was stunned, and silent for a moment. 
 I then looked at Mrs. Baker's face, and fancied, from what 
 I saw there, that she was brimful of something she wished 
 to divulge, but did not know how to begin. At last she 
 said, 
 
 " You need be under no apprehension about not being
 
 A MYSTERIOUS SITTER. 375 
 
 paid for the portrait ; they seemed to be very anxious 
 about it, and there is plenty of money. And Mr. Street 
 didn't call ? How odd ! You have never seen Mr. Street, 
 did you say?" 
 
 " Never," I replied, from the depths of gloom. 
 
 " May I ask Ah, now I remember. You are not a 
 portrait- painter ?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 "No! You undertook to paint Miss Street's portrait 
 through the intervention of a mutual friend? Was it 
 not so ?" 
 
 My promise to Mr. Rivers flashed across me, so I said, 
 
 " Why, scarcely a mutual friend. I never saw the gen- 
 tleman but once, and " 
 
 " Not a mutual friend !" interrupted Mrs. Baker. " De- 
 ception again ! Decidedly they said a mutual friend. 
 That you didn't paint portraits, but as a special favor 
 you I am confident he was a mutual friend. What was 
 his name?" 
 
 " His name ? Well, I" 
 
 "Was it Rivers or Collins?" 
 
 " It was not Collins, I think ; but" 
 
 "Was it William Rivers?" 
 
 The woman thoroughly drove me into a corner. I could 
 only say, feebly, that I could not take upon myself to say ; 
 that I could not tax my memory. 
 
 " I only saw the gentleman once, you know," I added, 
 artfully. 
 
 "Your memory, I fear, is not very good," said Mrs. 
 Baker, with a slight sneer. " But you have heard from 
 Mr. Street?" 
 
 " No, I have not, Mrs. Baker," I said ; and added, with 
 indignation, " and, considering I am painting his sister's 
 portrait, I think " 
 
 "Nor from his friend, whose name has escaped you? 
 Haven't you heard from the friend ?" 
 
 " Yes ; I have heard twice from the friend, as you call 
 him." 
 
 "And yet," exclaimed Mrs. Baker, with frightful em- 
 phasis, " and yet you cannot recollect his name ?"
 
 376 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 There was no use in playing with such a woman, so I 
 said at once, 
 
 " I must be candid with you ; I cannot tell you the 
 name of the person who called on me. I you under- 
 stand." 
 
 "PERfectly," said Mrs. Baker, " PERfectly ; nothing but 
 deceit. I beg your pardon ?" 
 
 "I was not about to make any remark," I said, as she 
 stopped abruptly. "I merely want to know when Miss 
 Street will return." 
 
 This set Mrs. Baker off again. She implored me to dis- 
 miss any fear " of a pecuniary nature " from my mind. 
 No expense had been spared with regard to the "young 
 person ;" there was evidently plenty of money. She had 
 had singing-lessons, German lessons, riding -lessons ; and 
 as she uttered the last words Mrs. Baker went off at a 
 tangent, and said, 
 
 " Now, Mr. Frith, you have never seen Mr. Street, and 
 you cannot remember the name of the person who ordered 
 you to paint the portrait ; pray may I ask if you know 
 any other friend of Miss Street's ?" 
 
 I said, " No ; certainly not." 
 
 Then I bethought me of the lady and gentleman who 
 had called to see the portrait. I mentioned that visit 
 and described the visitors. Instantly Mrs. Baker's face 
 flushed. 
 
 " And their names," she asked, eagerly, " their names ? 
 Were they Mrs. Allen and Captain Hill?" 
 
 "Well, I am not quite certain," said I, "but I think 
 those were the names. Do you know these people ? They 
 seemed to take great interest in Miss Street." 
 
 " Who seemed to take great interest in her I mean in 
 Miss Street Captain Hill ? Yes, indeed ! The interest 
 Captain Hill takes in Miss Street is the cause of her not 
 being able to sit for you to-morrow ; they had taken rid- 
 ing-lessons together, you know. Captain Hill has driven 
 Miss Street out of town ; not that she wanted to go. He 
 is a very handsome man, you say ; he may be. All I can 
 say is, he has created a fine confusion, he and his compan- 
 ion plotter, the riding-master. To be candid with you, it
 
 A MTSTEBIOU8 BITTER. 377 
 
 is a stupid love-matter. Your handsome captain has fallen 
 deeply in love with Miss Street, and she with him." 
 
 I remarked there was nothing wonderful in that. 
 
 " Perhaps not, in the event of two such persons being 
 thrown together; but they never ought to have met. 
 However, I have washed my hands of the whole affair. 
 My conduct is open to the world. I have no secrets, and 
 I lend myself, knowingly at least, to no deception." 
 
 "May I ask how this this attachment became 
 known ?" 
 
 " You may," said Mrs. Baker, with enormous candor, 
 " so might any one. As I said before, I have no secrets. 
 Of course, Mr. Frith, being an artist, you are also a phys- 
 iognomist. Now, to me, Miss Street has a face which de- 
 rives one of its chief charms from its extremely innocent 
 expression. Those eyes, how often have I thought that 
 deceit could find no home there ! She was quick-tem- 
 pered ; she had other faults ; but deceit, never. Yet, oh, 
 dear sir, how deceitful she has proved herself ! To be 
 brief : I saw a note lying on my hall-table, addressed to 
 Miss Street ; the address was written in a hand which I did 
 not recognize as belonging to any of her usual correspond- 
 ents ; it seemed to me to be a gentleman's writing dis- 
 guised, and made to look like a lady's. I was suspicious, 
 I own, and when Miss Street was sitting on that very 
 stool, reading the note, I watched her. She had just 
 come in from her walk, and I thought, as she sat on that 
 low stool, I had never seen a more innocent-looking, pret- 
 ty creature. Do you know, I was almost ashamed of my 
 suspicions, when I saw a faint blush on her face ; it might 
 have been fancy. She rose and left the room. After an 
 absence of a minute or two she came back, and with that 
 artless manner you know her way she said, 
 
 " * Mrs. Baker, would you like to know the contents of 
 the note I was reading ?' 
 
 " My reply was, ' Clara, my love, I have perfect confi- 
 dence in you ; you would receive a note from no one of 
 whom I should disapprove. At the same time, if you 
 wish to tell me what the note contained I can have no 
 objection.'
 
 378 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 " ' Oh, I should like to tell you, for you might assist 
 us,' said she ; ' it is from an old schoolfellow of mine, 
 poor Annie Featherstone. We were such friends, Mrs. 
 Baker, and now her father has been speculating and lost 
 everything in Pennsylvanian bonds ; the family is quite 
 reduced in circumstances, and poor dear Annie is obliged 
 to go out as a governess and she such a proud girl ! it 
 will be a sad blow. She has written to know if I can get 
 her a situation.' That, Mr. Frith, was Miss Street's story, 
 and I believed it. I was too credulous, for the story was 
 false from the beginning to the end. The note came from 
 Captain Hill." 
 
 " Good gracious !" I exclaimed. " How did you dis- 
 cover that?" 
 
 " It is, perhaps, not necessary," Mrs. Baker replied, in a 
 dignified tone of reserve, " to enter into the means I took 
 to discover the correspondence. I DID discover it, and I 
 collected the letters and sent them to her brother." 
 
 " Well, but," said I, " perhaps the captain may be a good 
 match for Miss Street ; and if so, though the introduction 
 may be what we could not approve exactly, why should 
 Mr. Street object ?" 
 
 On this point Mrs. Baker was very clear. 
 
 " Mr. Street does object," she said ; " that is very plain. 
 And if you had witnessed the scene that took place in this 
 room you would have been as much puzzled to under- 
 stand Mr. Street as I was. Never did I see a man so agi- 
 tated ; in fact, he could scarcely control himself. He 
 arrived very early in the morning : we had not left our 
 rooms. Miss Street declared she would not leave London. 
 She seemed to have a strange repugnance to accompany 
 her brother she would follow him to-morrow in a day 
 or two he could trust her, she supposed? and so on. 
 At last I felt obliged to say, ' Clara, my love, you forget 
 this is my house ; and I regret to have to tell you that, 
 after the terrible way in which you have deceived me, 
 there is no longer a home for you here. We must part, 
 if you please.' I really felt for her, poor girl, she cried 
 so ; but then you know the dreadful story she told me, 
 Mr. Frith !"
 
 A MYSTERIOUS SITTER. 379 
 
 I was struck with an idea. " Pray, Mrs. Baker, what is 
 Mr. Street like?" 
 
 Mrs. Baker immediately described a gentleman who 
 would pass admirably for Mr. William Rivers. 
 
 "Come," thought I, "this is really mysterious;" and I 
 asked Mrs. Baker to show me some of Mr. Street's hand- 
 writing. " The cover of one of his notes would do." 
 
 " By all means," said the lady, opening a small drawer 
 in the table near her. " Here is the last letter I received 
 from him. Oh, open it, open it ; I wish for no conceal- 
 ment. I have no secrets." 
 
 The penmanship was strange to me ; certainly not that 
 of Rivers. 
 
 " That is Mr. Street's writing, is it ?" I asked. 
 
 "I suppose so," was the reply; "but it is singularly un- 
 like his usual penmanship. It is evidently written in great 
 agitation, you see." 
 
 " May I see the ordinary writing ?" I asked. 
 
 " Certainly. I will fetch you one of his letters ;" and 
 Mrs. Baker left the room. 
 
 During her absence I read the note again carefully, and 
 on her return I said, 
 
 " Why, Mrs. Baker, I see no address. I was about to 
 ask you for Mr. Street's address, as I wish, under the cir- 
 cumstances, to write to him." 
 
 " Post-office, Nottingham," said Mrs. Baker. 
 
 " Post-office, Nottingham !" I exclaimed. " Why, that 
 is no address at all. Mr. Street surely doesn't keep a post- 
 office !" 
 
 " That is the only address I have ever known," com- 
 menced the lady ; but I, astonished out of my good man- 
 ners, interrupted : 
 
 " And do you take a young lady into your house who 
 gives no address beyond a post-office?" 
 
 Mrs. Baker was not offended in the least. 
 
 " Sir, your remark is natural and proper. I made every 
 inquiry about Miss Street. There is a well-known family 
 in Nottingham of that name ; and I was assured, in reply 
 to my searching questions, that I should be perfectly safe 
 in receiving any member of the Street family. The name
 
 380 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 of Street Lad been well selected, or the young lady's name 
 may really be Street, only she does not belong to the well- 
 known family of that name. Here is one of Mr. Street's 
 letters in his usual hand." 
 
 William Rivers, by all that is curious ! " Oh ! this is 
 the other. Well, it is very unlike the last," said I. 
 
 " I attribute the difference to the agitation of the writer," 
 said Mrs. Baker. " You see the writing in the first letter 
 is tremulous and ill-formed." 
 
 " Well," said I, looking at the penmanship, and thor- 
 oughly convincing myself it was the work of Rivers, " I 
 am really ashamed to have occupied your time so long." 
 
 " Pray don't name that. It is my desire, as I have had 
 the pleasure of telling you very often, to have no useless 
 concealment. I feel that there is a degree of mystery 
 surrounding Miss Street that ought not to surround any 
 young woman. For my part, I hate mysteries. I always 
 find something that requires to be hidden at the bottom 
 of a mystery. But I feel sure you will soon know Miss 
 Street's true address, for they are very anxious about the 
 portrait ; and as to money, there is no lack of that." 
 
 Thereupon I took my leave, and went ruminating west- 
 ward. 
 
 It was a strange affair this : a lovely girl, with her 
 strange lover, strange brother, mysterious friend, and ad- 
 dress at a post-office ! 
 
 I was not kept long in suspense, for two days after my 
 interview with Mrs. Baker I received a letter from Miss 
 Street, announcing her regret at having had to leave Lon- 
 don unexpectedly, and her intention of coming up to town 
 one jday in the following week. The letter came from 
 Elm Tree House, Alfrington, near Nottingham. So I had 
 an address at last, and I was chuckling over it, when Cap- 
 tain Hill and his sister were announced. They came pro- 
 fessedly to see the portrait ; but they had not been in my 
 studio five minutes before I discovered that their chief 
 object was to extract from me any information I might 
 possess about my mysterious sitter. 
 
 I taxed my visitors with this, and they confessed it so 
 frankly that I told them all I knew which was little
 
 A MYSTERIOUS SITTER. 381 
 
 enough and ended by giving them the address I had just 
 received. 
 
 The captain seized the letter, eagerly scanned the ad- 
 dress which he copied and declared his intention of 
 starting at once for Alfrington, his object being, as he 
 coolly informed me, to see the young lady's brother, de- 
 clare his passion, a,nd take his chance. 
 
 I agreed with his views, wished him success, and we 
 parted capital friends, after his promise to let me know 
 the result of his mission on his return. 
 
 Two or three days after this I received a second note 
 from Miss Street, deferring her visit for another week ; 
 and it was not long after that time when, on returning 
 from my afternoon walk, I was told that a gentleman was 
 waiting for me in my drawing-room. There, bending 
 over the fire, his chin resting on his hand, looking pale 
 and worn, I found Captain Hill. 
 
 He apologized for intruding upon me, pleading as his 
 excuse my being the only person he knew who took any 
 interest in Miss Street. 
 
 I reassured him, and asked what success had attended 
 his search. 
 
 " None," he said; "the mystery is as great as ever." 
 
 " But surely," said I, " you have seen her or her brother? 
 You went, did you not, to their house?" 
 
 " It is a long story," he said, smiling feebly; " but such 
 a strange one that you must hear it. I left London by 
 the mail train in the evening of the day I last saw you 
 here the day you replied to Miss Street's note; indeed, 
 I accompanied your letter, for I went by the train that 
 conveyed it and next morning I found myself in Alfring- 
 ton. Alfrington is the beau-ideal of an old English vil- 
 lage : little gable-ended cottages, the church overgrown 
 with ivy, and all that sort of thing quite rural, you know. 
 I put up at an old inn, with a landlord to match, a Boni- 
 face of the old school, and quite as slow. He waited upon 
 me when I was getting my breakfast, and by way of say- 
 ing something, I asked him if the Street family, or any of 
 them, ever paid him a visit. I thought perhaps the inn 
 might be their property.
 
 382 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 " ' What name, sir ? The name of Street ? No, sir, I 
 never heard the name myself never know'd anybody of 
 that name come here, sir.' 
 
 " ' Well, but you know of the Street family who live 
 near this place, don't you ?' 
 
 " ' Street family ? Never heard of a family by that 
 name about these parts. No, sir.' 
 
 " I finished my breakfast without any further attempt 
 upon my landlord. 
 
 " It struck me that the best place for inquiry would be 
 the post-office, and to that place I was going, when I over- 
 took a man who looked so like a postman that I asked him 
 if he was not that functionary. 
 
 " ' Yes, I am, sir ; the only one here, and have been for 
 a good bit.' 
 
 " Very oddly the people talk there ; really difficult to 
 understand at times. 
 
 " ' Well, then,' said I, ' will you be so good as to tell me 
 whereabouts Elm Tree House is ? You know it, no doubt.' 
 
 "'Helm Tree Hoose, sir?' (he called 'house' hoose). 
 ' Can't say I do ; and I know all the houses about these 
 parts pretty well, too.' 
 
 " ' Elm Tree House, near Alfrington,' said I, speaking 
 each word very slowly. ' This is Alfrington, is it not ?' 
 
 " ' Oh, yes, sir,' he said, laughing, ' this is Alfrington, 
 sure enough ; but there is no house by that name as you 
 speak of near Alfrington, I know.' 
 
 " ' The devil there isn't ! Why, a friend of mine re- 
 ceives letters from Elm Tree House, and replies to them ; 
 in fact, is in correspondence with a person at Elm Tree 
 House ; and this very mail has brought one from London 
 to that address, to my certain knowledge. What do you 
 say to that?' 
 
 " ' Well, sir excuse the joke, but I wish they may get 
 it, sir. Excuse me. laughing, sir ; no offence. I shall have 
 to deliver it at a place that I never heerd on, though I 
 have been postman here nigh twenty years.' 
 
 " ' Ah, well ; thank you. Do you know the family 
 of Oh, never mind. Will you kindly direct me to 
 the post-office?'
 
 A MYSTERIOUS SITTER. 383 
 
 " ' To be sure, sir. There you are, sir, that little shop 
 with the old-fashioned window that bow-window like 
 just where that old woman's a-passing. Good-day, sir.' 
 
 " Now, do you know, Mr. Frith, I really did begin to 
 think it very strange that neither from my landlord nor 
 from the postman who, of all men, ought to have known 
 the house from which Miss Street had undoubtedly writ- 
 ten to you could I get the least information ; and, in 
 grave doubts as to what I should do next if the postmas- 
 ter failed me, I made my way to the little shop which also 
 did duty as post-office. A man behind the counter was 
 sorting letters as I entered ; indeed, I thought I saw yours 
 among them, and I was not mistaken. 
 
 " ' I beg your pardon,' said I ; ' I thought you would 
 be sure to be able to direct me to a place I am anxious to 
 find. Will you be so kind as to tell me where Elm Tree 
 House is, somewhere close to this village?' 
 
 " ' Elm Tree House,' said the man, very slowly ; ' I don't 
 know any house of that name near here. There is no 
 such place near here, sir.' 
 
 " ' No house of that name ?' exclaimed I, now really 
 perplexed. 
 
 " ' No, sir ; and here is a letter addressed to Elm Tree 
 House' (showing the one you had written) 'from London, 
 you see, sir. It's a rum thing, this is. I can't make it 
 out, no more can't my missis.' 
 
 " ' What do you mean you can't make out ?' said I. 
 
 " ' Why, you see, sir, there aren't such a place as Elm 
 Tree House. It's a fictitious address, that is ; but I had 
 a letter myself about this here one, so I knowed it was 
 a-coming.' 
 
 " ' Oh, you knew it was coming ; you knew it would 
 come by this post to-day ?' 
 
 " ' Yes ; oh, yes, we knowed it was coming. But it's a 
 rum thing ; we aren't used to them kind of tricks here.' 
 
 " ' What sort of tricks? What on earth do you mean ?' 
 
 " ' Why, sir, I call it very queer when I get a letter, 
 with no name signed to it, to tell me a letter will come 
 from London, directed to a place when there aren't no such 
 place. I call that very rum, I do.'
 
 384 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 " ' Well,' said I, ' and what are you going to do with 
 the letter now you have got it ? You can't deliver it, that 
 is very clear.' 
 
 " ' No, sir, we ain't got to deliver it. It's to be fetched ; 
 it's to wait till called for.' 
 
 " ' And who is to call for it, pray ?' 
 
 " ' Ah, that's more than I can tell, sir. Him as wrote 
 the letter with no name to it, I suppose.' 
 
 " ' Now, I'll tell you what, my man. I am very anxious 
 to see who fetches this letter. It will be called for pres- 
 ently, no doubt. Have you any objection to allow me to 
 wait there, in that back-room ? Through the glass-door, 
 I can see from behind that little curtain.' 
 
 " The man entered at once into what seemed to him a 
 capital joke, and with alacrity he ushered me into a small, 
 close-smelling parlor. 
 
 "'There, sir; you are welcome to sit here as long as 
 you please; you'll disturb nobody. Me and my missis is 
 not troubled with a family, so there will be nothing to 
 disturb you neither.' 
 
 " ' Thank you,' said I, as he handed me a chair ; ' you 
 must let me give you this for your trouble.' 
 
 " 'Oh, no, sir, thank you, sir; but there is no occasion 
 for that ' (pocketing the money). ' You are welcome, I'm 
 sure, sir very welcome. You won't have to wait long, 
 sir ; and if you just raise the corner of the blind, like that, 
 you can see anybody that comes into the shop. You won't 
 have long to wait, I dare say.' 
 
 " But I had to wait long very long. And I was some- 
 times tempted to wish the people had been blessed with 
 a family. A romp with children would have beguiled the 
 time better, at any rate, than the talk of the ' missis,' 
 which related almost entirely to the high price of provis- 
 ions. The master made his appearance constantly, with 
 ever-varying expressions of astonishment at the non-ap- 
 pearance of a claimant for the letter, now and again bring- 
 ing a drum of figs, and enticing me to soothe my impa- 
 tience with one of the finest figs that had ever entered his 
 shop. Will you believe that I watched at intervals in 
 that back-parlor from Friday morning till the following
 
 A MYSTERIOUS 8ITTKB. 385 
 
 Tuesday, and no one came for your letter? And do yon 
 know that I believe I might have remained watching till 
 the present moment, and have watched in vain? It was 
 known I was there ; I feel no doubt about that. At length, 
 tired out, I left for Lincoln, after giving the postmaster 
 my address, and begging him to let me know instantly if 
 the letter was fetched. In the evening of the day of my 
 arrival at Lincoln, I got this letter from the Alfrington 
 postmaster : 
 
 " ' SIR, You had not been gone from our house half an hour, when a 
 party came and asked for the letter. It was a man n gentleman a tall 
 party a stranger. Not hu\ing seen him in Alfrington before. 
 " ' I am, sir, your humble servant, 
 
 " ' H. GREEN (Post-office).' 
 
 "This letter reached me at Lincoln, as I told you, and 
 you may imagine my state of mind after reading it. I 
 was quite at a loss how to proceed. My Lincoln friends 
 were Nottingham people, who had lived in that town for 
 many years, having removed to Lincoln quite recently. I 
 told them my story, and succeeded in interesting the head 
 of the family a shrewd man of the world enough who, 
 after convincing himself and me that no such family as 
 the Streets, and no such place as Elm Tree House, existed 
 in the neighborhood of Nottingham, suggested that I 
 should write a letter to Mr. Street to the address the only 
 address he had given to Mrs. Baker, namely, Post-office, 
 Nottingham, explaining my feelings towards his sister, 
 and my intentions also ; appealing to him as a gentleman 
 to reply to me, and explain the mystery that seemed to sur- 
 round his sister. I begged him to tell me if her hand were 
 free; and if it should not be free, I should expect that my 
 letters would be returned to me. 
 
 "The letter was written and immediately despatched, 
 and by return of post I received the following reply: 
 
 "'Sin, I have to acknowledge the receipt of your letter. I am at a 
 loss to conceive how any person calling himself a gentleman could have 
 acted as I find you have done. I consider your conduct in addressing a 
 young lady, living, as my sister was, under the protection of Mrs. Baker, 
 without first ascertaining whether your attentions were approved by that 
 lady, not to say by MUa Street's relatives', dishonorable in the extreme. 
 17
 
 386 MY AUTOBIOGEAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 You have already caused deep pain and anxiety to Miss Street's friends ; 
 and to put a stop to any further attempts, I have to inform you that my 
 sister's hand and affections are already engaged. As to the explanation 
 of what you are pleased to term " a mystery," I am at a loss to under- 
 stand what you mean. This is the first time that such a term has been 
 applied to what concerns my family. 
 
 " ' I am, sir, your obedient servant, 
 " ' Captain Hill, etc. " ' B. STREET. 
 
 " ' P.S. I return your letters.' " 
 
 "Here, my dear Mr. Frith," said Captain Hill, "ends 
 all I can learn about the Street family. With respect to 
 Mr. Street's amiable epistle, and his assertion that his 
 sister's affections ' are already engaged,' all I have to say 
 is that I will not rest till I hear the truth, or falsehood, of 
 that from the young lady herself." 
 
 " And how do you propose to manage to do so ?" asked 
 I ; " for after the letter you have just shown me, signed 
 by Mr. Street, who declares himself to be the young lady's 
 brother, it must be obvious to you that I cannot lend my- 
 self to an assignation here." 
 
 " The lady's brother !" exclaimed the captain. " The 
 man is no more the lady's brother than I am. I suspect 
 him to be no matter what one who detains her one 
 who has some power over her that he exercises against 
 her consent. After what has taken place between me and 
 Miss Street -I am confident that if her affections are en- 
 gaged at all, they are engaged to me. Even in my sister's 
 presence she but why should I bore you with all this? 
 I can feel with you that you cannot permit of our meeting 
 here, but you can have no objection to tell me when she is 
 to sit for her picture again." 
 
 " I have heard it said," replied I, " that ' all is fair in 
 love and war.' I demur to the aphorism ; and unless you 
 will give me your word that you will not attempt to see 
 Miss Street in this house, I will seal my lips about her 
 sitting, and about anything I may learn of her in the 
 future." 
 
 The captain rose, and paced the room in great agitation. 
 After a while he said: 
 
 "I give you my word that I will not enter your house 
 while Miss Street is in it. Will that do ?"
 
 A MYSTERIOUS SITTER. 387 
 
 "Yes. She sits to-morrow." 
 
 " And the time ?" 
 
 I shook my head. 
 
 "Ah, well, you are very cautious. You are right, no 
 doubt. All that remains for me to say is in the form of 
 warmest thanks to you for listening so patiently to my 
 troubles. The issue of them, which can't be far off, you 
 shall know." 
 
 So saying, Captain Hill rose to go. I rang for my ser- 
 vant, who speedily appeared, and conducted my visitor 
 down the steps to my front-gate. 
 
 Why this delay, O Susan, my servant ? What can the 
 gallant captain have to say to you ? Can that be a note 
 I saw you put into your pocket as you came smiling up 
 the steps ? 
 
 Miss Street came the next morning, according to her 
 promise, but scarcely recognizable as the same girl ; her 
 color replaced by a dead pallor, her spirits gone, and her 
 health seemingly broken. Her eyes constantly filled with 
 tears, and she was moody and abstracted. In reply to my 
 inquiries, she said her brother was not with her. She was 
 staying at Blank's Hotel in Albemarle Street with Mrs. 
 Golden, the lady who accompanied her, and she intended 
 to return to Alfrington at the end of the week. She made 
 one or two attempts to resume her former cheerfulness, but 
 failed dismally; and the result as regards her portrait was 
 unfortunate, for I felt that the last sitting was damaging 
 in all respects; but when she returned from putting on 
 cloak and bonnet in the bedroom (whither she had been 
 taken by my housemaid, Susan, Mrs. Golden remaining 
 with me), a perfect change had taken place. There were 
 the old radiant manner and the winning smile. 
 
 O Susan, faithless domestic, you are the cause of this 
 transfiguration ! 
 
 "Susan," said I, "you have given Miss Street a letter 
 from Captain Hill !" 
 
 " Yes, sir. She asked me if I hadn't had one give me by . 
 the gentleman. I said yes, and I give it to her." 
 
 " Indeed, you are a pretty And what did she do with 
 it, pray ?"
 
 388 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 " Oh, sir," said the girl, " she was like a mad thing. She 
 kissed the letter all over, and hid it in her gownd." 
 
 The rest of the story of my mysterious model may be told 
 in Captain Hill's words, as well as I can remember them. 
 He had discovered probably guessed that Mr. Street 
 and Mr. William Rivers were one and the same person. 
 He had also found out Miss Street's address in Albemarle 
 Street, and to Blank's Hotel he betook himself. 
 
 " I asked for Miss Street's rooms," said the captain, " and 
 was shown up-stairs. A gentleman was writing at a table. 
 He rose as I entered, and took my card from the waiter. 
 He was the tall, handsome person you describe Mr. Rivers 
 to be, and when he had read my name he turned upon me, 
 his face absolutely livid, and in a voice quivering with 
 passion he said, 'What is the meaning of this visit? I 
 have nothing to say to you. These are my private rooms.' 
 Then looking again at my card, he continued, 'You are 
 the man who has been pestering Miss Street with your de- 
 testable addresses. I must insist on your leaving this room.' 
 
 " ' Not till I have had some explanation of your position 
 as regards Miss Street. You are, I presume, Mr. William 
 Rivers, or Mr. Street, or whatever you choose to call your- 
 self. Miss Street is of age, and even if you be her brother, 
 which I take leave to doubt, you will have to convince me 
 of your right to control her inclinations before I will leave 
 your room.' 
 
 " ' Sir,' said he, ' I altogether dispute your right to ques- 
 tion me. I see by your card that you are the person who 
 wrote an avowal of most ungentlemanly conduct, and I 
 answered you ; if you have come here in person on the 
 same errand, you will receive, viva voce, the same response.' 
 
 " This was said in a tone of suppressed passion. I felt 
 my own passion rising as I replied : 
 
 " ' Before I can accept your decision in this matter, I 
 will be satisfied with respect to your relations with Miss 
 Street, and your right of answering in her name.' 
 
 "'My my relations with Miss Street!' exclaimed 
 Rivers (Rivers he was, I felt sure). Then, after a pause 
 of some moments, in which he succeeded in assuming a 
 calmer manner, he said, ' Will you be satisfied will you
 
 A MYSTERIOUS SITTER. 389 
 
 pledge your honor to cease this persecution, if you hear 
 the lady's determination from her own lips ?' 
 
 "'If it prove unfavorable to me,' said I, 'I will never 
 trouble her or you again.' 
 
 " ' This you declare upon your honor ?' 
 
 " ' Upon my honor.' 
 
 " Mr. Rivers, alias Street, went to an inner door, opened 
 it gently, and called ' Clara !' There was no response. In 
 the dead stillness the beating of my heart was painful. 
 Presently the door was pushed back, and Miss Street en- 
 tered the room. Traces of recent tears were on her cheeks ; 
 she turned deadly pale on seeing me, and leaned upon a 
 chair for support. 
 
 " ' You know this gentleman ? He is desirous to hear 
 from your own lips that the letter I had occasion to write 
 to him declining, on your behalf, to accept his addresses 
 on the ground of your affections being already engaged 
 was written with your sanction and approval.' 
 
 " A flood of tears was the only reply. 
 
 " ' Pray speak, Clara. Are you, or are you not, prom- 
 ised to me? Do you, or do you not, owe everything to 
 me your education, your position in the world, your ' 
 
 "'Yes,' she interrupted, 'I owe you all you say, and' 
 (with a look at me that will remain with me as long as I 
 live) 'I cannot marry any one but you; and if I cannot 
 feel the love I ought, I can be grateful, and will always 
 try to be a good wife.' 
 
 " ' There, sir; there, you hear! why, the girl is about to 
 faint ! Go, sir, go ! You have had your answer.' " 
 
 Captain Hill never married. His regiment went to 
 India, and I read the captain's name in a list of the se- 
 verely wounded after one of the frequent battles during 
 the mutiny. Whether he died or recovered from his 
 sword and love wounds I never knew; nor did I ever hear 
 more of the fate and fortune of my mysterious model.* 
 
 * I told the story related above to a friend many years ago, and it was 
 published by him in a number of Temple Bar in the year I860. My friend put 
 what Sir Walter Scott called " a cockit-hat " upon it, in the form of a dra- 
 matic ending which truth compels me to say existed only in my friend's imag- 
 ination. The facts, interesting or not, occurred just as I have related them.
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 JOHN FORSTER AND THE PORTRAIT OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 JOHN FORSTER, author and journalist, was the inti- 
 mate friend of Charles Dickens. On casual acquaintances 
 Forster's brusque manner produced a very unfavorable 
 impression; but when he became better known it was evi- 
 dent enough that the rough exterior concealed a generous 
 heart, as well as a refined mind. I think it was in 1854 
 that I first made Forsters acquaintance in a call he made 
 upon me to ask me to paint a portrait of Dickens for him. 
 To this I gladly assented, and something was said (but 
 nothing definite) about fifty pounds as the sum to be paid 
 for the picture, and I professed myself ready to begin at 
 any time. A few weeks passed, and I began to think that 
 either Dickens had declined to sit, or that Forster had 
 broken his engagement, when the latter came to me in 
 trepidation. Dickens had started a mustache, and horri- 
 fied his friend. The portrait must wait ; the summer must 
 pass away, and the mustache with it. Four years passed, 
 but the mustache remained. The disfigurement, accord- 
 ing to Forster, increased by a beard, which almost covered 
 the chin. The great author was, as I have already said 
 elsewhere, deaf to all appeals. " The beard saved him 
 the trouble of shaving, and much as he admired his own 
 appearance before he allowed his beard to grow, he ad- 
 mired it much more now, and never neglected, when an 
 opportunity offered, to gaze his fill at himself. If his 
 friends didn't like his looks, he was not at all anxious for 
 them to waste their time in studying them; and as to 
 Frith, he would surely prefer to save himself the trouble 
 of painting features which were so difficult as a mouth and 
 a chin. Besides, he had been told by some of his friends 
 that they highly approved of the change, because they now 
 saw less of him.
 
 JOHN FOBSTEB AND CHARLES DICKENS. 391 
 
 I think the following letters will interest, as showing 
 the writer's strong desire that a satisfactory portrait of 
 Dickens should remain when all connected with it have 
 passed away. I desire their publication very earnestly, 
 because they show Forster's true character, that of a lib- 
 eral, unselfish, and amiable man, too generously apprecia- 
 tive of, and far too complimentary to, my own share in 
 the Dickens portrait : 
 
 " 46 MOXTAGC SQUARE, W., March 29M, 1859. 
 
 " Mr PKAR FKITII, My wife, who has the double purpose of seeing Mrs. 
 Frith and the picture, will go to Pembridge Villas to-day as I believe 
 and whether you are at home or not. Therefore, she expects to be per- 
 mitted to see it, and Mrs. Frith. 
 
 "For myself, I never doubted your perfect success from the first mo- 
 ment I saw the canvas. The picture is, indeed, all I wished more than 
 I dared to hope because I know what a ticklish thing a likeness is, and 
 how portraits, otherwise admirable, fail often in that without which all 
 other merits must fall short. I most sincerely thank you for all the kind 
 exertions you have made, for all the conscientious pains and labor you 
 have given. 
 
 " I was about to write, when I had your letter, to ask you to be so kind 
 as to tell me the price in which I am indebted to you for the picture. 
 When that is settled, I am glad to think that I shall still remain your 
 debtor, for that zeal and care and interest which I cannot repay. You 
 will, I am sure, kindly let me know as to this. 
 
 " I fear you will think me churlish, but, though I cannot go into the 
 reasons now, I shall hope hereafter that I may be so fortunate as to con- 
 vince you that my reasons are not very selfish, for not wishing or proposing 
 that the portrait should be cngraveJ. I should grieve, indeed, if this in- 
 volved anything contrary to a wish you have formed. Indeed, I think my 
 reasons, good as I think them, could hardly be held against that. 
 
 "As to the other subject of your note, I will make immediate inquiry as 
 to that. I know the lord mayor and some of the aldermen very well. But 
 I'll write further as to that Forgive great haste now. (I'll call before 
 the picture goes in.) 
 
 " Ever, my dear Frith, most sincerely yours, 
 
 " JOHN FonsntR." 
 
 "46 MOSTAGC SQCARJE, W., April 8/A, 1859. 
 
 "Mr DEAR Fimn, I found your letter, dated the 5th, on my table in 
 Whitehall Place yesterday morning. I had already written to you (on 
 Wednesday) of the great pleasure the completed picture gave me. I saw 
 it on Saturday afternoon, when I left a special message for you ; but I 
 had no card with me, and doubtless your servant forgot to tell you I had 
 called. 
 
 " What you say of the interest expressed in the portrait docs not in the
 
 392 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 least surprise me. I knew always that such would be the effect of a suc- 
 cessful likeness, by such a painter as yourself, of a man so popular as 
 Dickens ; and as frankly I will say to you, that I have ever regarded the 
 interest so likely to be inspired by this portrait, not as a matter in which 
 strangers were to be permitted to speculate, but as a part of the property 
 or possession to which my old friendship with Dickens entitled me, when 
 the time for redemption of his old promise to sit for me, so often renewed 
 and so long waited for, showld arrive. Assuming that I am warranted in 
 saying (for confirmation or disproof of which you will naturally refer to him- 
 self) that Dickens so consented to sit as a special favor to me, I hope that, 
 without any particular selfishness, I may venture, in so far as this portrait 
 is concerned, to put forward some claim to share in that origination or in- 
 vention of the subject which in effect constitutes its ' copyright.' 
 
 " You will at the same time do me the justice to admit, that in this or 
 any other respect I have had no concealment from you. I felt that such 
 a question might arise; and I asked Dickens, if the opportunity pre- 
 sented itself to him, to express to you unreservedly my objection to hav- 
 ing the portrait engraved. I was also specially anxious that this should 
 be clearly conveyed to you before you were requested to fix the price of 
 the picture. For, of course, I threw over altogether what had passed upon 
 that part of the subject (through our friend Egg) when you first under- 
 took the portrait, four years ago ; and I endeavored, as plainly as I might, in 
 writing the other day to ask you to name the price, to imply that the sum 
 to be stated should exclude ulterior arrangements as to copyright. 
 
 " Most desirous have I also been to make it clear to you that I sought 
 no pecuniary or speculative advantage for myself in all this that, in fact, 
 I had made such a disposition of the picture, after my death, as precluded 
 any such possibility now or at any future time. I have bequeathed the 
 portrait to the National Collection, as (thinking it might not displease you 
 to know so much) I told you that it was my intention to do before you 
 began to paint it. 
 
 " I did not mean to detain you so long with matter so strictly personal. 
 But I should grieve indeed if you thought I had not behaved throughout 
 with perfect candor, as well as fairly and justly. Retaining the views I 
 have held and stated all along, I have no alternative but to adhere to my 
 objection in the matter of the engraving ; but I will give ) - ou for the por- 
 trait (it being understood that it comes to me direct from the Academy) 
 double the sum you have asked in your letter of the 5th namely, three 
 hundred guineas. And I have only to add that this arrangement will be 
 quite satisfactory to me that it will leave me grateful to you for all the 
 pains and care you have taken, and that I shall continue to consider my- 
 self, with every feeling of admiration and regard, your debtor in a trans- 
 action with which I shall never associate any but the most pleasant re- 
 membrances. 
 
 " Will you give me a line in reply, kindly confirming this arrangement ? 
 and believe me, 
 
 " My dear Frith, most sincerely yours, 
 
 " JOHN FOUSTER."
 
 JOHN FOBSTER AND CHARLES DICKENS. 393 
 
 "46 MONTAGU SQUARE, W., Monday, April llt/i t '59. 
 " Mv DEAR FRITH, I enclose a check for a hundred and fifty guineas, 
 and will send you another similar check (for same amount) in July. If 
 the delay in the latter payment, however, should be in the least degree in- 
 conrenient to you, pray do not scruple to say so, and (without any real in- 
 convenience to myself) you shall have it next month. 
 
 " Perhaps, in sending two lines of acknowledgment as to safe receipt of 
 enclosed, you will kindly express that it is the first half of the sum of, etc., 
 etc., in payment for the Dickens portrait and copyright. We do not want 
 any such memorandum for ourselves, but it is well to save others from any 
 possible misunderstanding. 
 
 " Yours, my dear Frith, always most truly, 
 
 "Joiix FORSTKI ." 
 
 " 46 MONTAGU SQUARE, W., May Zd, 1859. 
 
 " MY DEAR FRITH, A great pressure has been put upon me by some 
 friends particularly Mr. Macrcady, who has been very urgent indeed with 
 his remonstrances in the matter of permitting the Dickens picture to be 
 engraved. 
 
 " Upon the whole, I do not feel, therefore, that I have been quite right 
 in the tone I took, and I am content to withdraw the objection I formerly 
 expressed. 
 
 " The only condition I should hope I may be able to make, would be to 
 impose a certain ascertained and definite limit of time for the engraver to 
 return me the picture in. 
 
 " Will you be kind enough, then, to make the necessary arrangements ? 
 
 " I need hardly, of course, say, that whatever is given by the publisher 
 beyond the one hundred and fifty offered by me for the copyright, I shall 
 be rejoiced to think that you will obtain. 
 
 " Believe me ever, most truly yours, 
 
 "JOHN FORSTER." 
 
 "46 MONTAGU SQUARE, Friday Xiglit, &lh May, '59. 
 
 " MY DEAR FRITH, I am glad you are pleased, because that helps me 
 through the difficulty I still felt. I yielded to others not to any convic- 
 tion of my own. And as ' Hudibras ' says of the man convinced against 
 his will, I am naturally of my own opinion still. But I saw that it might 
 hereafter be fairly made matter of reproach to me, and that, as I should 
 probably have to yield some day, it was better to do so in the first fresh- 
 ness of the picture, and when the person best entitled to profit by the ar- 
 rangement yourself would have the opportunity of doing so. And in 
 this you have the whole truth of the case. 
 
 " I earnestly hope that it will be limited decisively to the twelve months, 
 and as I think I have some knowledge of Mr. Barlow, as an obliging and 
 gentlemanly man, as well as a most skilful engraver, I shall propose some 
 early meeting between him and you and myself, with a view to an ar- 
 rangement of periods most suitable and satisfactory to us all. I should 
 be glad if he could so arrange as to be ready for the picture when it 
 17*
 
 394 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 leaves the Academy, and take his first look at it then. But, of course, 
 his time must be studied as well as mine. 
 
 " Will you kindly direct that the frame-maker send me his bill ? 
 "And as Dickens dines quietly here on Monday next at half-past six, 
 and I have just written off to ask Egg, I shall be very glad indeed if you 
 happen to be disengaged and can come also. Only ourselves. 
 " Always most truly yours, 
 
 " JOHN FORSTER."
 
 CHAPTER XXXVL 
 
 SECOND VISIT TO TUB LOW COUNTRIES. 
 
 I DERIVED so much pleasure and, I fancy, improvement 
 from my visit to Holland in 1850, that I determined to pay 
 the Low Countries a second visit, and that resolution was 
 now to be carried out. I had just suffered a heavy do- 
 mestic bereavement, and a change for my daughters as 
 well as for myself became very desirable. We therefore 
 took ship for Belgium on an early day in May, and, with 
 a rapidity that would have astonished our forebears, ar- 
 rived in Brussels. I had never seen the Wiertz collection, 
 said to be the work of a madman, and familiar no doubt 
 to many of my readers. The sight of Wicrtz's pictures is 
 enough to convince one of the truth of Dryden's lines : 
 
 "Great wits are sure to madness near allied, 
 And tbin partitions do their bounds divide." 
 
 In the case of this brilliant man the thin partition had 
 given way at intervals only, I think. At the end of his 
 gallery there is a magnificent composition worthy of Ru- 
 bens a Last Judgment, Fall of the Damned, or some such 
 thing splendid in drawing, coloring, and composition. 
 Other works no doubt disclose a "mind o'erthrown" 
 people struggling to release themselves from coffins, blow- 
 ing off their heads, and otherwise indulging in mad freaks. 
 
 The visit to Wiertz was a sad one to me, convincing me, 
 as it did, that but for the inscrutable missing of one link 
 in the intellectual chain the artist might have added his 
 name to the roll of the great painters of the world. 
 
 The great gallery at Brussels does not contain much to 
 reward the painter-visitor. The Rubens pictures are not 
 of his best, always excepting the Crucifixion, in which 
 masterly drawing and splendid color vie with each other.
 
 396 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 
 
 The figure of the Saviour, flanked by the thieves, is admi- 
 rable; but the writhing body of the impenitent thief 
 whose roar of agony can almost be heard as cruel blows 
 fall upon him is beyond admiration, equal as it is to the 
 best Avork of the great master. From my recollection of 
 the Hague and its great collections, I was so eager to see 
 if a second visit would confirm my favorable impression of 
 the first that I hurried away from Brussels, and arrived in 
 lovely weather at a place which must be a delight to all 
 who visit it, whether they are picture-lovers or not. Our 
 hotel gave, as they call it, on to a park with deer almost 
 up to the door, and such walks ! miles of avenues like ca- 
 thedral aisles, with trees for columns, and interweaving 
 branches overhead for Gothic roof -work ; and the gal- 
 lery containing the finest work of the Dutch school! I 
 spent hours with Rembrandt, Jan Stein, Teniers, Ostade, 
 Cuyp, Franz Halls, and other immortals wondering, ever 
 wondering, that in no country in the world could we now 
 match these men. Religion did not inspire them ; some 
 of their finest works were produced in troublous times, 
 when civil broil or foreign levy distracted their country; 
 some, stranger still, when the painters were mere boys. 
 Paul Potter, whose bull is a masterpiece of world-wide 
 fame, died at the age of nine-and-twenty. Rembrandt's 
 famous dissecting-picture was finished before he was twen- 
 ty-six. These things were done at a time of life at which 
 our youths are still struggling with the antique in the 
 Academy schools. I must, however, claim for the modern 
 artist that he is placed at a terrible disadvantage when 
 compared with the painters of the Dutch school in re- 
 spect of the life that is always before him. Let my reader 
 make a mental comparison between a group of bank-holi- 
 day-makers disporting themselves on Hampstead Heath 
 and an array of peasantry in a picture by Teniers or Jan 
 Stein the former either dirty or primly smug, but in form 
 and color eminently unpicturesque ; the latter gay, with 
 bright colors and dresses that call aloud to be painted. 
 Some of our painters, feeling this so strongly, hurry off to 
 Spain and Venice, with the happy result that we see in the 
 works of my friends Fildes, Woods, and Burgess. But,
 
 SECOND VISIT TO THE LOW COUNTRIES. 397 
 
 admirable as the works of these men are, their producers 
 would be the last to admit that they were on a level with 
 their brethren of old. At the Hague we found Millais, to 
 my great satisfaction, and it was delightful to hear his 
 fresh and frank appreciation of those great masters. 
 
 We went to see the collection belonging to a count 
 somebody or something, where were a few fine things and 
 much rubbish strange mixture. One would think the 
 full appreciation of the one would insure the exclusion of 
 the other ; but " 'tis ever thus " in private galleries, and 
 more than it should be in public ones. Millais and his 
 friends went with us to Amsterdam. Unfortunately the 
 magnificent collection at this place was housed in small, 
 ill-lighted rooms, since changed for appropriate galleries. 
 Opposite to each other were Rembrandt's "Night Watch" 
 and Van der Heist's famous " Meeting of Burghers of the 
 Archers' Guild," each in its way a masterpiece; though I 
 confess I have seen many pictures by Rembrandt that I 
 prefer to this large work. The figures are all ill-drawn 
 and out of proportion, and the Jight and shadow are some- 
 what artificial ; the people are illumined by something that 
 resembles neither day nor lamplight, and the picture seemed 
 to me to suffer in comparison with the absolute reality and 
 truth of the Van der Heist, every figure in which work is 
 marked with the strongest individuality a bright, clear 
 daylight pervading the crowd of figures ; each taking its 
 place, and painted with a vigor and completeness that 
 makes this one of the great pictures of the world. Then 
 the delightful examples that meet you, in every part of the 
 rooms, of all the marvellous Dutchmen! Franz Halls sits 
 like a living man in a garden with his wife, whose sweet 
 face smiles at you with an evanescent expression that you 
 expect will change as you look. 
 
 At Haarlem there is a gallery filled with pictures by 
 this man (who lived to a great age, and worked till the 
 end of it), which greatly resemble the style of Millais. 
 All these works represent companies of his countrymen, 
 jovial gatherings, military assemblies, parochial meetings, 
 and the like ; their value resting after the splendid dash 
 and brilliancy of the execution on their absolute truth ;
 
 398 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 a quality, I think, unattainable except under similar con- 
 ditions. 
 
 The Six family, whose burgomaster ancestor was the 
 friend and patron of Rembrandt, still exists at Amster- 
 dam. I had heard that the house inhabited by the pres- 
 ent Six contained many examples of the great Dutchman, 
 but they were difficult of access. I therefore armed my- 
 self with an introduction, kindly given me by Tadema, 
 and wended my way to the family mansion, an unpretend- 
 ing house close to one of the canals. Over a bell by the 
 front-door was the name of Six, in small black letters. I 
 was admitted, and shown into a room which, but for a 
 few modern appliances, is exactly in the condition in which 
 Rembrandt so often visited it. His pictures hang on the 
 wall in their original black frames, and among them is a 
 wonderful head of the burgomaster; the portrait finished 
 except the hands. I was told that a dispute with the pa- 
 tron had occurred during the progress of the likeness, and 
 the irate painter had refused to complete his work. Wheth- 
 er that was so or not, the picture remains to us, a marvel 
 and a delight for all time.
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII. 
 TOE DOCTOB'S STOBY. 
 
 MESSES. EDWARD AND WILLIAM FINDEN were engrav- 
 ers of considerable reputation forty years ago. William, 
 the younger, produced some exquisite book-plates, and oth- 
 ers of more importance. The smaller prints appeared in 
 the "Annuals" which were so popular during the first 
 quarter of the century and far into the second. They 
 were legion, the " Book of Gems " being perhaps the most 
 popular. After a long reign the public wearied of them, 
 and one after another they ceased to exist. The Findens, 
 Heath, and other "Annual" publishers found the neces- 
 sity of catering for their many readers in other forms. 
 Heath hit upon the "Book of Beauty," with Lady Bles- 
 sington as editor of it. The contents consisted of short 
 stories and poems of unequal merit, and many of the beau- 
 ties of London were pressed into the service, and figured 
 as beauties ; a claim, judging from some specimens, to 
 which they had no right whatever. The Findens' vent- 
 ure was in the form of a series of female heads, in oval 
 shape, from Moore's poems, and the title fixed upon was 
 " The Beauties of Moore." A number of young artists 
 living in intimate intercourse myself, Egg, Elmore,Ward, 
 and others agreed to contribute. The sums we received 
 for each picture varied from ten to fifteen pounds. " Les- 
 bia," " Norah Crcina," " Wicked Eyes," and " Holy Eyes," 
 and many more, fell to me; so many, indeed, that I used 
 up all the pretty models and any of my Well-favored friends 
 that I could persuade to sit. " Holy Eyes " became a great 
 difficulty. None of our models had features or expressions 
 that could help one to realize Moore's beautiful lines: 
 
 "Some looks there are so holy, 
 
 They seem but given 
 
 As shining beacons solely 
 
 To lijrht to heaven."
 
 400 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 Nor could I discover among my acquaintances a form that 
 would assist me. On telling a friend of my difficulty, he 
 said, " I think I can introduce you to a young lady who 
 would be exactly what you want." 
 
 My friend, who was, and had long been, an invalid, then 
 told me that his doctor, a man named Rose, in very fail- 
 practice, had recently married a young and beautiful girl. 
 
 " They are both coming to dine with me," said he. 
 "Come and meet them, and then, if you find the lady 
 won't do, nothing need be said. If, on the contrary, you 
 find that I am right in my judgment of her, I think I can 
 promise that Rose will only be too pleased to let her sit." 
 
 On the appointed day I put in an early appearance; and 
 never can I forget, if subsequent and fearful events had 
 failed to fix themselves upon my memory, the vision of 
 exquisite loveliness that appeared, leaning on the arm of 
 a somewhat saturnine-looking man considerably older than 
 herself. Anything nearer to the complete ideal of female 
 loveliness it would be impossible to conceive. 
 
 She was tall, of a perfect figure. Her features recalled 
 the most beautiful of the antique statues; the statuesque 
 perfection of her form was inspired by an expression I 
 could not paint, and cannot describe beyond saying that 
 it was like that we find in the angels of Botticelli purity 
 and holiness combined; and if, as I for one believe, the 
 face is the index of the mind, then that mind should have 
 been one that no mean, sordid, or sensual thought could 
 enter. 
 
 The dinner was gay. The saturnine doctor told some 
 good medical stories. And after dinner, when a whisper 
 from me to my friend expressed my delight, and the hope 
 that he might succeed in obtaining the great favor for me, 
 he immediately went to the doctor and broached the sub- 
 ject. I watched the grave face anxiously enough, but 
 could make no guess as to the success or failure of my 
 friend, who presently returned to me and informed me that 
 Dr. Rose would " think about it." This did not look 
 quite hopeful. The evening ended by the doctor asking 
 me for my address; he then promised that he would call 
 and talk my request over.
 
 THE DOCTOR'S STORY. 401 
 
 In a few days the promised visit was paid. At his re- 
 quest I showed him two or three of the pictures just com- 
 pleted, and explained to him my straits in the matter of 
 " Holy Eyes." 
 
 " Yes," said he, " I can see that my wife would do ; and 
 if you can persuade her to sit I have as yet said nothing 
 to her on the subject I can have no objection. Will you 
 dine with us on any disengaged day ? You have my card. 
 You will find my address No. Harley Street." 
 
 A day was fixed, and the first sitting followed speedily. 
 I found Mrs. Rose in every respect delightful. She drew 
 fairly well, and had much love and taste for art. The 
 sittings were too agreeable to allow of their being hurried 
 over. I introduced Dr. and Mrs. Rose to my mother, who 
 lived in Osnaburgh Street with my brother, sister, and 
 myself my painting-room being in Charlotte Street, Fitz- 
 roy Square. An unusually rapid intimacy sprang up be- 
 tween us all. We were constantly at each other's houses; 
 and the more I saw of the Roses, the better I liked them. 
 It seems an odd remark to make at this point of my true 
 story; but the disclosure is necessary to account in some 
 degree for subsequent events. Rose never had the sense 
 of smell. 
 
 One night, when I was reading in the dining-room, and 
 meditating an immediate retirement to bed, I heard a loud 
 ringing of the front-door bell, repeated still louder almost 
 immediately. The servants and the rest of the family had 
 gone to bed, and the house was closed for the night. I 
 hurried to the front door, and, before I could open it, the 
 bell rang again. To my amazement I found Rose, seem- 
 ingly wet through for the night was very stormy his 
 face marked with lines of passion and despair to such an 
 extent as actually to change the man's appearance almost 
 beyond recognition. 
 
 "Why, Rose, what's the matter?" 
 
 " Let me let me in," he answered, in a hoarse whisper. 
 
 " Great Heaven," thought I, " is the man ill, or drunk, 
 or what?" I supported him into the dining-room. 
 
 "Now, dear fellow, tell me what has induced you to 
 knock me up at this time of night."
 
 402 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 " Is that soda water ?" 
 
 " Yes ; have some ?" 
 
 "And brandy, if you've got it." 
 
 "Now then, what is it that distresses you so?" 
 
 By this time the doctor's face was buried in his hands, 
 and his tears and sobs were awful to witness. After a 
 seemingly desperate struggle with himself, he looked into 
 my face with an expression in his own never to be for- 
 gotten, and then said, calmly, 
 
 " I'm going to tell you something that you won't be- 
 lieve." 
 
 " Very likely," said I, with a forced smile. " What is it?" 
 
 " What is it my God ! what is it ? Why, it's just this 
 my wife is a drunkard." 
 
 " You must be mad to say such a thing." 
 
 "Am I? Well, you go and see for yourself, my dear 
 fellow. She is lying maudlin drunk on the sofa at this 
 moment, and I see now she has been drunk night after 
 night. I go out a good deal, you know, night and day. 
 Several times lately, when I have returned, I have found 
 her sitting up for me in a kind of semi-unconscious con- 
 dition stupefied with sleep and fatigue I thought, per- 
 haps. Well, to-night I found her in the same kind of al- 
 most epileptic state, and by her side a tumbler with some 
 white liquid. I tasted it, and it was gin! I could not 
 smell it. I can't smell anything, or I might have found 
 her out weeks ago, for I now hear from that d d old 
 nurse of hers what a fool I was to let that woman into 
 the house! that she has been at it for months for 
 months, I tell you, beginning with brandy which that in- 
 fernal woman gave her for some trifling ailment. Now 
 look here, Frith : I haven't come here only to tell you all 
 this. I want you and another friend of mine, a lawyer, to 
 take the business into your hands, and arrange for a sepa- 
 ration, for I will never live with that woman another 
 day." This he emphasized with an oath too fearful to 
 repeat. 
 
 I spent hours that night in reasoning with the poor fel- 
 low ; and I succeeded at last in talking him into a calmer 
 condition of mind.
 
 THE DOCTOR'S STOBY. 403 
 
 " Go home now. I will go to Darrell, the lawyer, in the 
 morning, and we will see what can be done." 
 
 He left me a shattered and most unhappy man. Darrell 
 and I agreed that an attempt should be made to reform 
 this young creature. We saw her, and after the first hor- 
 ror of having to acknowledge her dreadful habits to us, 
 she declared solemnly and eagerly that if her husband 
 would forgive her, she would consent to be placed in any 
 institution he might appoint, and go through the severest 
 discipline for any length of time. She felt confident, she 
 said, that if the temptation were placed beyond her reach 
 for a short time even, she would lose the taste for it, and 
 a cure would be easy. She was very young, not much 
 past nineteen, and it was impossible to see this fair young 
 thing and listen to her pleading without being very much 
 touched by it. Our difficulty was with the husband. For 
 a long time he would not listen to us. 
 
 "She might go, and she should go ; she can drink her- 
 self to death, and then she will trouble nobody any more. 
 And who, pray, ever heard of a woman, who had once ac- 
 quired the habit, being reformed ?" 
 
 " I have," said Darrell, " four in my experience, and 
 they were all older than your wife." 
 
 "Are you telling me the truth now, or is that what you 
 lawyers call a legal fiction ?" 
 
 " It is the solemn truth," said Darrell. 
 
 We at last wrung from him a consent that the trial 
 should be made, and it was made on the morning follow- 
 ing. The Dipsomaniacal Institute was given up, and the 
 young lady was consigned to the care of two elderly 
 French ladies, who kept a school at Bridgewater what is 
 called, I believe, a finishing school, where only girls of a 
 mature age are admitted. These ladies were, of course, 
 made acquainted with every particular, and they cheer- 
 fully undertook the attempt at a cure. 
 
 Eighteen months passed away, bringing us (Rose would 
 not hear of direct communication with himself) at inter- 
 vals most cheering accounts. Mrs. Rose was the delight 
 of all with whom she came in contact. At first every- 
 thing in the shape of wine and beer was kept out of her
 
 404 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 sight; but soon she could be trusted to see them, though 
 never to taste them, and she never showed the least desire 
 to touch wine, beer, or spirits; in fact, she assured the 
 elder of the French ladies that it was a mystery which 
 perplexed her much, how she could ever have drunk what 
 was offensive to her now even to smell. All this was 
 communicated to Dr. Rose ; and at last, to our great hap- 
 piness, he consented to receive her home again. But first 
 she must sign a paper in the presence of myself and Dar- 
 rell, in which she undertook, in many solemn words, never 
 to touch alcohol in any form wine or beer except by the 
 permission of her husband. The day of her arrival from 
 Bridgewater we all dined together; the girl's beauty 
 seemed to have increased, if possible, and it was an inex- 
 pressible satisfaction to Darrell and me to see our efforts 
 crowned with success. Six weeks, or at most two months, 
 had only passed, when Rose, returning home, found his 
 wife in such a condition of drunkenness as only to leave 
 her power to stagger across the room, fall at her husband's 
 feet, cling about his knees, and implore him not to go and 
 fetch me and Darrell, so that we might see what a " de- 
 praved wretch" she was. He rushed from the house to 
 fetch us. There was an unnatural calm in Rose's manner 
 when he announced the failure of our " well-meant efforts," 
 as he called them. 
 
 "I am sorry," he said to Darrell, in bantering tones, 
 " that you have not been able to add to your list of re- 
 deemed ones. As you were both witnesses to the woman's 
 solemn pledge, you must come with me and see how well 
 she has kept it." 
 
 Not another word was spoken till we arrived in Harley 
 Street. Rose let us in by means of his latch-key, and led 
 the way to the drawing-room. No one was there. He 
 rang the bell. 
 
 " Where is your mistress ?" 
 
 " Don't know, sir." 
 
 " Wait here, Darrell. I will go and look for her ; she 
 couldn't go out." 
 
 He left the room. Too distressed to talk to one an- 
 other, we sat awe-struck. In a few moments we heard a
 
 THE DOCTOE'S STORY. 405 
 
 cry that literally froze my blood. We rushed from the 
 room. The cry was repeated, and a voice added, " Come 
 here come here!" 
 
 We descended the stairs, and met a frightened footman, 
 who pointed to the surgery. We entered, and found Rose 
 on his knees by the dead body of his wife. The smell of 
 prussic acid that seemed to fill the surgery 'told the fate 
 of the miserable girl.
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII. 
 
 "FOB BETTER, FOR WORS E." 
 
 THE end of May found me at home and at work once 
 more. My diary under May 28 says : 
 
 " Sketched out composition of a wedding-party, which 
 might do, but fear it is not very interesting. In great 
 despair about subjects." 
 
 This picture represents a bride and bridegroom on the 
 point of leaving for the honeymoon. Their brougham 
 waits; and a crowd of passers-by watch the departure, 
 while from the doorsteps on which the bride's family and 
 friends are collected come the usual showers of rice and 
 slippers, and from a balcony above the portico guests take 
 a last look at the newly-married. I was prompted to this 
 subject by seeing an almost identical realization of it in 
 Cleveland Square. The street crowd, through an avenue 
 of which the lady and gentleman go to their carriage, is 
 composed of street boys, the more inquisitive being kept 
 back by a policeman with an unnecessary display of force ; 
 a Jew clothesman ; a servant whose curiosity has stopped 
 her on her way to post a letter ; and, last and best part 
 of the picture, a group of beggars who approach from 
 the street, the man, his wife, and children illustrating 
 the latter part of the title of the picture, " For Better, 
 for "Worse." 
 
 After much search I discovered a Jew of a very marked 
 type, who consented to sit if I would make it " worth his 
 while." He was a person in very humble circumstances, 
 but his time was of enormous value. He declined to di- 
 vulge the secret of its value, but he made such a demand 
 as to place his services out of the question, unless it could 
 be much modified. 
 
 "How many hours will you want me?"
 
 " FOE BETTER, FOE WOBSE." 407 
 
 "I can't tell; that will depend upon your sitting partly, 
 and more on the way I can take advantage of it." 
 
 " Well, suppose we say ten shillings an hour; that's rea- 
 sonable, ain't it ?" said the Israelite. 
 
 " No, I think it is unreasonable, and quite out of the 
 question," said I. 
 
 " Got any old clothes ?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 " No ! Vot do you do with 'em, then ?" 
 
 " Wear them," I replied. 
 
 "Come, now, that von't do. Those you've got on ain't 
 old ones !" 
 
 " No ; these are my Sunday ones ; and I don't want to 
 waste any more of your valuable time, so unless you will 
 agree to sit to me for three hours for the ten shillings, I 
 will wish you good-morning." 
 
 "Make it twelve and six." 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Veil, then, say eleven, and it's a bargain." 
 
 " No, it isn't ; ten is the outside." 
 
 " And some old clothes," said the man, with a frightful 
 smile. " I can't say no fairer than that." 
 
 We struck the bargain, including the clothes ; the old 
 man declaring, when the sittings were over, that I was a 
 very nice gentleman, and it had been a pleasure to him to 
 oblige me, but he had been such a loser by the transaction 
 that he hoped I would think of him when I had worn my 
 Sunday suit a little longer, for it was " already too shabby 
 for any gentleman to wear, let alone," etc. He called 
 many times; but as I had paid him very well for his sit- 
 ting, I desired my servant to say, in reply to his affection- 
 ate inquiry after my " Sunday suit," that, like the eagles, 
 it " had renewed its youth," and had become so interest- 
 ing to me, from my having worn it when painting from 
 him, that I felt I could never part with it. Many years 
 have passed, and I am at last free from the visits of my 
 Jewish model. 
 
 Among the lookers-on at my wedding-party were. an 
 Italian boy and monkey. After acquiring a certain power 
 of painting the human being, animals ought not to be very
 
 408 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 difficult ; but then the animal must not be a monkey. Lit- 
 tle children are maddening ; but commend me to the most 
 terrible of those in preference to a monkey. I suppose it 
 is not possible that the monkey knew what I wanted, and 
 was determined I should not get it ; but his conduct could 
 only be accounted for on that hypothesis. I desired his 
 young master to hold the creature's head in the proper 
 direction. For an instant he succeeded ; then with a wrig- 
 gle and a squeak the animal freed itself, slipped from his 
 fingers, sprang on to my easel, and grinned at me from the 
 top of it. This performance was constantly repeated, 
 varied by attacks on the picture itself. I was thankful 
 when at last " an exposition of sleep " came over the animal, 
 and I managed to complete my work. 
 
 In a picture by Wilkie, in the National Gallery, called 
 " The Parish Beadle," there is an admirable portrait of one 
 of these disagreeable little brutes. In his diary, Wilkie 
 says he was obliged to go to Exeter Change (then a large 
 menagerie, on the site of the present Exeter Hall) on a 
 Sunday, that being the only day on which he could do his 
 work free from interruption. The artist was pursuing 
 his task, when a much smaller monkey than his sitter 
 worked his way through the bars of its cage and peram- 
 bulated the room. The menagerie consisted of a set of 
 large rooms, in which many animals were confined in sep- 
 arate cages. In the room in which the painter was work- 
 ing, a tiger was fast asleep. The monkey, with the curi- 
 osity peculiar to his species, made his way to the tiger 
 through the bars into the den, which he investigated to his 
 satisfaction; but, unfortunately, in retreating he tried to 
 make a short cut to the bars over the body of the tiger. 
 The tiger awoke a scream ! a blow from a paw ! and in 
 a few moments nothing of the monkey remained to point 
 the moral attending the fatal effect of curiosity. 
 
 It was while painting the picture "For Better, for 
 Worse," that an incident occurred which proved, in a re- 
 markable manner, the difficulty with which the amateur 
 mo.del has to contend. Artists know how constantly per- 
 sons unaccustomed to sitting, or rather standing in the 
 fatiguing attitudes required are attacked by faintiug-fits
 
 "FOB BETTER, FOE WORSE." 409 
 
 so suddenly as to require a constant lookout on the part 
 of the painter for the premonitory symptoms that he 
 knows so well a deadly pallor overspreads the face, the 
 lips become colorless, and, unless a change of attitude is 
 afforded at once, the model falls to the floor, and work is 
 over for the day. On the occasion I speak of a boy was 
 standing for me in an easy position, with his hands in his 
 pockets. I was at work upon his face, and saw no sign of a 
 change in his complexion ; when, without moving his hands 
 from his trousers, he fell like one shot. I have known 
 soldiers, boxers, and the like, powerful-looking men, un- 
 able to endure the strain of standing still in one position, 
 though the action may be simple and easy enough, for a 
 quarter of an hour without sensations which they de- 
 clare they have never felt before incapacitating them for 
 a time. In one of my friends' studios a girl fell into a 
 stove and disfigured herself for life. 
 
 The picture " For Better, for Worse," together with an 
 episode in the life of Swift, formed my contributions to 
 the Exhibition of 1881. 
 
 The mystery attending the relations existing between 
 Swift, Stella, and Vanessa will probably never be solved. 
 That he really married the former has been doubted; but 
 it is sure that his heartless treatment of Vanessa short- 
 ened her life. 
 
 That Hester Vanhomrigh otherwise Vanessa was 
 deeply in love with Swift, and that she expected and 
 hoped to be his wife, there can be no doubt. That she 
 had warrant for her belief Swift's own words prove ; and 
 when the rumors of the marriage of her lover with her 
 rival reached Vanessa, what so natural, what so straight- 
 forward, as her appeal to Stella for the truth or false- 
 hood of the report ! The appeal took the form of a let- 
 ter of inquiry, and the letter fell into the hands of Swift. 
 Readers of that great genius's works, and students of his 
 life, need not be told of the effects of such a letter upon a 
 man who was the victim of passion so uncontrollable as to 
 affright beholders of its results. . 
 
 With the letter in his hand Swift galloped from Dub- 
 lin to Miss Vanhomrigh's house, some miles away, leaped 
 18
 
 410 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 from his horse, and rushed, unannounced, into her presence ; 
 then, without speaking a word, but with a look that froze 
 her blood, he threw the letter on to the table and left her 
 forever. 
 
 The unhappy woman, heart - stricken, faded from that 
 day, and died soon after. 
 
 I could find no authority for the likeness of Vanessa, 
 but for Swift the portrait by Jervas proved all that I could 
 desire. It is an excellent picture, and from its strong 
 character must be a good likeness. The man was very 
 handsome, and as he sits smiling on Jervas's canvas one 
 finds it as difficult to imagine those features twisted out 
 of shape, and distorted by passion, as it is to conceive a 
 tranquil summer sea, with its tiny waves breaking silently 
 on the shore, transformed into a storm-driven ocean. 
 
 I found the subject I had chosen a very difficult one. 
 I fear it required a more powerful pencil than mine to 
 portray the crushed heart and mind of Vanessa or the 
 lightning fury of Swift.
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 MODELS THIEVISH. 
 
 THERE is no doubt that one of the great difficulties be- 
 setting a painter's life is the procuring of models suitable 
 to so much variety of character as certain subjects require 
 for their realization. Scarcely a day certainly never a 
 week passes without applicants for sittings making their 
 appearance in artists' studios, of all ages, from the baby in 
 arms to the man of eighty. Still, the exact type wanted 
 may fail to present itself; in that case the streets or 
 friends' houses must be searched, and often in vain. Con- 
 sidering that all who apply to us are perfect strangers, and 
 that we are often obliged to leave them alone in our rooms, 
 it is surprising and creditable to the model profession gen- 
 erally that so few instances of theft ever occur. 
 
 I was once very nearly being a victim at the hands of a 
 small boy, whom I had picked up in the street to serve as 
 model for a crossing-sweeper. The young gentleman was, 
 in fact, in the practice of that profession when I addressed 
 him, and easily persuaded him to come in his rags and 
 with his broom to my rooms. I had taken a foolish fancy 
 to paint a small picture of a lady at a crossing, waiting 
 till her passage might be made safely, and paying no at- 
 tention to a crossing- sweeper, who was to be represented 
 in the usual begging attitude. The figure of the lady in 
 the picture was in a fair way towards finish before I suc- 
 ceeded in finding the boy I wanted. He sat two or three 
 times fairly well, and I appointed him to come for a final 
 sitting. His hair was cut very short; his face, though not 
 good-looking, was full of character, and I succeeded pretty 
 well in getting a good likeness of him. In those days it 
 was my custom (long discontinued) to dine in the middle 
 of the day, and at the same time to send the models their
 
 412 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 luncheon. Before I left the studio for my dinner I had 
 occasion to wind up my watch; I performed the operation, 
 and placed a short gold chain and key used for the pur- 
 pose upon the chimney-piece. On my return from dinner 
 I found my young model fast asleep. The day was warm, 
 the luncheon was plentiful, the boy was tired, and I let 
 him sleep on. After a while we went on with our work, 
 finished it successfully, and the time had arrived to pay 
 the model and despatch him. I had forgotten the chain 
 and key till that moment. I looked for it in the place on 
 the chimney-piece it was gone ! I knew no one had been 
 into the room but the servant, for whom I rang ; and to my 
 inquiry after my property I received the reply I expected 
 she had seen nothing of it. 
 
 " Did you see anything of my chain and key ?" said I 
 to the boy. 
 
 " No, sir." 
 
 " Yes you did, for I saw you looking at me when I was 
 winding up my watch." 
 
 " I never see no chain." 
 
 " Now, look here, my boy : no one has been into the 
 room; the chain couldn't walk away, and you must have it." 
 
 " Me, sir! S'help me, if it was the last word 
 
 "Hold your tongue, and produce the chain, or I will 
 send for a policeman and give you in charge." 
 
 " I don't care for no policeman, and I don't know nothing 
 about no chain." 
 
 " We shall soon see about that," said I, as I directed my 
 servant to fetch a policeman, at the same time giving the 
 girl a sign that told her not to take my order literally. 
 
 I looked at the boy as he sat on a high chair, his broom 
 between his legs, which he dangled about in a careless, in- 
 dependent manner. Presently he began to cry. 
 
 " Come here, sir !" said I, and he shuffled towards me. 
 " Now, where are your pockets ?" 
 
 "Ain't got no pockets." 
 
 I felt about his jacket, and certainly there was no pocket, 
 nor any other receptacle for stolen property; but in sub- 
 mitting the ragged trousers to a closer scrutiny I came 
 upon something harder than rag, and after a little perse-
 
 MODELS THIEVISH. 413 
 
 verance I extracted one of my cigars from the lining of 
 the young gentleman's inexpressibles. Tears and sobs in- 
 creased very much. 
 
 " Now," said I, " produce the chain, or as sure as you 
 are born I will lock you up." 
 
 The weeping ceased as suddenly as it had begun ; the 
 boy wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, and then, 
 applying his fingers with a dexterous twist to the back of 
 his neck, he drew out my chain and key from the region 
 of the spinal column rather low down apparently, for he 
 was obliged to throw out his elbow to a height that nothing 
 but long practice could have enabled him to accomplish 
 and my property was restored to me. 
 
 " I know where you live," said I, "and I shall make a 
 point of telling your father of this ; and what do you 
 think he will say to you ?" 
 
 " He'll whack me." 
 
 From information afterwards received, I believe a 
 "whacking" would certainly have been bestowed, but it 
 would have been administered in consequence of the young 
 gentleman's failure in his attempt to rob me. After a 
 severe lecture I dismissed my thievish model. On leaving 
 home for my afternoon's walk, within a few paces of my 
 front door I met a policeman. 
 
 " Beg your pardon, sir," said the man ; " might you be 
 the landlord of this house ?" 
 
 "Yes," I replied. 
 
 "Well, sir, I see a boy come out of your back gate, 
 which I know something about. What might he be doing 
 of on your premises ?" 
 
 I explained the reason of the boy's appearance. 
 
 "Ah," said the policeman, " perhaps you don't know as 
 that boy is one of the worst thieves in London ; he's only 
 just out of prison. Didn't you notice his 'air, with the 
 prison-cut quite fresh ? You'll be having your house 
 robbed, sir. That boy's father is a thief, so's his mother, 
 and his sister. There is always one or other of 'em in 
 prison." 
 
 After this warning I need scarcely add that I saw no 
 more of mv thievish model.
 
 CHAPTER XL. 
 
 "OLD MASTER S." 
 
 A PORTION of the year in which the pictures of " Swift, 
 etc.," were produced was spent in the service of the Win- 
 ter Exhibition of Old Masters. My duties took me into 
 strange places, and among strange, though often agree- 
 able, people, all more or less curiously ignorant of the value 
 of the treasures in their keeping, and sometimes fancying 
 whole housefuls of rubbish gems of art. One of my first 
 visits was paid to a huge mansion in the north. The 
 rooms were crowded with pictures of all shapes and sizes, 
 heirlooms, etc. A single glance was sufficient; daub after 
 daub filled my afflicted vision, while I waited for my 
 cicerone, who presently appeared, catalogue in hand, in the 
 shape of one of the young ladies of the family. 
 
 " May I ask who that picture is painted by ?" said I, 
 pointing to a Wardour Street example. 
 
 " That is by Titian' A Holy Family.' " 
 
 "Ah! and this one?" 
 
 " That " (ref ering to catalogue) " is by by Domy 
 Dom my sister writes so badly I can't quite make out." 
 
 " Oh, Domenichino," said I. " Is it ? very interesting 
 I never saw a picture of foxhounds by that painter 
 before." 
 
 " Yes," said my cicerone ; " ' Pack of hounds, fox break- 
 ing cover.' " 
 
 " Dear me," I said, " the people in those days dressed 
 pretty much as they do now red coats, top-boots, and 
 everything." 
 
 " So they did," rejoined the young lady; " and Domy 
 what do you call him, lived many years ago, didn't he ?" 
 
 " Yes, about three hundred or thereabouts; but perhaps 
 he was a prophet as well as a painter, and could foresee
 
 "OLD MASTERS." 415 
 
 the kind of dress that would be worn in England a few 
 centuries after his death." 
 
 I went steadily through this remarkable gathering 
 without finding a single picture above contempt. 
 
 " Now," said my young friend, " you must come into 
 the billiard-room; it is quite full of portraits of our an- 
 cestors, by Vandyke, but before you see them I am to 
 tell you that we cannot let them go to London any other 
 picture you can have." 
 
 To my surprise I found the Vandykes were very fair 
 specimens of Lely one or two excellent. 
 
 " These are by Vandyke, are they ?" said I. 
 
 " Yes. They have been here ever since they were painted. 
 Mamma has all the receipts from Vandyke for the differ- 
 ent sums paid for the pictures." 
 
 "My duty," said I, " Is simply to report upon the works 
 I see, to the Council of the Royal Academy; you will no 
 doubt hear from them on the subject." 
 
 " Oh, I had nearly forgotten one of our greatest pictures, 
 always so much admired; it is by Gainsborough, on the 
 staircase. You won't mind taking the trouble to mount 
 the stairs ?" 
 
 I followed my guide up several flights of stairs, and at 
 length found myself opposite a whole-length life-sized 
 portrait of a man in armor, as worn during the reign of 
 Elizabeth a vile picture. 
 
 " Are you sure this is by Gainsborough ?" I inquired. 
 
 " Perfectly, and it is thought by good judges "(emphasis 
 on good judges) " to be a very fine Gainsborough." 
 
 " Then that great artist," said I, " has adopted a method 
 curiously in opposition to Domenichino, for he has gone 
 back a couple of centuries to paint some one he couldn't 
 possibly have seen." 
 
 My cicerone seemed bewildered. I thanked her for her 
 attention, and wished her good-day. My reader may 
 doubt the truth of the above, but the facts occurred just 
 as I have told them. 
 
 The pictures of Reynolds are so much desired for the 
 Winter Exhibition that neither trouble nor expense are 
 spared in searching for them ; so hearing of one, described
 
 416 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 to me as of unusual splendor, I made a journey into Wales 
 with the solitary Reynolds for its object. The owner was 
 from home, but the lady of the house received me very 
 courteously, and, though unable to promise to lend the 
 picture to the Academy, she allowed me to see it. 
 
 " My husband's great-grandmother, by Sir J. Reynolds, 
 considered by connoisseurs as his finest work." 
 
 " It is a very fine picture indeed," said I ; " but it was 
 not painted by Reynolds." 
 
 " Not painted by why, I can show you Sir Joshua's 
 receipt for his fee !" 
 
 I had a difficult game to play. I wanted the picture 
 very much, for it was a very beautiful Romney, so I fear 
 I rather played the hypocrite, and pretended to doubt my 
 own judgment; finally the picture was sent to Burling- 
 ton House accompanied by a letter from the owner, which 
 informed the council that, though doubt had been thrown 
 upon the picture by Mr. Frith, who had told Lady Blank 
 that the painter of the work was not Sir Joshua Reynolds, 
 he, the proprietor, possessed such convincing evidence to 
 the contrary, that unless the picture could be described in 
 the catalogue as by Reynolds, he would be obliged to the 
 council if they would send it back immediately. We 
 were greatly troubled ; it was impossible to stultify our- 
 selves by putting the name of Reynolds to a palpable 
 Romney, and we were very anxious to exhibit the picture. 
 A letter was therefore written by the secretary informing 
 the owner of the Sir Joshua (by order of council) that his 
 Reynolds was a Romney, and must be exhibited as such, 
 or not at all. Like a sensible man Lord Blank gave way, 
 and his great-grandmother, a very lovely young creature, 
 proved one of the most attractive pictures in the Winter 
 Exhibition of 1881. 
 
 As I find I visited thirty-eight different collections of old 
 masters, and named for selection over three hundred pict- 
 ures, an idea may be formed of the almost inexhaustible 
 wealth of ancient art in this country. I forget the name 
 of the owner of the house in which I found two very fine 
 half-length portraits by Romney, representing a lady and 
 gentleman husband and wife, I think the lady very
 
 "OLD MASTERS." 417 
 
 charming, the gentleman of a strongly -marked indi- 
 viduality, his expression conveying the idea of a some- 
 what irascible temper. On inquiry, I was told that the 
 face was the " index of the mind," the owner of it being 
 in the habit of giving way to paroxysms of fury that made 
 him a terror to all offenders, his servants especially. After 
 the death of his wife the fits of passion became more fre- 
 quent. This gentleman had a large acquaintance, and 
 was a constant diner-out. Living in the country, and his 
 friends' houses lying at varying distances from his own, 
 his carriage was in frequent requisition, the rule being for 
 the coachman to drive his master home, when that gentle- 
 man, opening the carriage door, would let himself into his 
 house. On one boisterous night the customary programme 
 was enacted; and the coachman, after pausing at the door 
 as usual, drove to the stables, housed the carriage, and after- 
 wards stabled the horses. He then went to his supper, 
 and was surprised by an inquiry by a footman after his 
 master. 
 
 "Master!" said the coachman ; "why, he let himself in 
 as usual half an hour ago, and he is in bed and asleep by 
 this time." 
 
 "No, that he can't be," said the footman. " He always 
 rings for me, and I've heard nothing of him. Anyway, 
 I'll go and see." 
 
 The man returned presently. 
 
 His master couldn't be in the house. He was not to be 
 found anywhere. 
 
 The coachman stared at his fellow-servant for a mo- 
 ment, then hastily rose from the supper-table, beckoning 
 the footman to follow warning him to make no noise. 
 The two went stealthily together to the coach-house, where 
 they found their master sound asleep in his carriage. 
 " Lend a hand with the harness," said the coachman. 
 In a few minutes the horses were harnessed and at- 
 tached to the carriage, and the irritable passenger, still 
 asleep, was driven to his house-door. Here it was found 
 necessary to wake him, and with an exclamation, "Why, 
 bless my soul, I must have been asleep !" he entered his 
 house, never suspecting, or to the end of his life ever 
 18*
 
 418 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 knowing, that he had spent part of the night in his own 
 coach-house. 
 
 Numberless examples of the ignorance of collectors or 
 inheritors of pictures might be given, but I will add only 
 one more instance of strange credulity, for the truth of 
 which my colleague in the search for old pictures, Mr. 
 Horsley, R.A., is responsible. In one of his wanderings 
 in the north of England my friend was told that he must 
 not leave that part of the country without seeing a picture 
 which had just arrived from abroad no less than a Leo- 
 nardo da Vinci, valued at three thousand guineas. The 
 picture had been consigned to a distant relative of the 
 owner, with a view to its sale at Christie & Hanson's in 
 the spring. Though Mr. Horsley had long journeys and 
 hard work on his hands, the temptation to secure, if possi- 
 ble, so rare a treasure as a fine work by one of the great- 
 est ornaments of the Italian school was too great to be 
 resisted. The picture also appeared with such strong evi- 
 dences of authenticity as to make its genuineness almost 
 unquestionable. The family for which the great artist 
 painted the picture had transmitted it from father to son 
 down to the representative now living, etc. 
 
 It is the rule with those who have the selection of the 
 Winter Exhibition pictures to refrain from giving their 
 personal opinion of works offered. The owners are al- 
 ways told that the decision rests with a committee formed 
 expressly to decide after reports from the selectors as 
 to what shall or shall not be exhibited. But when candid 
 opinion is asked, it is often as candidly given. In the 
 case of the Leonardo, the artist was so pressed by the con- 
 signee (who had no interest in the picture, and consider- 
 able doubt of its authenticity) to give his real opinion of 
 its commercial value, that he did not hesitate to appraise 
 it at five pounds, provided always the picture were sold in 
 its frame; the latter, a good old carved one, being worth 
 about that sum. 
 
 " In that case," said the temporary custodian, " it will 
 be of no use sending the picture to London for sale." 
 
 "Not unless you will take five pounds for it," said 
 Horsley.
 
 "OLD MASTERS." 419 
 
 " But how can this be ascertained so as to convince the 
 owner ?" 
 
 " Well," replied the artist, " I will give you a letter of 
 introduction to Messrs. Christie. I will write it now, here, 
 if you like. You shall see it, and I will give those gentle- 
 men no clew to ray own opinion. Send the picture to 
 King Street. Ask what it will be likely to fetch under 
 the hammer there, and you will most likely find that ray 
 estimate of the value is pretty nearly correct." 
 
 The advice was taken. The Leonardo da Vinci was 
 sent to Christie & Manson, with the inquiry proposed 
 by Mr. Horsley. The eminent firm regretted to say that 
 there would be no chance of the picture selling for more 
 than the value of the frame, which might reach five 
 pounds. It is curious that without any communication 
 with the artist the auctioneers should have named the 
 precise sum fixed by him.
 
 CHAPTER XLI. 
 
 A SUCCESSFUL DEALER. 
 
 Louis VICTOR FLATOW, picture-dealer, was the son of a 
 poor Austrian Jew, so poor as to be unable to give his son 
 education enough to enable him to read or write. In lieu 
 of teaching, when the son had arrived at the age of eleven 
 the father placed in his hands some sheaves of lead-pencils 
 and told him to be off and get his own living ; " and from 
 that time till now," said Mr. Flatow, "and I'm between 
 forty and fifty though I don't look it I have got my 
 own living." How that was managed for some years 
 Louis Victor declined to say, beyond acknowledging that 
 the lead -pencil scheme was very soon exchanged for some 
 other, by which he managed to exist, till fate or chance 
 threw in his way a Belgian who dealt in " old masters." 
 The " old-master pattern," as Flatow called it, succeeded 
 in filling the pockets of his employer without having much 
 effect upon his own ; and whether because he was shocked 
 by the tricks of that trade, or disappointed with their re- 
 sults as regarded his own future, is not known, but after 
 some experience of the business he left his employer and 
 started on his own account. 
 
 I forget the name of the dealer in "old masters," but 
 his pupil said he was one of those who acknowledged that 
 honesty is the best policy, but " thanked God they could 
 do without it." And if the account of the production of 
 these ancient pictures, as practised by the Belgian, were 
 true, honesty was certainly put on one side. 
 
 " There was a lot of young artists clever chaps, some 
 of 'em copying away like fury in the public galleries ; 
 and when the copies, were done he smoked and cracked 
 'em till you would never believe they were less than two 
 hundred years old."
 
 A SUCCESSFUL DEALER. 421 
 
 " And what is the next step ?" said I. 
 
 " Why, they were sold as originals, of course, and those 
 who bought them believed that they possessed the origi- 
 nals, and the Louvre or the Dresden Gallery the copies." 
 
 " That was very abominable," said I. 
 
 " Of course it was, and I got out of it as soon as I could," 
 was the reply. 
 
 According to Mr. Flatow, though the roguish part of 
 the " old-master " business was abandoned by him, he con- 
 tinued to deal in the " real thing " till he had formed a 
 tolerably large collection of Titians and Raphaels ; and not 
 being successful abroad, he went to Edinburgh, and intro- 
 duced his exhibition with a flourish of trumpets to the 
 Scottish public. Whether the taste of the canny Scots 
 was not sufficiently advanced for the appreciation of the 
 merits of Raphael, or so much cultivated as to cause 
 doubt of the originality of the Flatow collection, is not 
 known ; but it is quite certain that the show failed to at- 
 tract. And, as the expenses were great, great was the 
 failure ; and the spirited collector left Edinburgh and the 
 " old masters " behind him. " Never, sir, to go among 
 such a scrubby lot as the Scotch again ; with a final adoo 
 to the old-master pattern." 
 
 The next step in the career of my illustrious friend has 
 only to be accounted for on the hypothesis of some por- 
 tion of his life, between the lead-pencil and the " old-mas- 
 ter " period, being devoted to the study ?.nd practice of 
 chiropodism ; for his next appearance is in Spring Street, 
 London, where the passer-by might have seen a golden 
 foot disfigured by gigantic corns, and beneath it, on a 
 brass plate, the words, "L. V. Flatow, Chiropodist." 
 
 Mr. Flatow was a very remarkable man, and whatever 
 he undertook to do was done with an energy and devoted- 
 ness common to great characters ; but greatness cannot 
 always make the opportunity necessary for its display, 
 and the comparative failure of the corn-cutting proved 
 that the hour for the glory of my friend had not yet 
 struck. To beguile the weary time that was so ready to 
 be devoted to the relief of his fellow-creatures, Mr. Flatow 
 indulged himself with a game of billiards. It goes with-
 
 422 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 out saying that the game as played by the corn-cutter 
 was splendid, so perfect, indeed, that no frequenter of the 
 rooms of my friend Mr. Beckingham could be induced, 
 even for the smallest stake, to enter the lists against 
 him. 
 
 Mr. Beckingham is, or was, the proprietor of the Adelphi 
 Cigar Stores in the Strand; the billiard-rooms are above 
 the shop, and, after descending from the rooms one day, 
 Mr. Flatow produced some cards, and thus addressed the 
 amiable tobacconist: 
 
 "I see, sir, that you have a great many visitors to your 
 establishment ; sure, some of 'em many of 'em, I hope 
 must be troubled with corns. Now you would oblige me 
 very much- you would, in fact, be of great service to me 
 if you would distribute some of my cards ; and if you 
 happen to have a corn about you, I shall be happy to 
 prove to you, free gratis for nothing, that I am well up in 
 the business." 
 
 " I will try to serve you with much pleasure," said Mr. 
 Beckingham ; " and you can serve me, I assure you, for I 
 am at this moment dreadfully troubled with a most per- 
 sistent corn." 
 
 Patient and operator retired into a little room at the 
 back of the shop ; and in a few minutes, and with admira- 
 ble skill, a painless operation was performed. I am sure, 
 from what I know of Mr. Beckingham's amiable character, 
 that he distributed many cards, adding strong commenda- 
 tion of Mr. Flatow's ability ; but when destiny has pre- 
 scribed a fate, corn-cutting cannot break the web, and the 
 moment was near that was to signalize the commence- 
 ment of the career of one of the most successful dealers in 
 modern art that this country has seen. 
 
 Mr. Beckingham was well acquainted with an artist who, 
 in his youth, had painted many pictures of great merit; 
 but on arriving at mature age the public deserted him, 
 and the difficulty of finding purchasers for his works be- 
 came very great. Beckingham had bought some of his 
 pictures, and had been the means of selling others ; and 
 on one occasion, when Flatow happened to be by, the ar- 
 tist produced two small pictures, for which he wanted ten
 
 A SUCCESSFUL DEALER. 423 
 
 pounds apiece. Flatow examined them, and said be flat- 
 tered himself he knew something of the picture business ; 
 and if he might be trusted with the pictures he would 
 either bring them, or the money for them, to Beckingham 
 the next night. He was trusted, and he sold the pictures 
 and received his commission in the ordinary way. Intro- 
 ductions to certain artists followed, and by some means or 
 other Mr. Flatow obtained the command of a sufficient 
 sum of money to enable him to " deal," though not at first 
 very extensively. 
 
 I think it was when I was putting the last touches to 
 the " Derby Day " that I first heard the name of Flatow 
 from a friend of mine, who described him as a knowing 
 Jewish picture-dealer, not beautiful to look at, but liberal 
 and straightforward in all his engagements, and very anx- 
 ious for an introduction to me. I was curious to see the 
 man, and a day was named for his visit. I did not quite 
 like his manner of approaching me ; it was too deferential, 
 too much as if I should be conferring an honor of which 
 no human being could be worthy, if I would only paint a 
 large picture for him, for which he was prepared to pay 
 my price ; and prepared also to devote superhuman energy 
 to make an engraving from it successful. And as to the 
 exhibition of it throughout the country, he would " per- 
 form with it himself." 
 
 A single glance at Mr. Flatow was enough to prove that 
 a very energetic and astute individual stood before you 
 the Israelite strongly in evidence, and by no means a fa- 
 vorable type of that great race. That undisguisable feat- 
 ure, the mouth, was mercifully covered by a beard, and 
 if it were at all in accord with the upper part of the face, 
 the beard became a valuable cloak. I am always of opin- 
 ion that the face is a sure index of character, but there 
 are exceptions to every rule ; and so far as my own deal- 
 ings with Mr. Flatow were concerned I had every reason 
 to be satisfied with his conduct. My first transaction 
 with him was for my picture of " Claude Duval," followed 
 by the " Railway Station," a work on the lines of the 
 " Derby Day," and other modern-life subjects ; and with 
 the "Railway Station " came a signal success, greatly ow-
 
 424 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND KEMINISCENCES. 
 
 ing, I am sure, to the way in which Flatow " performed 
 with it himself." 
 
 Five-and-twenty years ago there were no exhibitions of 
 pictures in London except at the galleries of the Royal 
 Academy, British Artists (Suffolk Street), and at the 
 rooms of the Society of Painters in Water Colors. The 
 separate exhibition of a picture was quite a novelty, and 
 the " Railway Station," deservedly or not, attracted large 
 crowds. It was then quite " alone in its glory," in a kind 
 of dark gallery near the Haymarket Theatre, the picture 
 being placed in the inner gallery ; and from the outer 
 room Mr. Flatow scanned his visitors, fixing with great 
 acuteness on those whose appearance indicated the weak- 
 ness of the victim, and proceeding at once to spread a 
 snare, which usually caught a subscriber to the engraving. 
 Every one knows the nuisance of the picture tout, whose 
 persevering appeals for your name to be added to the al- 
 ready "long list of distinguished personages" who have 
 subscribed, embitters your probably short time for exam- 
 ining a picture ; and though I was often amused \>y the 
 indomitable perseverance of my entrepreneur, it was my 
 fate sometimes to hear uncomplimentary remarks on my 
 picture and myself. On one occasion I remember hearing 
 Mr. Flatow make a last appeal to a gentleman, whom he 
 had been pestering for five minutes, in the following words : 
 
 "I feel sure that Mr. Frith would feel particularly 
 proud to see your name, sir, in the list of subscribers to 
 the fine engraving we are about to publish of this great 
 work." 
 
 " From what I hear of Mr. Frith," said the gentleman, 
 " he is conceited enough without any help from my name 
 to make him more conceited than he is." 
 
 On another occasion a very old man tried to escape by 
 saying, in reply to Flatow's assurance that the engraver 
 would work with such extreme care that at least three 
 years would be spent on the print : 
 
 " Why, sir," said the old gentleman, " I shall be dead 
 before the engraving' is done." 
 
 "Well, sir, then think what a blessing such a work 
 would be to your children !"
 
 A SUCCESSFUL DEALER. 425 
 
 " But I haven't got any," replied the old man, and once 
 more Mr. Flatow was defeated. 
 
 Another time, after he had expatiated in glowing terms 
 on the varied beauties of the picture, the intended victim 
 replied : 
 
 " Indeed, ah ! I can't agree with what you say. You 
 don't know me, do you ? I thought not. Well, I am an 
 artist myself, and if I couldn't paint a better picture than 
 that I would go home and hang myself." 
 
 One of Mr. Flatow's favorite figures of speech was, 
 " Lord bless you ! there ain't a dealer in London that 
 knows how to manipulate a customer ; you must walk 
 round 'em as a cooper walks round a tub." 
 
 I suppose no picture exists that has escaped hostile crit- 
 icism. Certainly the " Railway Station " received an abun- 
 dant share ; and I remember showing my employer rather 
 a severe dose of it in a weekly paper. Then, for the first 
 time, I became certain that my friend could not read. I 
 gave him the periodical, and pointed out the column of 
 abuse, and by his expression I saw the page was sealed to 
 him. He gave the paper back to me and said, " Who 
 cares what such a d d fool as that says !" He could 
 write his name in curious hieroglyphics, and he could read 
 simple words in large capitals ; and I have often been 
 amused by the way he paraded his learning as he walked 
 along the streets. 
 
 "Ah, large place that infirmary, I see !" 
 
 " What's that ? Oh, Hospital for Incurables !" I added. 
 
 " They haven't let that house yet, I see. Suppose the 
 neighborhood's going down." 
 
 I never had a doubt that Flatow proving, as he did, a 
 very remarkable person without having had the advantage 
 of education would have provided for himself some con- 
 spicuous position in the world, and have filled it well, un- 
 der happier circumstances. He could not read, but many 
 books had been read to him by a devoted wife ; and with 
 the whole of Dickens' works he was familiar, their peru- 
 sal pi-oducing profound admiration of the author, and a 
 burning desire for his acquaintance. He was very inti- 
 mate with a young artist, then and now eminent, who at
 
 426 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 that time was illustrating one of Dickens' books, and was 
 a near friend of the great author. Dickens and the young 
 painter were on the eve of a trip to Paris, and the artist 
 took advantage of this arrangement to endeavor to carry 
 out Flatow's cherished desire. Said he, " Dickens and I 
 will be at Meurice's Hotel at a certain time. Go over to 
 Paris, put up at Meurice's, and I will introduce you." 
 
 No sooner said than done. Flatow returned, and called 
 on me. 
 
 " Well," said I, "how do you like Dickens?" 
 
 "Like Dickens?" said Flatow, with affected surprise. 
 " What is thei'e to like about him ? I ain't going to bow 
 down to him a stuck-up humbug ! He thinks a lot of 
 himself and his cleverness because he wrote 'Pickwick,' 
 and such like. Why, he couldn't help writing 'em. He 
 deserves no credit for that. He a clever man ! Let him 
 just go and sell a lot of pictures to a man that don't want 
 'em, as I have done lots of times ; that's what I call being 
 a clever man." 
 
 This was strange, but the interpretation thereof sim- 
 ple, when it was discovered that the good-natured young 
 painter failed in persuading Dickens to be introduced to 
 a gentleman whose appearance and table-d^hote manners 
 were far from conciliatory. To those who could endure 
 a certain amount of rough vulgarity, Flatow was a very 
 amusing person. He was a good mimic, and he managed 
 to ingratiate himself with people greatly his superiors. 
 Fechter was a great friend of his, and when some one 
 applied to that actor's representation of Hamlet which 
 varied altogether from the recognized reading of the 
 character the well-known remark of the Russian on the 
 unfortunate light - cavalry charge in the Crimea, " C^est 
 magnifique, mais ce n'est pas la guerre" " I believe you, 
 sir," said Flatow, " it is just magnificent." 
 
 On shaking hands with his gloves on he would say, 
 " Excuse my glove, sir ; it is the honester skin of the two." 
 And he has told me more than once that on parting with 
 a client after a heavy picture-transaction, and dismissing 
 him, still gloved, with his favorite remark, he fancied the 
 gentleman believed him. " But he was wrong, sir. I lost
 
 A SUCCESSFUL DEALER. 427 
 
 by nearly every one of 'em." So long as an artist worked 
 conscientiously and successfully for him be was full of 
 praise ; and, what was better, carried out his engagements 
 to the letter, and sometimes beyond it ; but if he found he 
 had made a mistake, and the painter had what he called 
 "gone to weeds," he would dispute the quality of the 
 goods, and leave the painter to his legal remedy. " He 
 call hisself an artist !" I heard him say of a friend of my 
 own ; " he is only fit to be a fogey-trapper." This being 
 the Flatow vernacular for photographer. 
 
 Flatow's business became very large, and his profits, I 
 believe, proportionate. I had many transactions with 
 him, though never of the importance of the " Railway 
 Station," by which he is said to have made thirty thou- 
 sand pounds. I cannot, and do not, vouch for the truth 
 of this ; but as he died worth eighty thousand pounds, he 
 may be credited with having made a large profit out of 
 ray work. Like many of his tribe, he was fond of gems 
 of all kinds which he called " jools " and fonder still of 
 displaying them on his own person. He would sometimes 
 offer bracelets and rings for pictures or sketches, but at 
 values which were found to be much overrated. I was 
 satisfied with one transaction of that nature ; other artists 
 were not so fortunate. 
 
 Flatow was scarcely middle-aged when severe illness 
 struck him down. His sufferings were fearful. He had 
 taken a large house in Porchestcr Terrace, made up his 
 mind to take business more easily, and enjoy what he said 
 lie had " stacked away ;" but he became so rapidly worse 
 as to leave all hope behind. He had no family, his sole 
 attendants being his wife and one of our old models, 
 named Wall from whom I had intelligence of his last 
 days. The poor fellow's temper became dreadful, and he 
 attacked his doctors furiously. On a certain occasion one 
 of the most eminent physicians in London had prescribed 
 some remedy from which the patient thought he had not 
 only derived no benefit, but had been made actually worse. 
 In answer to Flatow's inquiry if the medicine was to be 
 repeated, the physician said, in broad Scotch, " Yes, ye'll 
 just take the draught and the pills again to-night." Fla-
 
 428 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 tow's reply was : " You infernal Scotch, lanky brute ! I 
 only wish I had strength enough to reach you. I'd make 
 you spin down-stairs a precious sight quicker than you 
 came up. If ever you show your ugly face here again I 
 will spoil it for you." 
 
 It is scarcely necessary to say that the face disappeared, 
 never to return. 
 
 One touch more and I finish the portrait of Mr. Flatow. 
 The sun was shining brightly on an early summer's morn- 
 ing, when Flatow said to his attendant, in a voice scarcely 
 audible, "Wall, my boy, just wheel me to the window. 
 Put me where I can see down the Terrace. There, that 
 will do. Don't push a fellow about as if you were dealing 
 with a sack of coals. See that fellow there, that mechanic 
 chap with his tools on his back going to work ? I'd give 
 all I possess, and more if I had it, to change places with 
 him. There, move me back, and just take care how you 
 do it, and pull down the blind." 
 
 A few days' more suffering and the end came.
 
 CHAPTER XLH. 
 
 A STRANGE ADVENTURE. 
 
 I MUST now return to my own doings, when a strange 
 adventure befell me. I had just put down palette and 
 brushes, at the close of a long day's work, when a visitor 
 was announced. 
 
 "A lady, sir; she wouldn't give her name. She has 
 come in a beautiful carriage and pair, sir coachman and 
 footman. She says you will know her." 
 
 In my drawing-room I found a tall, handsome woman, 
 approaching middle age, dressed in black. When I en- 
 tered the room she was attentively studying the engrav- 
 ing of my picture of " Claude Duval." She turned, and I 
 saw a face that was entirely strange to me. 
 
 " Don't you remember me ? I sat to you for that pict- 
 ure many years ago." 
 
 I pleaded my infirmity in remembering faces. 
 
 " Ah ! I have changed, no doubt ; but I thought you 
 would remember me. Can we go into your painting-room? 
 I want to see it again, and I have also a proposal to make." 
 
 " By all means," said I, and I attempted to lead the way. 
 
 " Oh, I know my way," said my visitor, and when in 
 the passage she turned to go to the old studio, now a bill- 
 iard-room. 
 
 " No," said I, " since you were here I have built another 
 painting-room at the top of the house." 
 
 We went up-stairs, and when in the new studio the lady 
 turned to me and said, rather abruptly, 
 
 " I want you to paint my portrait. Now look well at 
 me. Don't you remember me ? I sat to you many times." 
 
 Not for the life of me the face was perfectly strange. 
 
 " I married soon after I saw you last," said she, " and 
 I have one daughter; she is to be married in the autumn.
 
 430 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 I want you to paint my likeness, to be presented to her as 
 a wedding-present, but" in a low voice, and with an air 
 more mysterious, I thought, than the occasion warranted 
 " it must be a dead secret ; my husband must not know 
 of it for the world, nor my daughter, of course. When 
 can I sit ?" 
 
 " I shall be very happy to do what you wish. In a fort- 
 night's time I shall be at leisure, and you can sit when 
 you please after then." 
 
 " In a fortnight, then, I will be here." 
 
 After my visitor left me I puzzled myself trying to re- 
 member her. Strange if I had painted the face that I 
 could recall no trace of it. The model for the two prin- 
 cipal figures in the " Claude Duval " I remembered per- 
 fectly, and she was certainly not the lady who had just 
 left me. I referred to my diary, and I. found that a Miss 
 K had sat to me for some chalk-studies of the prin- 
 cipal figure. Could she be this lady ? 
 
 A fortnight passed, and punctually to the time fixed 
 my model came. She was very handsome, but with a face 
 so melancholy as to defy all my attempts to give a cheer- 
 ful expression to the picture. 
 
 " I am very unhappy at home," she said ; " thwarted in 
 everything I desire. I sometimes think there is a con- 
 spiracy to distress me." 
 
 To this I made some commonplace reply. I found my 
 sitter quite impervious to all my endeavors to remove the 
 gloom that oppressed her. The sad expression was not 
 without its charm, and I felt I had no choice but to 
 adopt it. 
 
 " May I ask what your name was when you sat for me ?" 
 said I. 
 
 " K , Mjss K ," was the reply. 
 
 Any doubt that was possible was dispelled ; there could 
 be no question about our having met before, but under 
 
 what different circumstances ! Miss K was certainly 
 
 an ordinary artist's model, and on further inquiry I found 
 that she acknowledged to having sat for several friends 
 of mine, whose names she mentioned. 
 
 The sittings progressed with results more or less favor-
 
 A STRANGE AD VENTURE. 431 
 
 able, the gloom occasionally deepened, alternating with 
 Hashes of strange excitement when my sitter spoke of 
 some slight that had been passed upon her, which, when 
 explained, never seemed to justify her agitation. 
 
 " If my husband knew of this, though it is not to please 
 myself, he would very likely oppose it, just because I de- 
 sire to please my daughter. It is my affair ; he has noth- 
 ing to do with it. I hope you understand it is my affair ; 
 I pay for it myself." 
 
 I confess I felt that I was scarcely justified in lending 
 myself to a secret treaty of this kind. I ought, perhaps, 
 to have refused to paint the portrait at all, without the 
 knowledge of the lady's husband ; but it was far advanced 
 before the above conversation took place, and all artists 
 know that portraits intended for presents are often pro- 
 duced under secret conditions. 
 
 The work progressed till two sittings were all that were 
 required to complete it. An appointment was made, and 
 a letter came from my sitter in reply, telling me that she 
 had left town on a visit to a friend who had kindly offered 
 to bring her to the next sitting. Punctually to time as 
 ever, the lady came ; as she was shown into my room my 
 servant said : 
 
 " The gentleman will be glad to know at what time he 
 is to call for Mrs. Y ." 
 
 I named an hour, and proceeded with my work. 
 
 " You don't seem well," I said ; " I hope you are not 
 suffering." 
 
 " Suffering ! I should think I am suffering. Who would 
 not suffer if they had to bear But there, it's of no use 
 saying any more about it. Try to get through your work 
 a little sooner to-day, if you can." 
 
 " Of course, if you wish it," said I ; " but you forget 
 that an hour is fixed for your friend to fetch you." 
 
 " No, I don't forget ; I can't forget anything. I have 
 something to do ; I must go soon. Yes, indeed ; but I 
 will be back in time enough to meet the doctor." 
 
 " Oh, your friend is a doctor ! Is he your regular medi- 
 cal man ?" 
 
 " Yes no. I am very well ; I don't want a medical man."
 
 432 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 "A friend only?" asked I. 
 
 Then after a pause my sitter said : 
 
 " That is all. Can I go now ?" 
 
 " In a few minutes," I replied. 
 
 The lady trembled with excitement as she hastily as- 
 sumed her cloak and hat. I rang the bell for the servant, 
 who met me, and I accompanied my sitter down-stairs. 
 
 " The lady is not going, is she, sir?" 
 
 " Yes, the lady is going !" said my sitter in a sharp 
 voice, and almost before I could look round she was out 
 of the house. 
 
 " Oh dear," said the girl, " I am so sorry ! I forgot to 
 tell you that the gentleman who came with the lady this 
 morning said she was on no account to be allowed to go 
 till he came for her. I quite forgot to tell you." 
 
 "And if you had told me," said I, "I couldn't stop the 
 lady if she desired to leave." 
 
 The front-door bell rang soon afterwards. 
 
 " I do believe that is the gentleman," said the servant. 
 
 " If so he has come much before his time," said I, as I 
 went back to my studio. 
 
 " It is the gentleman, sir ; and he is in such a way ! He 
 wants to see you." 
 
 "Where is he?" 
 
 " He is walking backwards and forwards in the drawing- 
 room." 
 
 To the drawing-room I went, and was met by an elderly 
 man in such a state of excitement that, after making an 
 ineffectual effort to speak, he threw himself into a chair 
 and stared at me with a look of horror. 
 
 " How could you let her go ? I told your servant she 
 was on no account to stir till I fetched her. I knew this 
 would be a risk ; I told her husband so. She ought not 
 to have come." 
 
 " Really, sir," said I, " I don't understand you." My 
 servant forgot to give your message to me; and if she 
 had delivered it, I had no power to stop Mrs. Y when 
 she wished to go." 
 
 " Sir, she is a lunatic, and in my charge. I am respon- 
 sible for her safe custody. What is to be done now?"
 
 A M KAV.i: ADVENTURE. 433 
 
 " Mrs. Y assured me she would come back at the 
 
 time fixed," said I, when I had recovered composure. 
 
 " Come back ! She won't come back ; I know that well 
 enough ! However, there is nothing for it but to wait 
 and see. Is it possible that you have seen no sign of 
 madness ?" 
 
 " None whatever," said I. 
 
 I passed a very uncomfortable quarter of an hour with 
 the doctor, who resumed his walk up and down the draw- 
 ing-room. The appointed hour passed, and no Mrs. Y . 
 
 " I told you so," said the doctor. " She may have gone 
 home. "Would you let your servant call a cab ? and will 
 you go with me to the house ? The poor husband is away. 
 The house is not far off." 
 
 To the house we went. A footman opened the door to us. 
 
 "Mrs. Y here?" 
 
 " No, sir." 
 
 "Not been eh?" 
 
 " No, sir." 
 
 " Well, Mr. Frith," said the doctor, " I needn't take up 
 any more of your time. I can't blame you ; it's very un- 
 fortunate. I shall go home after I have consulted with 
 the most likely people to find her. God knows what I 
 am to say to her husband ! Yes, I will let you know when 
 we hear of her." 
 
 We shook hands and parted. In a few days I heard 
 from the doctor that the poor woman was found wander- 
 ing aimlessly about the streets long after midnight, not 
 far from her own home. 
 
 Mr. Y came to see the portrait ; and, though he 
 
 seemed to think that it should not have been undertaken 
 without his knowledge, in which he was possibly right, 
 he paid for it, and behaved in all respects in a gentlemanly 
 spirit. 
 
 I have since heard that my sitter's case is incurable. 
 Her daughter is married, and the unfortunate husband's 
 home is broken up. I leave experts in these dreadful 
 cases to explain the concealment of aberration of mind, 
 which must have existed during the many hours the poor 
 lady sat to me. It is, of course, possible that the latent 
 19
 
 434 MY AUTOBIOGKAPI1Y AND KEMINISCENCES. 
 
 disease only showed itself in such force as to necessitate 
 restraint at the latter part of the time required for my 
 work ; but it is strange to me that, beyond an excited 
 manner, to be accounted for by other causes, I never dis- 
 covered anything exceptional in the poor lady's conduct.
 
 CHAPTER XLIII. 
 
 MEN-SERVANTS. 
 
 I THINK if I were ever so rich I should as much as pos- 
 sible avoid men-servants ; not that I have a word to say 
 against a highly respectable portion of the community, 
 but being, like the Vicar of Wakefield, an admirer of 
 Iwppy faces, I am also an admirer of pretty ones, only 
 they must be of the female order. Those who were so 
 fortunate as to be guests at the hospitable house of the 
 late John Penn, of engineering fame, may remember that, 
 however extensive might be the dinner, and however large 
 the number of diners, the whole service was conducted by 
 women, dressed alike, and resembling each other also in 
 another and pleasanter form, for they were good-looking 
 without an exception. As I have elsewhere shown, I have 
 been able to secure the services of some of my servants as 
 models a practice I don't recommend, because it is apt 
 to " turn their heads " a little, and to make them careless 
 over less agreeable duties. 
 
 In the whole course of my life I have employed only 
 three male servants. With the first I had a very good 
 character, which I found, on trial, was well deserved. He 
 was a good-looking, active young fellow, and would have 
 been altogether satisfactory but for two failings one 
 being a determination to make as much noise as possible 
 during every operation he was called upon to perform. 
 He succeeded in getting the greatest amount of noise pos- 
 sible out of a door in opening or shutting it ; he banged 
 the plates and dishes on the table, rattled the knives and 
 forks, and broke more crockery than the most destructive 
 of our servants had ever done before his coming. His 
 second failing was a total defiance of the prescribed hour 
 for his return when he had his " Sunday out." He was
 
 436 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 informed that eleven o'clock must never be passed before 
 his return, and he so frequently preferred twelve, and 
 sometimes half-past twelve, that I was constrained to in- 
 form him after about his tenth infringement of our rule 
 that the next time he committed himself would be the last. 
 For a short time my warning was effectual ; but the fate- 
 ful Sunday night came at last. At midnight my man had 
 not returned, and it was nearer one than twelve o'clock 
 when he made his appearance. 
 
 " Now, West," said I, " do you know what time it is ?" 
 
 "Yes; I'm afraid I am rather late, sir. The fact is, me 
 and" 
 
 " I don't want to hear of your doings ; you know I told 
 you that the next time you committed yourself you would 
 be discharged, and I now give you notice that " 
 
 "I beg your pardon, sir you may not be aware of it, 
 but no gentleman can give notice of a Sunday night." 
 
 "I know that," said I, "and if you had returned home 
 on Sunday night, I might have excused you; but, you see, 
 it is Monday morning." 
 
 So Mr. West and I parted company. West figures in 
 the " Railway Station " picture, disguised as a porter, who 
 is informing an old lady that she must take a dog-ticket 
 for a pet she is endeavoring to smuggle into the train. 
 
 West's situation was almost immediately filled by a man 
 of very imposing presence, who had passed middle life. 
 He came to us from a nobleman whom he had served as 
 butler, and from whom we received a character satisfac- 
 tory in all respects. He was honest, sober, attentive, and 
 the rest of it, and his name was Johnson. If West had 
 been noisy, Johnson was his exact opposite ; indeed, so si- 
 lent and stealthy, so to speak, were his movements, that it 
 was necessary to be guarded in speaking of matters not 
 intended for kitchen discussion, for Johnson was upon us 
 at times with a ghostlike suddenness. My friends told 
 me that, as he stood behind my chair at dinner, the con- 
 trast between servant and master was very unfavorable to 
 the latter. "What a refined character there is in the 
 head of your butler ! he looks like an archbishop," said an 
 artist friend; "I wonder you don't paint him !" No one
 
 MEN-SERVANTS. 437 
 
 ever called West a butler ; and no one called Johnson any- 
 thing else. 
 
 That my new man had a taste for the fine arts might be 
 assumed, if the fact of his long and solemn contemplation 
 of the " Railway Station " picture was a proof; for when- 
 ever he had occasion to visit the painting-room he would 
 stare first at the picture and then at me, seeming by his 
 expression to have a difficulty in determining which he 
 admired the more. 
 
 The awe with which he inspired my children soon wore 
 off. They were small and noisy, as is the habit with such 
 little people; and after enduring a very demonstrative 
 ebullition of juvenile spirits at the midday dinner on one 
 occasion, the rioters were silenced by a solemn exclama- 
 tion from Johnson of "Quietoode, children quietoode !" 
 This startled the children into quietness for a moment, to 
 be changed into more noise than ever. Johnson then 
 repeated his admonition. This was strange conduct on 
 the part of a servant ; the man had always been most re- 
 spectful. 
 
 " Did you notice Johnson's walk as he left the room ?" 
 said my wife. "Do you think he drinks?" 
 
 "Good gracious, no !" said I. "He seems the pink of 
 propriety; still his manner is strange." 
 
 As the day wore on Johnson's conduct became more 
 eccentric. He was told to put some coals on the drawing- 
 room fire. 
 
 " I positively decline to do so, sir." 
 
 " What !" said I ; " you decline to" 
 
 " Sir," interrupted Johnson, " I shall always be happy 
 to obey all reasonable orders. If the fire wanted coals I 
 would willingly supply the want ; but such is not the case 
 not the case ! No, sir, not the case !" and the butler 
 left the room, taking the coal-scuttle with him. 
 
 " Why, what on earth has come to the man ?" said I. 
 " His conduct is only to be explained according to your 
 theory ; or else he is going off his head." 
 
 Johnson waited at our late dinner in his usual solemn 
 manner, without a trace of any exceptional condition; but 
 later in the evening, when it became Johnson's duty to
 
 438 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 fill the teapot with boiling water, he poured the water 
 past the teapot, and was within an ace of scalding a child, 
 who made a rapid escape from the butler's neighborhood. 
 
 "Take care what you are about. You very nearly 
 scalded that boy." 
 
 " That boy, sir, is always in the way. I never, in the 
 whole course of my life, saw such a boy." 
 
 " Johnson," said I, " you are exceedingly disrespectful, 
 and if you " 
 
 " I disrespectful !" said the man, in accents of intense 
 astonishment. "I have lived in the highest of families, 
 and have always been treated with great respect. I little 
 thought, sir, that I should be accused of that." 
 
 "Now," said my wife, "I hope you are satisfied that 
 there is something very wrong about that man, and I hope 
 you will get rid of him as soon as possible." 
 
 " Wait," said I, " we shall soon have further justifica- 
 tion for sending him about his business, unless I am much 
 mistaken." 
 
 I was sitting reading in my dining-room that same even- 
 ing somewhat absorbed in a novel by my old friend 
 Wilkie Collins when I was startled by a voice behind 
 me. I turned and beheld Johnson, who said : 
 
 "You ought to go down on your bended knees every 
 night of your life, and thank 'eaven which have blessed 
 you with the extronary talents as has given you the power 
 of prodoocing them pictures. Yes ; there's the " Rail- 
 way Station " with all them people. Why, it's wonder- 
 ful ! I really can't think 'ow it's all done. Oh, I don't 
 think yon are 'alf thankful enough, and it's my dooty to 
 tell you." 
 
 " Have you quite finished ?" said I. 
 
 " Finished ?" hiccoughed my respectable butler " fin- 
 ished what ? What are you a-talking about, I should like 
 to know ? And permit me to take the present occasion to 
 inform you" here he paused, and attempted to fix me 
 with a glassy eye-^" that you have got a pack of noisy, 
 impident children as deserves a precious good 'iding. I 
 know I shall be 'itting some of 'em some day." 
 
 " Leave the room instantly !" said I. " You are drunk."
 
 MEN-8EUVANTS. 439 
 
 I never saw surprise more vividly expressed by a human 
 face. 
 
 " He says Pm DRUNK ! Me, James Johnson, which lias 
 'ad the best of character from Then savagely, " This 
 'ere's actionable." Then in bantering tones, " The next 
 thing as you'll say is that I've bin and made away with 
 your bit of plate. Ah, do ! There you go. Send for the 
 detectives as you've done in the picture. Have me took 
 up and put in the picture. Why not, I should like to 
 know ?" 
 
 " Will you, or will you not, leave this room?" 
 
 " Don't be in a hurry. Wait a bit. Is that water as 
 you've got there? Ah, it is." Then seizing a tumbler 
 and the water-bottle, he succeeded in spilling some water 
 into the tumbler, and much more on to the carpet, and 
 then said, " I'm that thirsty ; I think it must be that salt- 
 beef." 
 
 " To - morrow morning," said I, " you will perhaps be 
 sober enough to receive a notice to leave my service at 
 once. Till then, I insist on your going to bed." 
 
 " I'm a-going, I'm a-going ; and mind before you lays 
 your head on to your pillow you take my advice, and 
 thank 'eaven which has " 
 
 Here Mr. Johnson, assisted by a push from me, stag- 
 gered through the door, and went blundering down the pas- 
 sage to bed. 
 
 The subsequent career of my dignified butler is soon re- 
 lated. After making a futile attempt to get a character 
 from me for " honesty, sobriety, etc.," he gave up the idea 
 of returning to domestic service, and acquired, in some way 
 or other, an invalid Bath -chair, in which he induced sev- 
 eral people in delicate health to trust themselves. I have 
 frequently met him with his invalid charges. He inva- 
 riably stopped and pointed me out to his passenger, no 
 doubt informing him or her, as the case might be, how lit- 
 tle gratitude I felt for the talent which "'eaven had be- 
 stowed upon me." 
 
 His last feat was to drag an old lady into the middle of 
 Hyde Park, leave her there, while he went to a public- 
 house, got drunk, and forgot all about her. The invalid
 
 440 
 
 waited patiently for some time, at last got thoroughly 
 frightened, and screamed till a policeman went to the 
 rescue and dragged the sick woman to her home. What 
 became of the Bath-chair, this deponent knoweth not. 
 
 Of my last experience of the male domestic I have noth- 
 ing but what is pleasant to say. Farrer my third's name 
 was a steady young fellow, and a most excellent servant. 
 He left me to " better himself," in which I hope he suc- 
 ceeded. With him I bid adieu forever and a day to men- 
 servants.
 
 CHAPTER XLIV. 
 "THE PBIVATB VIEW." 
 
 SEVEN years ago certain ladies delighted to display 
 themselves at public gatherings in what are called aesthet- 
 ic dresses ; in some cases the costumes were pretty enough, 
 in others they seemed to rival each other in ugliness of 
 form and oddity of color. There were and still are, I 
 believe preachers of aestheticism in dress; but I think, 
 and hope, that the preaching is much less effective than 
 it used to be. The contrast between the really beautiful 
 costumes of some of the lady habituees of our private 
 view and the eccentric garments of others, together with 
 the opportunity offered for portraits of eminent persons, 
 suggested a subject for a picture, and I hastened to avail 
 myself of it. Beyond the desire of recording for posteri- 
 ty the aesthetic craze as regards dress, I wished to hit the 
 folly of listening to self-elected critics in matters of taste, 
 whether in dress or art. I therefore planned a group, 
 consisting of a well-known apostle of the beautiful, with a 
 herd of eager worshippers surrounding him. He is sup- 
 posed to be explaining his theories to willing ears, taking 
 some picture on the Academy walls for his text. A group 
 of well-known artists are watching the scene. On the left 
 of the composition is a family of pure aesthetes absorbed 
 in affected study of the pictures. Near them stands An- 
 thony Trollope, whose homely figure affords a striking 
 contrast to the eccentric forms near him. The rest of the 
 composition is made up of celebrities of all kinds, states- 
 men, poets, judges, philosophers, musicians, painters, ac- 
 tors, and others. Miss Braddon close to her Sir Julius 
 Benedict is talking to a friend. Mr. Gladstone shakes 
 hands with Sir Stafford Northcote, Sir William Harcourt 
 and Mr. Bright standing by. Mr. Browning talks to an 
 19*
 
 442 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 aesthetic lady, whose draped back affords a chance of 
 showing that view of the costume. Sir F. Leighton is in 
 earnest conversation with Lady Lonsdale, who sits on one 
 of the ottomans in the gallery not far from Lady Diana 
 Huddleston, Baroness Burdett - Coutts, and others. Pro- 
 fessor Huxley is prominent, as are also the Archbishop of 
 York, Lord Coleridge, and Mrs. Langtry, Mr. Agnew (then 
 M.P.), Baron Huddleston by the latter stand Messrs. 
 Tenniel and Du Maurier and many others ; among whom 
 I must not forget Miss Ellen Terry and my old friends 
 Irving and Sala. I received the kindest assistance from 
 all these eminent persons, many of whom came to me at 
 great sacrifice of time and engagements. Mr. Gladstone 
 was one of the first to come, but his first sitting was cruel- 
 ly short, as he was obliged to attend another appointment. 
 How agreeable he can make himself goes without saying. 
 Wishing to catch an animated expression, I kept him in 
 conversation, and in the course of it I made a somewhat 
 trite remark upon the rarity of the numberless witticisms 
 ascribed to different humorists having been actually heard 
 at their inception, most of them I thought, and still think, 
 being after-thoughts generated in seclusion. As an in- 
 stance to the contrary, however, Mr. Gladstone told me 
 the following: 
 
 Sir Francis Burdett began his public life as a pronounced 
 patriot, and suffered, as is well known, by imprisonment 
 in the Tower for proceedings arising out of his too demon- 
 strative patriotism. In after-life, however, the patriot 
 changed into something so opposed to his former inclin- 
 ing, as to betray him, during a furious harangue in Parlia- 
 ment, into expressions that were scarcely parliamentary ; 
 for in condemning a measure that was before the House of 
 too radical a kind, which had received the warm support 
 of a member noted for his ultra-liberal principles, Sir 
 Francis concluded his speech by exclaiming that "of all 
 the cants in the world, the cant of patriotism was the most 
 intolerable, not to say disgusting.'' 1 Lord John Russell 
 rose to reply, and after doing his best to traverse the argu- 
 ment of Sir F. Burdett, concluded his speech in the fol- 
 lowing words : " There is one thing, however, in which I
 
 "TIJE PRIVATE VIEW." 443 
 
 entirely agree with the honorable gentleman. I think, 
 with him, that the cant of patriotism is intolerable, and 
 even, to use his own expression, disgusting ; but I venture 
 to say that there is something even more intolerable and 
 more disgusting, and that is the REcant of patriotism." 
 
 In support of Mr. Gladstone's theory I gave him the 
 following instance of ready wit. I forget in what year it 
 was that I exhibited a picture that obtained a large share 
 of popular approval. It was shown at the Royal Academy, 
 and on the private-view day I met Mr. Bernal Osborne, 
 who, a day or two before, had convulsed the House of 
 Commons by one of his witty and brilliant speeches. He 
 complimented me very much on my picture, and I very 
 sincerely returned his compliments, with interest, on his 
 speech. 
 
 "I will tell you what," said he, "I will exchange my 
 tongue for jour palette." 
 
 If this be original, and I have no reason to doubt it, the 
 reply was so good as to excuse my repeating so palpable a 
 compliment to myself. Exceptions, however, prove the 
 rule, and the instances are indeed rare of witty sayings 
 being heard by myself at their birth. 
 
 Another example to the contrary from a man I knew 
 intimately, who was celebrated for his brilliant conversa- 
 tional powers namely, the late Shirley Brooks may be 
 mentioned here. 
 
 In the course of a conversation on poets and poetry the 
 merits of a gentleman, whose writings display a warmth 
 which many of his readers think hails from a place unmen- 
 tionable to ears polite, were nearly as warmly discussed. 
 
 " Not a poet at all ?" said one admirer, in reply to an 
 audacious unbeliever; "why, the man was born a poet ! 
 and if ever man proved the truth of the adage, * Poeta 
 nascitur, nonfitj X is that man." 
 
 " So he is," said Brooks ; " he is a poet of nastiness not 
 fit for publication." Surely a witty play upon the Latin 
 words. 
 
 One more example is, I think, all I can remember. 
 
 Among our friends was a young gentleman who rejoiced 
 in a nose so " tip-tilted " to use Tennyson's phrase as
 
 444 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 to be very remarkable indeed for that peculiarity. He 
 received numerous quips about his unfortunate feature, 
 and accepted them with good-humor, except on one occa- 
 sion, when he said, gravely : 
 
 "I say, look here ; I object to your making my nose a 
 subject of conversation." 
 
 "That is unfortunate," replied his friend; "we wanted 
 a subject, and we took the first that turned up" 
 
 To return to " The Private View." 
 
 While painting this picture I was not a great employer 
 of the " artist's model," except for some of the aesthetes, 
 the principal one being a portrait of a young person named 
 Jenny Trip. Miss Trip was a trial to me. Never did she 
 " come to her time." Her conversational powers were nil. 
 Nothing that I could say seemed to interest her in the 
 slightest degree, and, unless I spoke, silence reigned. She 
 had a pretty, pensive face, on which a smile seemed as 
 much out of place as it would be on the face of a mute at 
 a funeral. This most provoking smile was more especially 
 irritating when it was the only reply to a terrific scolding. 
 
 " What is your father?" said I to her one day, when she 
 came into my studio two hours late. 
 
 " He is a stoker on the Chatham and Dover line." 
 
 " How early does he get to his work ?" 
 
 "He goes out at five in the morning." 
 
 " Indeed," said I ; "and his daughter that is you can- 
 not get to your work by ten. You ought to be ashamed 
 of yourself." 
 
 Not a word of excuse. She smiled. I made a mental 
 vow that, once the esthete was finished, my acquaintance 
 with Miss Trip should finish too. That happy moment 
 came at last ; there was but little to do, and for that little 
 my smiling friend was not absolutely necessary. 
 
 " As you find it impossible to get here by ten, perhap's 
 you can come at two to-morrow ?" 
 
 She said she could, and smiled. 
 
 " Now observe, Miss Trip," said I, " if you are not punct- 
 ual to-morrow you will be sent away." 
 
 She smiled again, and departed. 
 
 I then told my servant that unless the young lady was
 
 "TIIE PEIVATE VIEW." 445 
 
 within a quarter of an hour of the time fixed, she was not 
 to be admitted. 
 
 I allowed two o'clock to pass, and at three, my servant 
 happening to come into my room, I asked after Miss Jenny 
 Trip. 
 
 " She has just been, and gone again, sir." 
 " What did she say when you told her you had orders 
 to send her away because she was after her time ?" 
 " She didn't say anything, sir ; she only smiled." 
 My sole contribution to the Exhibition of 1882 was a 
 portrait of Miss Emily Levy, an old and valued friend. 
 With that exception, and another in the form of a por- 
 trait of Mrs. Lee, a great part of the year 1881, and nearly 
 the whole of 1882, was spent on the picture of "The 
 Private View." 
 
 In the course of a summer holiday spent in Switzerland 
 in 1882, a little subject was suggested by the mode adopted 
 for carrying ladies up the mountains. The fair traveller 
 sits in a wooden chair, which is supported on two long 
 poles, and carried by relays of porters, one at *?ach end. 
 This method of locomotion is apt to remind one of the 
 5th of November ; but I thought that a pretty bride, with 
 a manly bridegroom, to say nothing of the picturesque 
 porters and the still more picturesque surroundings, might 
 produce a pleasing subject ; and there were the advantages 
 in it, very valuable in my eyes, of its being a subject of 
 modern life. This picture, with Mrs. Lee's portrait and 
 "The Private View," formed my contributions to the 
 Exhibition of 1883. Pictures composed of groups of well- 
 known people are always very popular at the Academy, 
 and " The Private View " was no exception to that rule, 
 a guard being again found necessary to control the crowds 
 of visitors. I may perhaps be pardoned for recording the 
 fact of this picture being the sixth painted by me that has 
 received this special compliment.
 
 CHAPTER XLV. 
 
 DK. DORAN. 
 
 WHEN I assert that story -telling is a difficult art, I only 
 repeat a truism. A man may be what is commonly called 
 " full of anecdote," but he may also be, from various 
 causes, quite unable to tell a story properly. He may be of 
 a nervous temperament, and forget the point of his anec- 
 dote before he has got half-way through it, and his audi- 
 ence may decline to be interested interrupt him by con- 
 versation with one another and at last leave him high 
 and dry without a listener. Or a disturbing feeling may 
 come over him that he has told the same anecdote to the 
 same people before. These and other interruptions so 
 often affect the raconteur as to paralyze him, and cause 
 many a good story to fall stillborn upon his audience. 
 But of all story-tellers, save me from the man who, with 
 loud and persistent voice, takes the company by the throat, 
 and, like Coleridge's " Ancient Mariner," compels them to 
 listen to a long tirade, dull and pointless, and to his own 
 screeching laugh at the end of it. No good raconteur 
 ever laughs at his own funny anecdotes. Why should he? 
 He has surely often heard them before, and if he who roars 
 at his own wit, or at the absence of it, knew how much 
 the fun of a story is increased by the relater being ap- 
 parently unconscious of there being anything to laugh at, 
 he would acquire such a command over his risible muscles 
 as should enable him to relate the most side-splitting 
 matter without a smile. The great comic actors well 
 know the truth of this. Listen one of the greatest I 
 ever saw was never.known to smile upon the stage. His 
 long, solemn face might have become the pulpit as he sur- 
 veyed his audience after convulsing them with a display 
 of his refined and exquisite humor. He whose name heads
 
 DR. DOB AN. 447 
 
 this chapter was not only a good story-teller, but he Avas, 
 as my readers may know, an admirable writer. An 
 Irishman by birth, he possessed much of Irish fun and hu- 
 mor. He was unceasingly industrious, producing a vast 
 amount of literary work, always entertaining and instruc- 
 tive. Before he was twenty years old, John Doran, after- 
 wards known to his friends and the world as Dr. Doran, 
 was a successful contributor to various periodicals. Being 
 entirely dependent on his own exertions, he found that 
 some more efficient means of support must be secured than 
 those offered by small literary successes ; he, therefore, 
 eagerly accepted the post of private tutor in the family of 
 Lord Glenlyon, afterwards Duke of Athole. For several 
 years after the completion of the education of Lord Glen- 
 lyon, Doran was similarly employed in the family of 
 Mr. Lascelles, afterwards Earl of Harcwood. From that 
 happy home he transferred himself to Blandford, in Dor- 
 setshire, where for a short time he had the, charge of Lord 
 Portman's sons. Overwork produced temporary illness, 
 and, yielding to advice, Doran went abroad, and spent the 
 following two or three years on the Continent. 
 
 It was during this holiday that our traveller took a doc- 
 tor's degree after passing a sharp examination in the 
 Faculty of Philosophy at the University of Marburg, thus 
 acquiring the title by which he was always known. On 
 his return to England in perfectly restored health having 
 not only been blessed in that without which all else is noth- 
 ing, but with a young and pretty wife also the doctor 
 felt that the time had arrived when he must select a way 
 of living, and resolutely persevere in it. An opportunity 
 of church preferment was offered to him by his friend 
 Lord Harewood, but respectfully declined, and literature, 
 in a wide acceptation of the word, was fixed for his pursuit. 
 
 It is not my intention to follow my dear old friend 
 through his early struggles and disappointments to his 
 final successes. Dr. Doran was known everywhere as the 
 author of many popular books when I first made his ac- 
 quaintance. There was so much sympathy between us that 
 our acquaintance soon ripened into intimacy, and intimacy 
 into the warmest friendship. Doran had a great love of
 
 448 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 art, and, I think, a desire that I should paint a picture from 
 some anecdote, historical or other, in one of his books. He 
 proposed several to me, but they had the fault of all sug- 
 gested by literary men, from Dickens downwards, that of 
 needing the traditional balloon from the mouths of the 
 figures to explain the action of the piece. I found one for 
 myself, however, from the book in which Nell Gwynne 
 figures as an orange-girl at the Duke's Theatre. She is 
 represented offering her fruit to a boxful of gallants, and 
 some of her impudent wit with it. I had the honor and 
 pleasure of finding one of my old friend's books, " Mann 
 and Manners at the Court of Florence," dedicated to me. 
 
 But it is with Doran socially that I now desire to deal. 
 He was a delightful companion, as many a day's walk with 
 him proved to me. His stories were inexhaustible, act- 
 ors or singers often being the subjects. Doran had fre- 
 quently witnessed Rachel's chief performances, and al- 
 ways spoke enthusiastically of her powers. Of that re- 
 markable person he used to tell the following story. 
 
 According to Doran, Rachel began public life as a child 
 street singer and reciter, and one day he then a very 
 young man made one of a crowd on a certain boulevard 
 in Paris, who stood listening to the wonderful child. A 
 middle-aged woman was with the girl, her mother, evident- 
 ly, from the easily traced resemblance between the two. 
 The woman played some instrument in the way of accom- 
 paniment to the child's sweet voice, and when the per- 
 formance was over the girl went among the crowd to 
 collect their pence in a small, quaintly-shaped wooden pail 
 which she carried for the purpose. Her dress was ragged, 
 but clean, consisting of a short petticoat covered by a pe- 
 lisse common to the time. Many years after this, Dr. Doran 
 visited Paris, and found Rachel at the head of her pro- 
 fession, and a world's wonder. He made her acquaintance, 
 and to his great delight received an invitation to a reunion 
 at her house. "And what an assembly it was!" said 
 Doran. "Your profession, dear boy, represented by the 
 best painters in Paris in short, some of the best of every- 
 thing." Rachel was sumptuously attired, receiving her 
 guests with the simplest grace not a trace of the theatre.
 
 DR. DOBAN. 449 
 
 Soon after the last arrival the great actress disappeared, 
 to the surprise of her guests ; and their surprise was in- 
 creased when a tall figure, unmistakably that of Rachel, 
 dressed in a ragged petticoat and wearing an old-fashioned 
 pelisse, attended hy a shabby old woman with a guitar, 
 appeared in their midst. A wondering circle was made 
 quickly round the strange couple. A few notes upon the 
 guitar by very feeble fingers, then, amid breathless si- 
 ence, the tremendous scene from " Phedre." " We had 
 not recovered from the effects," said Doran, " when Rachel 
 produced the little wooden pail I well remembered, and 
 came smiling and begging among us. I think it was pret- 
 ty well filled, when she held it high, saying ' Pour Us 
 pauvres;' then she left us, and returned in a few minutes 
 in her former dress." 
 
 Another story occurs to me. It goes without saying 
 that Dr. Doran, being a sensible man, did not believe in 
 table-rapping as a spiritual manifestation, and he had a 
 supreme contempt for all such believers. Among his ac- 
 quaintance, however, there were three gentlemen, great 
 friends, who to various similarities of taste added a belief 
 in spirits, fervent in all three. One of these gentlemen, 
 who enjoyed feeble health (as Doran put it), was a collec- 
 tor of curios of all kinds a few pictures, Louis Quatorze 
 clocks and snuff-boxes, Venetian glass, oak cabinets, an- 
 cient armor, and the like. The virtuoso's health became 
 worse and worse till he died, leaving his two spiritual 
 friends executors. To soften as much as possible the 
 grief of the survivors, the sick man assured them that 
 though they would shortly see the last of his body, his 
 spirit would be in constant communication with them, and 
 they might depend on his putting in an appearance either 
 through a table or some other medium, whenever they 
 chose to call upon him. What an ordinary being would 
 have considered of greater value was a substantial recog- 
 nition of both his brother believers in his will. To one he 
 left certain clocks and snuff-boxes, to the other some in- 
 different pictures and some oak-work and armor. 
 
 " With the ungrateful inconsistency common to human 
 nr.tnre," Doran said, "he thought the armor man was dis-
 
 450 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 appointed that he didn't get a clock, and the snuff-box 
 legatee that a suit of armor was not left to him." Be 
 that as it may, there is no doubt that very soon after the 
 property had been divided, he who had inherited the armor 
 received a communication from the dead telling him to go 
 at once to the other legatee and inform him that a certain 
 snuff-box, set with small diamonds and containing a minia- 
 ture of the Duchesse de la Valliere in the lid, was left to 
 him by mistake, the devisor fully intending it for his 
 other friend, to whom the possessor in error was desired 
 to resign it. 
 
 This story was fully credited, and the command respect- 
 fully obeyed; so easily, indeed, that the "armor man" 
 again summoned the dead, when, "from information re- 
 ceived," it appeared another mistake had been made. Yet 
 another and more valuable "object" was bequeathed in 
 error. 
 
 "It is really strange, my dear friend," said he of the 
 armor to him of the snuff - boxes. " I had a delightful 
 communication from our benefactor and friend last night, 
 and was again assured that a certain plaque had been left 
 to you in error it was intended for me." 
 
 " Did the spirit of our departed friend tell you that ?" 
 was the astonished inquiry. 
 
 " He did," was the reply. 
 
 "But the plaque was not left to me at all; Brown got 
 that," said he of the snuff-boxes. 
 
 " Dear, dear !" said the armor man. " Then the spirit 
 must have been the devil, and not our friend at all." 
 
 " Suppose it must," replied the other. 
 
 Doran was not only a good story-teller, but an appre-. 
 ciative listener to others. I cannot refrain from relating 
 a somewhat personal incident that amused him, and may 
 amuse my readers. Two of my children a boy and a 
 girl when very small, but just old enough to be trusted 
 alone in the streets, were wandering in Kensington Gar- 
 dens Terrace, and as they walked slowly past the big 
 houses they looked through the area railings into the 
 kitchens, and speculated upon the objects on the various 
 spits. Presently they came to a joint that puzzled them.
 
 DK. DOEAN. 451 
 
 One said it was mutton, the other averred with much per- 
 sistence that it was beef. "You are both wrong," said 
 the voice of the owner of the house from the dining-room 
 window; "it is pork." 
 
 With the publication of the two following letters, I close 
 my recollections of Dr. Doran. My remembrance of his 
 kindness to me on all occasions, my respect for his talents, 
 and my love for the man will abide with me so long as 
 "memory holds her seat." 
 
 The first letter relates to a little party given to celebrate 
 the marriage of my second daughter : 
 
 OFFICE, 
 
 " 20 WELLINGTON STREET, STRAND, W.C., 
 " 12/A Auffitst, 1869. 
 
 "DEAR MRS. FRITH, While I am sitting here waiting for proofs but 
 now I think of it, I am not sitting here, but at the printing-office in Tooke's 
 Court, just in front of a sponging-house ; however, while I am waiting for 
 proofs, my thoughts go back to the charming scene which your hospitable 
 house presented on Tuesday night. I take this opportunity to congratu- 
 late you on its perfect success. That it was thoroughly successful in good 
 taste and all the means and appliances for enjoyment, was the joyous 
 opinion of every one with whom I came in contact For my part, when I 
 think of those incomparable bridesmaids, I feel that the world is not so 
 well ordered as it might be, and that it is a pity we can't be always young 
 and in love forever, living also rent-free, including queen's taxes! 
 
 " May the lives of the two young people, for whose sake all that youth, 
 beauty, and friendship were assembled within that Arabian Nights sort of 
 tent, be as happy as could be desired by those who are nearest and dearest 
 to them both ! May I add that you may as well let the tent stand and keep 
 the lights ready ? for sisters follow sisters, and the inevitable man and the 
 hour will come. 
 
 "Do not think of troubling yourself to answer this. I send it in place 
 of the silent courtesy of a card, and in acknowledgment of one of the most 
 brilliant and enjoyable of evenings. With best regards to Mr. Frith, 
 " I am, dear Mrs. Frith, very sincerely yours, 
 
 "J. DORAN." 
 
 "83 LANSDOWXE ROAD, W., 8/A July, 1870. 
 " DEAR MRS. FRITH, 
 
 '"Oh, that I were a glove upon that hand '.' 
 
 is what Romeo said when he wanted Juliet's number. 
 
 "I have been mentally standing below your conservatory looking up 
 towards your imaginary figure, and saying the same words for the same 
 purpose.
 
 452 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 " As Romeo afterwards says, 
 
 " 'Oh, wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied?' 
 
 I conclude Juliet would not give her number; and I may go on metaphori- 
 cally gazing up at you in the conservatory with the same result. So I must 
 ask you to let me acquit myself of my lost bet by substituting the enclosed 
 in place of the fairly forfeited pair of gloves, and to believe me, dear Mrs. 
 Frith, Very sincerely yours, 
 
 " J. DORAN."
 
 CHAPTER XLVI. 
 
 MY LATER PROFESSIONAL WORK. 
 
 REVISITING the scenes of one's youth is always a melan- 
 choly pleasure, and often no pleasure at all, but much the 
 reverse. In my vacation-time of 1884 I visited Harrogate. 
 I experienced the " melancholy pleasure " in the fullest 
 sense, for I found that all the friends I knew long ago had 
 joined the majority. My father's hotel, the Dragon, in- 
 stead of being, as I remember it, filled with health and 
 pleasure seekers, gay with all the gayety of a fashionable 
 watering-place, was deserted by all but a care-taker, closed 
 as an inn, windows broken, and desolate. I was allowed 
 to go over it, in the charge of a slipshod girl. I revis- 
 ited the little room in which my supposed genius first 
 saw the light. It was unaltered, though more than half a 
 century had passed since I made the terrible drawing of a 
 dog that astonished the world of Harrogate. On several 
 of the window-panes, at the back of the house, were names 
 of visitors, diamond-scratched, and dated a century and 
 more ago. There were my own and my brothers', in 
 childish writing. The ballroom a large and really splen- 
 did room when in its right mind was in the last stage of 
 decay, the walls mouldy, and the floor in holes. And what 
 lovely forms have I not seen quadrilling, waltzing, and 
 minuetting on these boards, now so rotten ! The mystery 
 of the house being allowed to totter on its poor last legs 
 in this melancholy fashion will soon be solved by time, a 
 solution imminent in cracked ceilings and partially fallen 
 roof. I turned away from "the home of my childhood" 
 a sadder if not a wiser man. 
 
 As I approach the present time I feel more and more 
 reluctant to speak of myself and my doings. I am thor- 
 oughly tired of the first person singular, and shall content
 
 454 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 myself by noting very shortly my professional work of 
 the last few years. The success of "Dr. Johnson and 
 Mrs. Siddons," a capital subject, taken from a passage 
 in Campbell's life of the great actress, was, however, un- 
 questionable. 
 
 Nollekens' bust of Johnson, together with Reynolds' 
 portraits of the great writer, supplied me with sufficient 
 authority for his likeness, while that of Mrs. Siddons was 
 as easily derived from Gainsborough and others. This 
 picture was a favorite with those people whose opinion is 
 most worthy of consideration that of my brother artists. 
 I had often felt a desire to paint a "Statute Fair," and 
 after twice witnessing that held annually at Warwick, and 
 making many studies and an elaborate sketch for it, and 
 even commencing a large picture of the subject, bad times 
 came and frightened me, and the picture was dropped 
 never to be taken up again, I fear. Then my evil destiny 
 tempted me into the domain of history, and nothing would 
 satisfy me but I must try my hand at Cromwell contem- 
 plating the dead body of Charles I. It is related that 
 after that monarch's execution his body was taken into a 
 gallery at Whitehall, and watched there all night by two 
 of his friends. Those gentlemen were sitting over the fire 
 in the dead of night, when a footstep was heard approach- 
 ing the room. The door opened, and a man entered muf- 
 fled in a cloak. He approached the body, contemplated 
 it for some minutes, and then, muttering the words "Cruel 
 necessity," left as silently as he had entered, but not be- 
 fore he had been recognized as Cromwell. 
 
 I have to acknowledge, then, that my contributions to 
 the Royal Academy show of 1884 were of very scant at- 
 traction, " Dr. Johnson and Mrs. Siddons " being the only 
 one that, coming as it did within the scope of my powers, 
 proved successful. Again I plunged into history, and 
 planned a large composition from an incident in the life 
 of John Knox. It may be remembered that one of my 
 earlier pictures represented "Knox Reproving Queen 
 Mary." My present venture showed that zealot reproving 
 the ladies of her court for amusing themselves by playing 
 at a harmless game. Knox had just left the queen in a
 
 MY LATER PROFESSIONAL WOKK. 455 
 
 passion of tears, caused by his brutal attacks, and in pass- 
 ing through an antechamber still in existence tilled 
 with courtiers, pages, and ladies, he was, or pretended to 
 be, shocked into the use of his usual strong language at 
 the sight of " Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the 
 helm." 
 
 Many of the young students of the present day will per- 
 haps be surprised to hear that it was my custom, and that 
 of my friends, to make nude studies of all the figures in 
 our pictures before we proceeded to clothe them ; the ad- 
 vantage of the method being a safeguard, to a great ex- 
 tent, against disproportion and false action. I regret to 
 say I have discontinued the practice, but the habit of mak- 
 ing numbers of chalk-studies for the final oil-sketch is still 
 de riyueur with me. In the Knox sketch I introduced the 
 figure of a jester who stands by the preacher in a mock- 
 ing attitude, as he turns to admonish the young revellers. 
 The contrast of the color of the jester with the black fig- 
 ure of the preacher was very valuable. But as I worked, 
 the idea crossed my mind that there was no record of a 
 jester being at the court of the Queen of Scots, nor could 
 I satisfy myself that the reign of Elizabeth was similarly 
 distinguished; but if Henry VIII. had his Will Somers, 
 why might not his niece of Scotland have her jester also? 
 To what better authority could I turn than to Mr. Froude, 
 whose works had given me so much instruction and pleas- 
 ure, and from whom I had already gleaned one historic 
 subject ? I wrote to that distinguished person, and re- 
 ceived a reply to the effect that jesters were never known 
 north of the Tweed. 
 
 The result of this letter was the disappearance of the 
 jester from the picture, a red chair taking his place; but 
 I allowed him to remain in the first sketch, now in the 
 possession of Mr. Flowers, of Stratford-on-Avon. Next 
 to having a photograph of the scene of Darnley's murder, 
 a drawing, taken on the morning after the explosion at 
 Kirk o' Field, lent to me by Mr. Froude, was most awe- 
 inspiring by its terrible fidelity. There lay Darnley as 
 the murderers had left him, strangled, the body evidently 
 undisturbed to enable the artist to do his work. The
 
 456 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 prince's page lay at a little distance ; the fragments of 
 Darnley's lodging forming the background, combined with 
 hedges, and a fringe of frightened spectators. The origi- 
 nal drawing was sent to England for Queen Elizabeth's 
 inspection immediately after the murder of Darnley, and 
 is now in the Record Office. That lent to me by Mr. 
 Froude is an exact copy. 
 
 Though this drawing is not the work of an accomplished 
 artist, it bears marks of authenticity and truth-telling, so 
 far as the producer's powers enabled him to go ; it is in 
 water-colors, and it seems to me to dispose altogether of 
 the theory of Darnley's being blown up by the gunpowder 
 that destroyed the house, for the body is unmutilated and 
 unblackened, neither of which conditions could it have 
 escaped if the death had been caused by an explosive. 
 The unfortunate prince had evidently heard the murderers 
 at woi'k in the room beneath his own; he then endeavored 
 to escape, and was killed in the attempt. 
 
 Of course the study of the locality in which the scene 
 selected for my picture occurred entailed the necessity of 
 a journey to Holyrood. There I found the large anteroom 
 in which the queen's Marys and their friends talked and 
 worked, danced and trifled; and that terrible little inner 
 chamber, now so " worn upon the edge of time," where 
 the queen, sitting at supper with Rizzio, was startled by 
 the white face of Ruthven, newly risen from his sick-bed, 
 armed, though too weak to stand upright in armor, head- 
 ing the furious band bent on the death of the Italian 
 favorite. The room is little bigger than a cupboard ; how 
 easy to realize the struggle the supper-table overthrown, 
 the attendant lady screaming for assistance, the terrified 
 musician clinging to his royal mistress, while he receives 
 stab after stab from the daggers of his murderers ! The 
 body was dragged across the antechamber and left bleed- 
 ing in a room beyond blood-stains, or what pass for such, 
 remaining on the floor to this day. 
 
 A story is told of a traveller for a firm which dealt, 
 among other things, in a composition famous for its power 
 of removing stains of any sort from all kinds of materials 
 who, in the temporary absence of the then custodian of
 
 MY LATER PROFESSIONAL WORK. 457 
 
 Holyrood, applied bis stain-remover to Rizzio's blood. 
 He was discovered on his knees by the indignant guardian, 
 vigorously rubbing the floor. His panacea failed either 
 from his being too soon disturbed in the application of it, 
 or from the fact that the stain was too deep to be affected. 
 The man was expelled from the palace, and Rizzio's blood 
 still remains one of the most attractive sights for tourists. 
 My first acquaintance with this incident arose from a 
 sketch which a young artist brought to me for my advice 
 as to whether or not it was worthy of being made into 
 a larger picture. The firm's traveller was depicted, as I 
 have described him, scouring the floor, or rather inter- 
 rupted in his work by an old lady, who according to my 
 artist friend was many years ago in sole charge of Holy- 
 rood. She was represented in a great passion. I think I 
 advised the artist to inquire further into the truth of the 
 story before he gave it permanent form as a large picture. 
 20
 
 CHAPTER XLYII. 
 
 A STRANGE PURCHASE. 
 
 IF the " Bond Street lounger " of fifty years ago could 
 revisit that street he would scarcely recognize the scene 
 of his youth. I can well remember it, and I think I can 
 safely assert that there was not a picture-shop in the 
 whole length of it. Now they are to be counted by 
 scores, to say nothing of the galleries that abound. As a 
 rule, the magnates of the trade do not expose their treas- 
 ures to the gaze of the passer-by ; and in the exceptional 
 instances when a shop is permitted to display a tolerable 
 specimen of art in its window, there is sure to be a gallery 
 behind, in which purchasers will often find works by the 
 best masters of the English and foreign schools. A pict- 
 ure-dealer, whom I shall call Stokes, was a few years ago 
 the proprietor of a large shop with a gallery at the rear of 
 it. The period was August, the season was over, and bus- 
 iness as well. Mr. Stokes was on the point of leaving town 
 for his usual holiday, when a man entered the shop and 
 asked if he could speak to Mr. Stokes. 
 
 " You can," was the reply. " I am Mr. Stokes. What 
 can I do for you ?" 
 
 Judging from the visitor's appearance, there seemed no 
 chance of a revival of business by anything that could be 
 done for him. He was palpably of the Jewish persuasion, 
 and his dress had evidently been worn for years. 
 
 " You buy pictures ?" said the Israelite, looking about 
 him. 
 
 " Yes, I do, if they are the right sort." 
 
 "Well, now, if I- was to put you up to a picture by 
 Gainsborough, what would you stand ?" 
 
 " A picture by Gainsborough ?" said the dealer. " What 
 sort of a picture ?"
 
 A STRANGE PUBCHASE. 459 
 
 "Beautiful size of life lovely woman." 
 
 " And do you mean to say you have got such a pict- 
 ure ?" 
 
 " No, I don't mean to say I have ; but some friends of 
 mine have, and I can put you up to it if you will make it 
 worth my while." 
 
 " An original by Gainsborough," murmured Mr. Stokes ; 
 " a whole length of a lovely woman. Well, you can show 
 it to me, and if I buy it I will give you five-and-twenty 
 pounds." 
 
 " Done with you," said the man. " I have a cab at the 
 door; jump in with me, and I'll take you to the picture." 
 
 " Why, where on earth are we going to ?" exclaimed 
 Mr. Stokes, as the cab entered the back slums of Seven 
 Dials. 
 
 "It's all right, governor; we shall be there directly. 
 You are all right. I'll pay the cab." 
 
 And almost as the man spoke the cab drew up at a small 
 shop. The picture-dealer had time to notice that the es- 
 tablishment was one for the sale of imitation antique fur- 
 niture and common bric-d-brac as he passed through the 
 shop and followed his guide up some rickety stairs to a 
 room above, where a strange sight awaited him. On a 
 sideboard of exquisite irorkmanship masses of silver-plate 
 and china were piled, it required but one glance of his 
 experienced eye to recognize the originality of the antique 
 silver and the value of the china. There were pieces of 
 rare tapestry nailed tentatively against the wall, and, to 
 crown all, a magnificent Gainsborough, which, as Stokes 
 expressed it to me, " seemed to lighten up the whole place." 
 
 The first thought that passed into my friend's mind was 
 that he had fallen among thieves, and that he must assure 
 himself that the picture had been honestly come by before 
 he could venture to make an offer for it. He must be 
 cautious, also, not to display too much eagerness to pos- 
 sess it, or the price might be made prohibitive. At a ta- 
 ble in the middle of the room sat an old man of repulsive 
 aspect, with a long gray beard. Close to his hand was a 
 catalogue. 
 
 " I conclude," said the old man, in a voice that at once
 
 460 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 betrayed his Jewish antecedents, "that I have the honor 
 of speaking to the celebrated Mr. Stokes." 
 
 " I have come here at the request of this per this gen- 
 tleman to see a Gainsborough. Is that the picture ?" 
 
 " That is the picture, and I need not tell so good a judge 
 as Mr. Stokes that it is " 
 
 " Well, allow me to ask where you got it, and all about 
 it, before we talk about what you want for it, because you 
 see" 
 
 "I understand," interrupted the Jew in his turn; "you 
 think we stole it don't you now?" smiling as he made 
 the remark. " And when I tell you there is a gang of five 
 of us in it you will be sure we did won't you now ?" 
 
 " Not a bit of it," said Stokes ; " but, as a prudent man, 
 I must be careful that nobody can have a claim on what- 
 ever I buy after I have paid for it ; and you must admit 
 this is not exactly the locality in which one would expect 
 to see a Gainsborough if it is a Gainsborough and, 
 whether it is or not, times are so bad that, unless it can be 
 had very reasonably, and a clean bill of health with it, I 
 don't care about it." 
 
 " I don't blame you, sir ; I don't blame you ; far from it. 
 If you will just look over this catalogue you will see for 
 yourself here you are effects^plate, china, tapestry, 
 furniture, horses, carriages, noble family, Buckingham- 
 shire. There is some of the plate " pointing to the side- 
 board "tapestry and pictures; some more there in the 
 corner, with their backs to you ; not in your way, old fam- 
 ily portraits ; not good, any of 'em. I went to the castle 
 myself; nobody there ; things given away, sir literally 
 given away. And look here here it is I bought that 
 splendid Gainsborough for six guineas !" 
 
 Mr. Stokes told me he could scarcely believe his eyes 
 when he saw the confirmation of the man's story. 
 
 " What do you want for it ?" 
 
 "Well," said the old gentleman, smiling, "I told you 
 there were five of 'us in it, and we want thirty pounds 
 apiece; five thirties is a hundred and fifty." 
 
 Now, said Stokes to himself, be not too eager; above 
 all, do not go away without the picture.
 
 A STRANGE PURCHASE. 461 
 
 " A hundred and fifty pounds seems a good deal ; a good- 
 ish profit that for a six-pound investment. It's a big pict- 
 ure, and size is always against the selling of a thing. 
 Well, I don't know, I suppose I must risk it; will you 
 take my check ?" 
 
 " Certainly," said the man. 
 
 "All right," said Stokes; "got pen and ink handy? 
 But how," said Stokes, pausing, pen in hand, " am I to get 
 it home ? Seems a good deal of money. Could you get 
 me a van, or a light cart, or something, so that I could see 
 to it myself ?" 
 
 " You shall have one at the door in ten minutes," was 
 the reply. 
 
 " When I stood that Gainsborough up in the splendid 
 light in my gallery, Mr. Frith (you know the picture), 
 you may imagine how pleased I was. It was my dinner- 
 time, and I treated myself to an extra glass of sherry to 
 celebrate my purchase. Just as I had finished my dinner 
 
 my man Smith came up to me and told me that Lord 
 
 was in the gallery, and wanted to speak to me. Lord 
 
 is an old customer of mine. Down I went, and found him 
 absorbed in the Gainsborough. 
 
 " ' A new purchase this, Mr. Stokes ?' 
 
 "'Yes, my lord; it hasn't been in the place an hour.' 
 
 " ' Gainsborough, of course,' said his lordship. 
 
 " 'Yes, my lord, and one of the finest in England.' 
 
 " 'Am I right in supposing the picture is for sale? if so, 
 what is the price ?' 
 
 " ' A thousand guineas, my lord.' 
 
 "'I will take it; and will you have the frame regilt? 
 and if you think a little cleaning or varnishing desirable, 
 I know I can trust you to see to all that sort of thing. I 
 leave town this evening. You will be so good as to let me 
 know when the picture can be sent to Eaton Place.'" 
 
 Lord - - went to his country-house, where he was at- 
 tacked by fever, and died in a few days. The frame of 
 the Gainsborough was regilt, and the picture varnished, 
 when so much additional splendor was developed as to 
 cause Mr. Stokes many pangs of regret at its precipitate 
 sale. Though Lord had died, his executors were, of
 
 462 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 course, responsible for the purchase of the picture, and 
 Mr. Stokes was on the point of writing to offer them a 
 release from the engagement when he received a letter in- 
 forming him that Lord had made his purchase known 
 
 to several persons before his death, and his executors fully 
 acknowledged their liability; but they were instructed to 
 express a hope that, under the circumstances, Mr. Stokes 
 would not press the purchase upon them, in consideration 
 of the many satisfactory business transactions that had 
 
 passed between him and Lord in times past. To this 
 
 letter Mr. Stokes replied by return of post. And, after 
 expressing great (and I am sure real) regret at the un- 
 timely death of his patron, he hoped he was the last man 
 in the world to insist on the fulfilment of a contract under 
 such melancholy circumstances, etc. To this came a reply 
 
 to the effect that Lord 's family fully appreciated Mr. 
 
 Stokes's ready consent to their wishes, and the greatest 
 compliment they could pay his conduct on this occasion 
 was -to describe it as worthy of Mr. Stokes. 
 
 " Now," said Mr. Stokes, " anybody who takes a fancy 
 to my Gainsborough will not get it for a thousand guineas, 
 nor anything like it." 
 
 The beautiful lady had displayed her charms in my 
 friend's gallery but a few days when she was discovered 
 by a well-known noble collector, a real lover of art, but a 
 rough one. 
 
 " Hullo, Stokes ! what have you got there ?" 
 
 "I need not tell your grace; you know well enough." 
 
 " Gainsborough, ain't it ? Not such a bad one. What 
 have you the impudence to ask for it ?" 
 
 "Three thousand guineas." 
 
 "Rubbish!" 
 
 " No, your grace, three thousand guineas /" (emphasis 
 on guineas). 
 
 "I wish you may get it." 
 
 " So do I, your grace ; and if I don't, I intend to keep 
 the picture." 
 
 " Well, what's new ? What else have you to show 
 me?" 
 
 Though the picture-dealer produced several treasures
 
 A STRANGE PURCHASE. 463 
 
 for the duke's inspection, he found his noble patron gave 
 them but a wandering attention, ever and anon casting 
 longing eyes in the direction of the lovely Gainsborough. 
 Stokes felt that the blow had struck deep, and that he 
 must play a waiting game. 
 
 " Now you don't really suppose that there is a fool in 
 the world big enough to pay such an unconscionable sum 
 as that you ask for the Gainsborough do you ?" 
 
 " Perhaps not, but I am not fool enough to sell it for 
 less." 
 
 " Suppose me such an idiot only suppose, mind as to 
 offer you two thousand five hundred pounds for it, what 
 then ?" 
 
 " Why then, your grace, I should decline to take it." 
 
 " Hum ah let me see did you get me that proof of 
 ' Nelly O'Brien ' that was sold the other day ?" 
 
 " Yes, your grace ; here it is, and a splendid impression 
 indeed." 
 
 " So it is ; much obliged to you. Well, I must be off. 
 Cold August, isn't it ? Did you get the grouse I sent you ? 
 All right no thanks. Fact is, we killed such a lot, didn't 
 know who to send 'em to." The shop-door was now very 
 near, when the duke said : " That infernal picture has 
 fascinated me. I will give you three thousand pounds 
 for it." 
 
 " No, your grace ; you must excuse me. If you or any 
 one else were to offer me three thousand one hundred and 
 twenty pounds, I should refuse it. My price is three thou- 
 sand guineas, and I will never take one farthing less." 
 
 " Well, of all the unconscionable I know I am a fool 
 but well send her home !" 
 
 A few years ago the lovely Gainsborough was exhibited 
 in the Winter Exhibition of Old Masters, at Burlington 
 House, and greatly admired by numbers who would have 
 been as much surprised as I was, if they could have heard 
 this true story of a " Strange Purchase."
 
 CHAPTER XLVIII. 
 
 THE CRAZY ABTIST. 
 
 FROM time immemorial famous artists have, on conven- 
 ient occasions, given willing counsel to their younger and 
 less -known brethren in the conduct of their pictures. 
 Lawrence, Reynolds, West, and many others frequently 
 devoted a morning hoifr to receive students, whose draw- 
 ings, sketches, or pictures were discussed, changes recom- 
 mended, and suggestions made. The practice obtains to 
 some extent in the present day ; and another has arisen, 
 less commendable, namely, a habit of submitting pict- 
 ures to academicians, pointedly to those who happen to 
 be members of the hanging committee, a few days before 
 " sending-in-day." The avowed object, that of seeking 
 advice, may be doubted, because no time is left to take 
 advantage of it ; and an answer to the inevitable question, 
 " Do you think my picture will be accepted ?" is embar- 
 rassing in the extreme ; peculiarly so if addressed to him 
 who may be one of the temporary judges in the matter. 
 
 The annals of the Royal Academy might disclose strange 
 stories of pictures being rejected twice, and even thrice, 
 and accepted at last. I may record an instance that oc- 
 curred in my own early experience. I formed one of the 
 council in 1854, when a life-size portrait of Thomas Car- 
 lyle came before us ; the picture seemed to me to possess 
 considerable merit, and I was surprised at its immediate 
 rejection. In the following year the same picture was 
 presented, and apparently unrecognized by those who had 
 previously rejected it; this time it was marked "doubt- 
 ful," but it was not hung. My two years' service in 
 council being over, I knew nothing of the fate of any 
 picture till the opening of the exhibition. My surprise 
 may be imagined when I saw the twice unsuccessful por-
 
 THE CEAZY ARTIST. 465 
 
 trait in one of the principal places on the walls in Trafal- 
 gar Square. I have since seen the artist, and he assured 
 me that the picture was never retouched between the time 
 of its first rejection and its ultimate success. The stran- 
 gest of all the strange experiences of my artistic career oc- 
 curred to me some time ago. 
 
 A few weeks before " sending-in day " I received a let- 
 ter from a stranger with the usual request that I would 
 give my opinion on some pictures intended for Burlington 
 House. I consented, little dreaming of what I was about 
 to bring upon myself. The would-be exhibitor arrived 
 punctually at the time named, bringing three pictures 
 carefully covered up. He was a tall, pale, melancholy- 
 looking young man, and he prefaced the sight of his pict- 
 ures by telling me that he had passed twenty-five years in 
 severe study of art (this staggered me, as he looked scarce- 
 ly twenty-five), that he had frequently attempted to ex- 
 hibit his works at different galleries, but, from some ex- 
 traordinary malign influence,they were invariably rejected ; 
 and he would be extremely grateful to me if I would tell 
 him candidly if the fault rested with his pictures, or with 
 those who could not, or would not, see their merits. In 
 reply to my request for a sight of his work, he placed some- 
 thing upon my easel that only required a glance to con- 
 vince me that I was in the presence of a madman. I con- 
 fess to a sensation of fear. What the artist called a pict- 
 ure was a piece of canvas about three feet long by two 
 feet wide, covered with oblong and irregular blocks of 
 thick black and yellow paint, smeared over here and there 
 by a grayish-looking yellow mess like gooseberry-fool. 
 When I could speak, I said : 
 
 " What is it ?" 
 
 "That picture," said the young man, "is 'A Reminis- 
 cence of Kamschatka.' " 
 
 " Have you ever been there ?" said I, in a faint voice. 
 
 " Never," was the reply. 
 
 '* Well, then, how can it be a reminis " 
 
 " Oh," he interrupted, " it is not finished; it is quite wet. 
 Here, you can feel for yourself; the paint is not dry. 
 Don't be afraid of touching the picture; you won't hurt 
 20*
 
 466 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 it." I did not dare to refuse, so I put my finger into one 
 of the black blocks, and found it wet enough. " Do you 
 think when it is finished that the Academy will accept it?" 
 inquired my visitor. 
 
 "I really cannot give an opinion; the committee is so 
 uncertain in its decisions." 
 
 How on earth shall I get rid of this poor fellow ? was 
 my constant thought during this painful interview. 
 
 " The subject is quite new," said the artist ; " the coun- 
 try unexplored by the wielder of the pencil. You will, 
 perhaps, permit me to show you my second attempt." 
 
 I assented ; " Kamschatka " was removed, to be suc- 
 ceeded by a larger canvas, in form upright, looking pre- 
 cisely like " Kamschatka " turned the other way. A broad 
 streak of vermilion with a black dab at the top of it, ex- 
 actly in the middle of similar black and yellow blocks 
 smeared as before with gooseberry-fool ; no attempt at 
 representing a building, or a tree, or, in short, anything 
 in heaven above or the earth beneath. Again my question : 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 " That represents 'Moses descending from Mount Sinai 
 with the Tables of the Law.' " 
 
 " Where is Moses ?" I inquired. 
 
 " Where !" in rather a loud voice ; " why," pointing to 
 the smear of vermilion, " there, sir ! surely he cannot be 
 mistaken." 
 
 " But I cannot see the tables," I pleaded. 
 
 " How can anybody see what is not to be seen ?" said 
 the artist. "Moses holds the tables in front of him as he 
 addresses the Israelites. His back is towards us; how 
 then could you by any possibility see what he carries be- 
 fore him ?" 
 
 "Very true indeed," said I; "and," pointing to black 
 masses of dirty paint, " those are the Israelites." 
 
 " Oh, oh, you can see the Israelites then !" in a mocking 
 tone ; " I am glad of that." 
 
 " And there is the mountain," said I, making another 
 guess. 
 
 "No, sir ; that is an attempt to reproduce the cloudless 
 sky of of Egypt. Was it ? I forget,"
 
 THE CRAZY ARTIST. 467 
 
 " But you have made your sky rather yellow, haven't 
 you?" 
 
 " Yellow ! no ; blue, sir, blue ! How is it possible you 
 can call it yellow ? the ultramarine used on that sky cost 
 me five pounds." 
 
 As I found nothing more to say about the "Moses," I 
 asked for the next and last specimen, and was somewhat 
 relieved to find, when it was placed on the easel, that 
 there was a circular form, about the size of a shilling, 
 doing duty for the moon, with a dirty streak across it, 
 made of some gray mess evidently intended for a cloud. 
 
 " Ah," said I, " the moon a moonlight scene, is it 
 not ?" 
 
 " Yes, shipwreck by moonlight," said the painter. 
 
 Again the black and yellow blocks covered the canvas 
 precisely like those in the reminiscences of Kamschatka, 
 Mount Sinai, and the Israelites forming a rather larger 
 and more jumbled-together mass in front. 
 
 " What is that ?" said I, pointing to the foreground. 
 
 "These are the rocks on which, as you see, the ill-fated 
 vessel is driving, and unless the wind changes she must be 
 wrecked. Really, sir, you must excuse me, but I fear your 
 eyesight must be failing !" 
 
 " Well," said I, peering through my spectacles, "it is 
 not so good as it was; and for the life of me I can't see 
 the ship." 
 
 " You can't see the ship !" in a loud tone, in which 
 astonishment and pity for my blindness were mingled. 
 " Why, there is the ship plain enough !" pointing to some 
 of the black and yellow shapes, which were as unlike a 
 ship as they were to anything else. 
 
 The picture was then removed and packed, together 
 with the others. As that operation was proceeding, and 
 I was almost praying for the poor fellow to go, he said, 
 suddenly, 
 
 " Do you happen to know Mr. ?" naming an old 
 
 friend and academic colleague of mine. 
 
 " Very well indeed," said I. 
 
 " Do you think he would like to see my pictures ?" 
 
 " Yes," said I, eagerly seizing the chance of getting rid
 
 468 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 of my crazy visitor, who now seemed very eager to go ; 
 " I am sure he would. There," said I, as with trembling 
 fingers I wrote my colleague's address, " that is where he 
 lives ; but you must be quick or you won't find him at 
 home ;" and the artist disappeared, to my infinite relief. 
 
 In a few hours I received a letter from Mr. , in 
 
 which he upbraided me in strong language. Among the 
 rest he said : 
 
 " What on earth do you mean by sending a maniac to 
 me ? I owe you one for this ! The man frightened me, 
 and I got him to bring his mad things as near the fire as 
 possible, that I might be within easy reach of the poker !" 
 
 The poor artist's works were sent to Burlington House, 
 and I received a well-expressed note from him, telling me 
 of their fate. 
 
 " I cannot understand the rejection of these works," he 
 said; "and I am much hurt by it." 
 
 My principal contribution to the Exhibition of 1&85 
 was the elaborate composition called "Knox at Holy- 
 rood," supplemented by a portrait of Mrs. Alfred Pope, 
 the wife of the owner of my picture of "The Private 
 View." 
 
 I am filled with astonishment, not unmixed with envy, 
 when I hear from one of my most distinguished colleagues 
 that his pictures containing numbers of figures in medue- 
 val costumes are painted without models, either for hu- 
 man beings or accessories. 
 
 I should scarcely be believed if I were to sum up the 
 outlay for dresses, models, etc., necessary for me to incur, 
 before such a work as " Knox " could be executed. As an 
 example, I may mention that I found it requisite to have 
 the large brass lamp with many branches, that hangs 
 above the figures, made on purpose for my picture; elab- 
 orate brocades had to be acquired ; to say nothing of 
 jerkins, silk hose, and such like, made to fit the models. 
 Fuseli used to say that " nature put him out ;" and Ma- 
 clise seldom, if ever, used models. Let the student take 
 note by the example of these men of the fatal effects of 
 " painting without nature."
 
 CHAPTER XLIX. 
 
 JOHN LEECH. 
 
 MY acquaintance with John Leech which ripened af- 
 ter\vards into warm friendship began more than forty 
 years ago in the studio of Mrs. Mclan. Old playgoers will 
 remember Mr. Mclan as an actor and painter ; and old 
 painters may have seen many pictures by his clever wife, 
 who, on the morning of my call upon her, was giving 
 Leech some of his first lessons in oil-painting. I was in- 
 troduced to the handsome young fellow, whose name was 
 familiar to me as the author of some drawings in a new 
 comic paper called Punch, and I watched his efforts, 
 which seemed promising enough, with interest. Mrs. 
 Mclan appeared to think that Leech would soon cease to 
 ornament Punch, indeed, she doubted, as did many others, 
 that Punch would succeed long in attracting the public ; 
 and I joined her in the hope that her young friend would 
 persevere in mastering the difficulty of the technicali- 
 ties of oil-painting, and so place himself among the best 
 painters of the country. She was in the wrong as to the 
 prospects of Punch, and I think she was also wrong in 
 thinking Leech would ever have succeeded in painting 
 well. He lacked the disposition to continuous, steady, 
 mechanical industry, necessary for success. I have often 
 heard him ridicule the care spent on details in pictures. 
 Finish, in his opinion, was so much waste of time. 
 " When you can see what a man means to convey in his 
 picture, in whatever way he does it, you have got all he 
 wants, and all you ought to desire ; all work after that is 
 thrown away." These were his words, as well as I can re- 
 member them. He was, however, very desirous to be able 
 to paint his ideas, as his efforts, fitful and uncertain, con- 
 stantly proved. Many an hour did he spend in watching
 
 470 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 my own attempts to paint ; and I remember on one occa- 
 sion, as I was finishing a rather elaborate chandelier, he 
 said: 
 
 "Ah, my Frith! I wasn't created to do that sort of 
 work; I could never muster up patience for it." 
 
 After all, I think we may admit that Leech's want of 
 success as a painter was, in a sense, a blessing in disguise. 
 The carrying-out of his subjects into pictures from the 
 time necessary for their proper production would have 
 deprived us, perhaps, of numbers of immortal sketches; 
 and though undoubtedly he "left off where difficulties 
 begin " as I once heard a painter, who was exasperated 
 at Leech's sneers at his manipulation, say to him he has 
 left work behind him. which will continue to delight gen- 
 eration after generation, so long as wit, humor, character, 
 and beauty are appreciated that is to say, as long as hu- 
 man nature endures. 
 
 It is a melancholy task to me to try to recall the social 
 scenes in which Leech so often figured; sad to think how 
 few of his friends, more intimate with him than I, remain. 
 Though Leech very rarely illustrated any ideas but his 
 own, I can recall an instance or two to the contrary; and 
 still oftener have I seen, by the sparkle of his eye, that 
 something in the passing conversation had suggested a 
 "cut." As example: at Egg's one night we were talking 
 of the difficulty that the pronunciation of certain words 
 would present to one who had dined too freely. I said, 
 after different long words had been proposed, that I 
 thought antediluvian topics, in which such names as Ich- 
 thyosaurus and Plesiosaurus might occur, would puzzle a 
 tipsy man a good deal. In the following week Leech 
 gave us his idea of the appearance of a young gentleman 
 who had rashly ventured on such difficult ground. I am 
 not sure, but I think it was Dickens who said that a big 
 cock pheasant, rising under one's nose, was like a firework 
 let off in a similar locality. All the world has seen Mr. 
 Briggs and the immortal firework. When cards, or some 
 other way of getting rid of time after dinner, have been 
 proposed, I have heard Leech say: " Oh, bother cards ! 
 let us have conversation." And talk it was good talk
 
 JOHN LEECH. 471 
 
 enough often but Leech was more a listener than a par- 
 taker ; not that he could not talk, and admirably, but he was 
 of the nervous, melancholy temperament, so common to men 
 who possess wit and humor to a high degree. His songs 
 were melancholy and very difficult to get from him. In- 
 deed, the only one I can remember and that only partial- 
 ly was something about " King Death," with allusions to 
 a beverage called " coal-black wine," which that poten- 
 tate was supposed to drink. I can see the dear fellow's 
 handsome, melancholy face, with his eyes cast up to the 
 ceiling, where Dickens said the : o ig was written in ghost, 
 ly print, which only Leech could read. 
 
 To return for a moment to Leech's practice, he very 
 seldom made sketches from nature. He told me that he 
 could count upon the fingers of one hand all the drawings 
 he had made from natural objects. In his work he trusted 
 entirely to memory and imagination. There is an admi- 
 rable cut in Punch of a young lady who has been bathing 
 at Ramsgate with her aunt, whose attention she is direct- 
 ing to two stuffed, life-sized figures, representing soldiers, 
 which used to stand on the sands as marks for archers. 
 The aunt is short-sighted, and the girl is wickedly pretend- 
 ing that the figures are live officers watching the bathers. 
 The aunt says they may be officers, but they cannot be 
 gentlemen, etc. I well recollect Leech showing me a 
 pencil drawing of the targets in human form, and telling 
 me how seldom he adopted the practice. As I fancy I am 
 one of the very few who have figured personally in Punch 
 under Leech's pencil, I may be excused for the egotism of 
 the following: 
 
 About the year 1852 I began the first of a series of pict- 
 ures from modern life, then quite a novelty in the hands of 
 any one who could paint tolerably. When the picture was 
 finished, Leech came to see it, and expressed his pleasure 
 at an artist leaving what he called "mouldy costumes," 
 for the habits and manners of every-day life. While he 
 was talking, two of my brother artists .came and saw the 
 picture for the first time. They both looked long at the 
 picture, and the longer they looked, judging from their 
 faces, the less they liked it. I shall not forget Leech's
 
 472 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 expression when I gave him a sort of questioning look as 
 to the correctness of his judgment. 
 
 11 Well, what do you think of the picture ?" said Leech, 
 to one of the artists. 
 
 "Well, really, I don't know what to think," was the 
 reply. 
 
 Anybody caring to see the way the great artist made a 
 picture out of this, will find it in one of the numbers of 
 Life and Character, and will see me figure as Jack Arm- 
 strong, and my two artist friends as Messrs. Potter and 
 Feeble. The background resembles my old painting-room, 
 with armor, cabinets of oak, etc., for which memory alone 
 served the artist. In common with many of my fellow- 
 creatures, I proposed a great many subjects to Leech. I 
 think he said, "Ah, capital !" to almost all of them; but in 
 the whole course of our acquaintance he never drew but 
 one, and that only after asking me when I thought it had 
 gone the way of the others if I intended to use it my- 
 self. I had told him that my brother-in-law had taken a 
 party to Epsom to the Derby ; they went by road, and 
 when the time came to summon the post-boy and return 
 home, that individual was found so very drunk as to be 
 quite incapable of sitting his horse for a moment. He 
 was tied on to the carriage, and my brother-in-law 
 mounted into his saddle and drove home. The scene will 
 be familiar to those who study Punch's delightful vol- 
 umes. How often Leech was told that he was the "back- 
 bone of Punch" and that if anything happened to him the 
 days of the paper were numbered ! I thought it, and said 
 as much to him. I can see him smile, and hear him say, 
 " Don't talk such rubbish. Why, bless your heart, there 
 isn't a fellow at work on the paper that doesn't think that 
 of himself, and with as much right and reason as I should ; 
 but I think no such nonsense." 
 
 As Leech got older his melancholy increased upon him ; 
 his extreme sensitiveness to noise became more acute, and 
 when at last he became subject to slight attacks of angina 
 pectoris,lris descriptions of his sufferings from street noises 
 of all kinds were painful to hear. My last talk with Leech 
 was on a certain Tuesday, at a dinner - party given by an
 
 JOHN LEECH. 473 
 
 old friend of mine and Leech's, Mr. Hills, in Queen Anne 
 Street. I sat next him at dinner, and was somewhat 
 struck by his worn and melancholy appearance, which, I 
 thought, had increased upon him. His constant talk dur- 
 ing dinner was of the annoyances he was subjected to by 
 organs, bands, barking of dogs, cock-crowing, etc. " Rath- 
 er," he said, " than endure the torment that I suffer all 
 day long, I would prefer to go to the grave where there is 
 no noise." These were the last words I heard from John 
 Leech. He died on the following Saturday from a severe 
 attack of angina pectoris, and in the following week he 
 was in the grave where " there is no noise."
 
 CHAPTER L. 
 
 A GHOST STOBY. 
 
 " WHAT a piece of work is man," says Shakespeare ; 
 "in apprehension how like a god !" Among all the exam- 
 ples of man's power, surely the employment of the sun as 
 an artist is one of the most wonderful. That this discov- 
 ery is not of unmixed good is shown, I think, in the im- 
 minent destruction by photography of a beautiful art, 
 that of the miniature-painter. In my earlier days the 
 miniature - room at the Royal Academy was one of the 
 chief attractions of the annual exhibition. The works of 
 Sir William Ross, Thorburn, Wells, and others were ex- 
 quisite examples of a delightful art, but they were power- 
 less in competition with their rival, the sun. That distin- 
 guished artist in an instant fixes a likeness, which, by a 
 rapid process, is prepared for the "artistic merit" with 
 which the cdrtorist " invests " the cheap photograph. The 
 exhibitions of to-day still afford us examples good ones 
 sometimes of struggles against the sun, and against the 
 bad taste and ignorance of the public ; but each succeed- 
 ing year serves to show the diminished numbers of this 
 " forlorn hope," and unless a fickle public tires of photog- 
 raphy, as it does of everything else, miniature-painting 
 will soon be numbered among the lost arts. 
 
 An artist, whom I shall call Westwood, whose minia- 
 tures are among the best of those in each year's show, is 
 the hero of the following story, the relation of which I 
 heard from his own lips. 
 
 Mr. Westwood is a peripatetic artist, and his wander- 
 ings have been extensive and varied ; not without their 
 charms, for he has* generally found himself treated with 
 genial hospitality and his art with respect. In one of his 
 professional tours, a few years ago, he found himself at a
 
 A GHOST STORY. 475 
 
 country-house filled with autumn company. The house 
 was a " moated grange," dating from the days of the Tu- 
 dors, with alterations and additions of a later time, and 
 the owner's name was Blob. A room, with the necessary 
 north light, was set apart for the artist, whose time was 
 to be devoted to the portraiture of the Misses and Master 
 Blob. Westwood, like many of his tribe, was a bad sleep- 
 er, being terribly susceptible to the noises of the night, 
 the slightest of which would always wake him from his 
 fitful slumber, cock-crowing being held in especial horror. 
 His satisfaction was, therefore, great when he found that 
 he was consigned to the only vacant bedroom in the Mai- 
 son Blob, from the oriel window of which tranquillity, in 
 the shape of a huge garden, was assured to him beyond 
 the twittering of birds no noise could reach him. 
 
 As I have said, the house was full of company, and " a 
 jovial crew they were," said the artist ; so, with music, 
 games, and a quadrille or two, the evening passed merrily 
 away, and Westwood went to rest. The bed was a huge 
 four-poster, with hearselike plumes crowning each post ; 
 opposite to it was a large oak cabinet, and to the left, 
 and facing the door, was the oriel window. The moon 
 shone full upon the window, making the room almost as 
 bright as day. The excitement of the evening was not 
 the best preparative for a bad sleeper, and for some time 
 the painter sat by the window, and enjoyed the moon- 
 light effects in the garden. But the effort to sleep must 
 be made, and Westwood mounted into his big bed, and 
 laid himself down to woo the terribly fickle god ; he closed 
 his eyes and counted the proverbial flock of sheep. He 
 also counted up to a hundred, and had managed to count 
 part of that number backward, when, feeling that the 
 common receipt for sleep was unavailing, he opened his 
 eyes. At the bottom of the bed, in full moonlight, stood 
 the figure of a lady. She was somewhat elderly, and ap- 
 peared to be looking for something she had lost. West- 
 wood sat up in bed, and said, 
 
 " I beg your pardon ; I think you have mistaken your 
 room." 
 
 As he spoke he looked attentively at the figure, in the
 
 476 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 endeavor to identify it with one of the Blob guests, but 
 iu vain. The lady looked as if she had stepped from the 
 canvas of Reynolds, and, to his astonishment, the oak cab- 
 inet was plainly visible through her ! 
 
 " By Jove," said Westwood to himself, " here is a ghost 
 at last ! Now I call this interesting." 
 
 As these thoughts in which he assured me fear had 
 not the least share passed through his mind, the figure 
 raised its face and looked straight at the painter. It was 
 an awful face, with an expression of horror and distress 
 unutterable. For an instant the head was bent, and the 
 apparent search renewed ; then, as if in despairing hope- 
 lessness, the figure, wringing its hands, slowly faded away. 
 
 " What a pity she went away so soon ! a little longer 
 I could have got her face sufficiently for a sketch. No- 
 body would believe this. I wish she would come back !" 
 
 She did not, and, after watching for an hour or two, the 
 artist slept. 
 
 After next morning's breakfast, Westwood took Mrs. 
 Blob aside and told her what he had seen. 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Westwood ! I am so sorry ! I ought to have 
 told you. You are not the least frightened? Oh, I am 
 so glad ! but we ought to have told you. That disagree- 
 able room was the only vacant one, you know. Is the 
 tiresome creature likely to come to see you again ? I fear 
 so yes." 
 
 "I most devoutly hope so," said my friend. "Now, 
 Mrs. Blob, I shall ask you for a lamp. I can keep it 
 turned down very low. My water-colors shall be ready. 
 Fire ? Oh, I will be most careful. I do so want to make 
 a sketch, and after a night or two I could manage it." 
 
 " There is a picture of the woman by Reynolds in the 
 gallery. Can't you do it from that ?" 
 
 " Please show it to me." 
 
 Into the gallery went Westwood's hostess, followed by 
 the artist. 
 
 "Ah, I can see the likeness, but this is a young and 
 lovely woman. Yes, she might grow into the shape and 
 make of my ghostly visitor, but the ghost must be seventy 
 at least."
 
 A GHOST STOBY. 477 
 
 "Yes," said Mrs. Blob, "the wretch was rather more 
 than that when the crime was committed which she seems 
 to be expiating in this unpleasant manner." 
 
 " Oh, a crime !" said Westwood. " What crime ?" 
 
 " Really," replied the lady, " I can't bear to talk of her 
 wickedness. Mr. Blob will tell you all about it if you de- 
 sire to know more." 
 
 Westwood made a good beginning of the Blob minia- 
 ture. Night came, the convivial dinner was repeated, and 
 the artist retired, armed with palette and brushes, and 
 waited the return of the spirit. Nor did he wait in vain. 
 The previous night's performance was repeated, but before 
 it began the painter addressed the ghost in these words : 
 
 " Madam, my dear madam, nobody will believe this un- 
 less I can give substantial evidence of the truth of it. 
 Would you mind staying a little longer than usual, so that 
 I could get your image more perfectly into my mind? I 
 am an artist, madam, in water-colors " Confound her, 
 she is gone again ! Never mind, I've had a deuced good 
 look at her." 
 
 And with these words the light was turned up, and, 
 though the sitting was all too short (as sittings so often 
 arc), a satisfactory beginning was made. 
 
 My friend was warned by his hostess to say nothing of 
 what he had seen, to the children especially, or to any one 
 else. 
 
 " We never use the room," said the lady, " if we can 
 avoid doing so ; and when the necessity arises we warn 
 our guests, for the wretch is sure to visit the place. I 
 suppose we shall end in building up the room." 
 
 (This, I hear, has since been done.) Westwood's work 
 at the "moated grange" was over in about a fortnight, 
 and by that time, after regular midnight visits from the 
 spirit, he made what he assured me is not a bad likeness 
 of his nocturnal visitor ; and a most awful face it is, with 
 a terrible, crime - haunted expression impossible to for- 
 get. . 
 
 Of all my acquaintances I know none more prosaic and 
 sensible than my old friend Westwood, who persists to 
 this day that the drawing photographs from which are
 
 478 MY AUTOBIOGEAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 in several hands was a bond -fide portrait of a ghost. 
 Before he took his departure he heard the particulars of 
 the crime, and, though we ought not to say so, the Blobs 
 should be grateful to the perpetrator, for the consequences 
 of it were a vast accession of property to them. 
 
 About the year 1780 the owner of the " moated grange " 
 and the property attached to it died, leaving an infant 
 son heir to the property, whose mother died in giving him 
 birth. The child was but a few weeks old when it was 
 left to the care of an old lady, whose family were inter- 
 ested in its death, because, if that event occurred, the es- 
 tates would revert to them. The heir died suddenly from 
 a fit of convulsions, as announced in the country paper ; 
 the truth being that the old lady sent the nurse out of the 
 room which she afterwards haunted on an errand that 
 required some little time for the fulfilment of its duties, 
 and in her absence the murderess smothered the child with 
 a pillow as it lay in its cot on the floor. This is the tale 
 as it was told to me, and I think it would be difficult to 
 find a better authenticated ghost-story. 
 
 I supplement Westwood's story by an unpleasant experi- 
 ence of another friend of mine. 
 
 At Knebworth, the seat of Lord Lytton, there is a bed- 
 chamber called the " Yellow Boy's Room." The story 
 goes that Lord Castlereagh Byron's " carotid - cutting 
 Castlereagh " was, on one occasion, the guest of the late 
 Lord Lytton's father. Without any warning he was con- 
 signed, for the night, to the " Yellow Boy's Room." On 
 the following morning Lord Castlereagh told Mr. Bulwer 
 that he had been disturbed in the night in a very startling 
 and unpleasant fashion. 
 
 " I was very tired," said my lord, " and was soon asleep. 
 I could not have slept long, for the wood-fire opposite the 
 foot of my bed was still burning when I started up. What 
 awoke me I know not. I looked in the direction of the 
 fire and saw, sitting with its back towards me, what ap- 
 peared to be the figure of a boy with long, yellowish hair. 
 As I looked the figure arose, turned towards me, and, 
 drawing back the curtain at the bottom of the bed with 
 one hand, with the other he drew his fingers two or three
 
 A GHOST STOEY. 479 
 
 times across his throat. I saw him," said my lord, " as 
 distinctly as I see you now." 
 
 " You must have been dreaming," said Bulwer. 
 
 " No, I was wide awake." 
 
 Mr. Bulwer did not tell Lord Castlereagh that the "Yel- 
 low Boy " always appeared to any one who was destined 
 to die a violent death, and always indicated the manner 
 of it to the victim. 
 
 These details were communicated by the late Lord Lyt- 
 ton to an extremely nervous not to say timid artist 
 friend of mine at midnight of the first day of his visit to 
 Knebworth. 
 
 "You are not nervous, I know, my dear Mr. Green, or 
 I would have kept this from you, as you will sleep in the 
 'Yellow Boy's Room' to-night. You will not be fright- 
 ened, will you ?" 
 
 "No no o," said my friend, with an ashy face. 
 
 "Well, it is getting late ; what do you say to retiring? 
 Yes, that is your candle. Too warm for a fire in your 
 room. You don't mind? Good-night." 
 
 The rest of the story shall be told in my old friend's 
 words, as nearly as I can remember them. 
 
 "I had seen the infernal room before dinner, and I 
 thought it looked a ghostly sort of place ; and when I 
 reached it that night, what would I not have given to be 
 back in my own room at home ! I looked under the bed, 
 up the great, wide chimney, and had a shock from the 
 sight of my own face in the looking-glass. No ghost 
 could be whiter than I was. I don't believe in ghosts, 
 you know ; but still it was really too bad of Lytton to tell 
 me such things just as I was going to bed, and then to put 
 me in the very place ! There was an awful old cabinet. I 
 managed to pull one door open, and was tugging at the 
 other, when my candle went out how, I don't know 
 somebody seemed to blow it out. I can't tell you what 
 became of it ; all I know is I jumped into bed with my 
 boots on, and lay trembling there for hours, Frith liter- 
 ally for hours till sleep took me at last : and never was 
 I more thankful than when I awoke and saw the sun shin- 
 ing into the ' Yellow Boy's Room.' "
 
 CHAPTER LI. 
 
 THE STOET OF MY POETKAIT. 
 
 THE student need never be at a loss for a model, so long 
 as he possesses a looking-glass. Better practice than the 
 reproduction of his own features cannot be followed. He 
 is sure of a patient sitter, and he has the example of nearly 
 all the great painters, whose "very form and feature" 
 have come down to us limned by their own hands. 
 
 There are between thirty and forty portraits of Rem- 
 brandt painted by himself. Some of Reynolds' finest 
 works are reproductions of himself in his habit as he lived ; 
 and the forms of Titian, Vandyke, Rubens, Raphael, and 
 Leonardo, to say nothing of nearly if not quite all the 
 great Dutchmen, are as familiar to us as household words. 
 I share in common with all my fellow-creatures the 
 eager curiosity that every one feels respecting the outward 
 and visible form of the producer of works of genius, be 
 they artistic or literary. Portrait -pain ting, speaking 
 generally, is to me the most difficult part of the art, and 
 my own likeness has defied me over and over again. 
 
 In my youth, and in the absence of a better model, I 
 spent hour after hour staring into a mirror, with results 
 unrecognizable by my friends as likenesses of myself. 
 One of the best of these portraits is in the possession of 
 my old friend Mr. J. C. Parkinson, so well known as the 
 genial and accomplished friend of Dickens (to whose House- 
 hold Words he so often contributed). I believe Mr. Park- 
 inson found me in a shop-window, and possessed me with- 
 out a great pecuniary sacrifice. Mr. Parkinson is doubt- 
 less well known to my readers as the author of several 
 works displaying considerable literary ability, showing a 
 more powerful grasp than that necessary or possible even 
 for the fugitive pieces in the periodical press. My old
 
 THE STOKY OF MY PORTBAIT. 481 
 
 friend numbers among his acquaintances nearly every man 
 of mark in London, and I believe there is not one among 
 them who would not be pleased to consider himself his 
 friend. 
 
 Another early work was brought to my notice by a 
 friend who discovered it in an establishment in Great 
 Portland Street. 
 
 " It is a capital picture," he said, " and though not a bit 
 like what you are now, I fancy it may have resembled you 
 scores of years ago. Go and look at it." 
 
 I yielded to the advice, and made my way to Great 
 Portland Street, where, in a shabby gallery behind a shop, 
 I saw my own image, after an estrangement of five-and- 
 forty years. I have not the least recollection of parting 
 with the portrait, either by way of sale or gift, nor could 
 I trace its wanderings from any information that the shop- 
 keeper could afford me ; but I determined to buy it if the 
 price were reasonable. I found the presiding genius of the 
 place was a woman. After examining several works of a 
 very uninteresting character, I affected to catch a sight of 
 my own portrait, and said : 
 
 " Ah, a portrait ! Whose likeness is that ?" 
 
 " That," said the lady, " is a portrait of the celebrated 
 artist, Frith, painted by himself." 
 
 "Frith?" said I ; "why, he must be quite an elderly 
 man." 
 
 " Well, sir, but he was young once ; and that's what he 
 was when he was young." 
 
 "Hum ha !" said I, pretending to examine the picture. 
 " Not much of a picture." 
 
 " I beg your pardon ; judges think it a very fine picture." 
 
 " Well, what is the price?" 
 
 "Twenty pounds." 
 
 "Surely that is a stiff price ?" said I. 
 
 " Well," said the woman, " it cost us nearly as much ; 
 we shall make a very small profit. You see, it is very 
 valuable, because the artist is diseased." 
 
 " Deceased !" I exclaimed. " Dead, do you mean ?" 
 
 " Yes, sir. Died of drink." 
 
 " Surely," I exclaimed, u you have made a mistake!" 
 21
 
 482 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 " About the drink ? Oh, no, sir ; most artists is very 
 dissipated. He was dreadful, Frith was. I dare say you 
 have seen the print called ' The Railway Station.' Well, 
 my husband used to see him when he was doing of it, al- 
 ways more or less in liquor. My husband wondered how 
 he could do his work ; but it wore him out at last the 
 drink did." 
 
 " Why," said I, " how can that be, when I tell you a 
 friend of mine saw him the other day ?" 
 
 " Not Frith, your friend didn't. How could he ? when 
 he's dead and buried, as I well know, for my husband at- 
 tended his funeral !" 
 
 " Can't you modify the price of the portrait a little ?" 
 said I. " Twenty pounds is too much." 
 
 "No, sir that is what my husband fixed the price at; 
 I was never to take no less. My husband and him was 
 great friends, and he would rather keep the likeness than 
 sell it for less." 
 
 Finding the Avoman immovable, I paid the money, and 
 the portrait is now in my possession. I did not reveal 
 myself to the shopkeeper, for she would not have believed 
 me if I had assured her of what she may learn, if by a 
 very unlikely chance she reads these pages that I am not 
 diseased, and that I never was drunk but once in my life, 
 and the consequences of that lapse were so very unpleas- 
 ant that I have no fear of ever repeating the indiscre- 
 tion. 
 
 I may have a difficulty in persuading my readers that a 
 young artist may spend hours, even days, over a picture, 
 and then forget all about it to such a degree as to make 
 the sight of it, after a long lapse of time, perfectly new to 
 him; that is to say, he will not recognize it as anything 
 he has previously seen. Such, however, is the fact ; and 
 it is no less true that artists have been known to repudiate 
 pictures afterwards conclusively proved to be authentic, 
 with consequences unpleasant to themselves. 
 
 I will give an example. A picture, with the name of 
 Poole, R.A., attached to it, was sold at Christie's. The 
 purchaser, though perfectly satisfied of its originality, 
 sent the picture to the artist, with a request that he would
 
 THE STOEY OP MY PORTRAIT. 483 
 
 sign it. Poole looked at the picture, and then at the mes- 
 senger, and said : 
 
 " Tell the person who sent this thing for me to sign that 
 it is not my work. I never saw it before, and I hope I 
 shall never see it again." 
 
 " Indeed !" said the owner, when the message was con- 
 veyed to him, " then I will have my money restored to me." 
 
 Messrs. Christie put the buyer in communication with 
 the seller, with the following result : 
 
 " Oh ! Poole denies he did it, does he ? Look here, I 
 have his own receipt for the purchase-money, received from 
 
 his own hands in the year . I will go to the artist 
 
 with you." 
 
 And to the artist both buyer and seller went. 
 
 "As I told your messenger," said Poole, "I never saw 
 the picture before in my life. You, sir ? No, I have no 
 recollection of ever having seen you." 
 
 " Do you think you would know your own handwriting, 
 sir ?" said the seller. 
 
 " Suppose I should," said Poole. 
 
 "Then do me the favor to cast your eye over that," 
 showing receipt. 
 
 Poole read a pause. 
 
 " Yes, that is my receipt, sure enough." 
 
 Then a long and steady look at the picture by the artist. 
 
 " I can't for the life of me recollect it," said he ; " but 
 I do remember painting a small picture of 'Lear and Cor- 
 delia' in the year . I painted it on a piece of panel 
 
 made from the wood of an old worn-out piano, and if that 
 is the one, you will find a small knot in the wood at the 
 back. 
 
 The picture was turned round, and, lo ! the knot ! Pro- 
 fuse apology from the painter, and his signature was 
 placed on the picture. 
 
 In the days of Reynolds the forgetfulness of artists of 
 their early works was broached at the dinner-table in 
 Leicester Fields. Reynolds could not bring himself to 
 believe in the possibility of a man's so completely forgetting 
 the production of his own brain and hand. Some months 
 after the discussion a very early work of Reynolds' came
 
 484 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 into the possession of Burke. That distinguished man, 
 accompanied by a friend Bennet Langton, I think called 
 upon Reynolds, and showed him the picture as the work 
 of a young student whose friends were anxious to know 
 if the great painter would advise, from the specimen 
 shown, that the young man should be allowed to adopt 
 art as his profession. Reynolds looked long at the pict- 
 ure, and, turning to Burke, said : 
 
 " Is the painter of this a friend of yours ?" 
 
 " Yes," was the reply. " I know and am much interested 
 in him." 
 
 "Well," said Sir Joshua, again studying the portrait 
 attentively, " I really don't feel able to give an opinion 
 one way or the other. It is a cleverish thing, but whether 
 there is sufficient promise in it to justify my advising the 
 young man to adopt art as his profession I really cannot 
 say." 
 
 The picture was proved to be Reynolds' work, but the 
 artist had completely forgotten it. In my own career I 
 have experienced the truth of this strange fact. A gentle- 
 man, whose father's portrait I had painted when I was 
 very young, was desirous that I should see it, and said as 
 much to a friend of mine. I went to his house, and was 
 shown into the dining-room, in which there were several 
 portraits, and mine among them ; but I was quite unable 
 to say which of the series they were all pretty bad was 
 painted by me.
 
 CHAPTER LIT. 
 
 JENNY LIND, MB. BARNUM, AND OTHERS. 
 
 PROMINENT characters live in an atmosphere of rumor. 
 The celebrated American, Mr. Barnum, entrepreneur, show- 
 man, and " universal provider" of all kinds of amusement, 
 holds a distinguished place in the public mind, favorable 
 or unfavorable. According to the dictates of rumor, I 
 think the idea of most people would be, that if Mr. Bar- 
 num had entered into an engagement highly beneficial to 
 himself, he would not permit it to be broken for the ben- 
 efit of somebody else. That is what rumor would say ; 
 and what I am about to relate will prove that rumor lies, 
 as usual. I may premise that I have not the honor of Mr. 
 Barnum's acquaintance ; my sole object in making known 
 an incident connected with him being to prove how mis- 
 taken those may be who can only see in the dealer in 
 amusements the hard and exacting taskmaster. 
 
 All the world has heard of Jenny Lind, but all the world 
 may not know that she was only on the stage two years, 
 and that part of that time was spent in America, whither 
 the Swedish songstress went, bound by a legal engage- 
 ment to sing under Mr. Barnum's management and direc- 
 tion only. Whether from being badly advised, or from 
 the undervaluing of powers common to modest genius, 
 Mademoiselle Lind found, on her arrival in America, that 
 she had made a terrible mistake in the terms of her en- 
 gagement. She was fast bound, and she knew it ; and 
 in default of a release from the awful Barnum, she was 
 prepared to fulfil her duties to the letter. Immediately 
 after the lady's arrival Mr. Barnum appeared. He lis- 
 tened to reasons and explanations, all demonstrating, from 
 the singer's point of view, the mistake that had been 
 made ; and he was assured that if those reasons had no
 
 486 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 weight with him, he might rely on every point of the en- 
 gagement being religiously carried out. 
 
 " This, madam, is the document you signed in England, 
 is it not?" said Mr. Barnum, producing a deed. 
 
 "Undoubtedly," said the lady, "and I am ready to 
 abide by it, if I have been unable to convince " 
 
 " Be so good as to destroy it. Tear it up, madam ; and 
 if you will instruct your lawyer to prepare another from 
 your own dictation, naming whatever you think fair for 
 your services, I will sign it without hesitation." 
 
 This was done ; the terms were satisfactorily increased, 
 and the engagement was fulfilled so successfully as to 
 leave Mr. Barnum a substantial reward for his generosity. 
 
 I had the honor and pleasure of meeting Madame Otto 
 Goldschmidt at dinner, at my friend Mr. Lumley Smith's 
 house, when I heard the foregoing from her own lips, and 
 at the same time received permission to make it as public 
 as I pleased. 
 
 In writing of one great singer, I am reminded of the 
 many delightful evenings on which I have met others at 
 the hospitable house of Mr. J. M. Levy in Lancaster Gate, 
 and in Grosvenor Street. Nilsson, Patti, and Titiens were 
 constant guests ; and, if my memory does not betray me, 
 I heard all three sing on the same evening, in the drawing- 
 room at Lancaster Gate. It would be difficult to imagine 
 more charming gatherings than those collected by Mr. 
 Levy, more sumptuous dinners, better wines, or most 
 valued of all, by some rarer cigars, than those offered 
 to his guests. My first sight of Rubinstein was there. 
 In short, if I were to go on naming the distinguished peo- 
 ple collected together I should have to mention most of 
 the "lions" of each London season. 
 
 On one memorable occasion we were honored by the 
 company of the " Midgets," who were served with a min- 
 iature dinner, all to themselves. When they were at their 
 dessert I leaned over the female Midget, who was very 
 like a monkey, and as spiteful as one, and asked her for a 
 grape from her little plate. She placed her left hand over 
 the plate, and with her fork in the right she made a dash 
 at my face, which might have deprived me of the sight
 
 JENNY LIND, ME. BABNUM, AND OTHEBS. 487 
 
 of an eye, for she only just missed one of them. After 
 dinner Nilsson took them in her arms and, sitting on the 
 floor, sang to them. The wondering, rather frightened 
 expression of the creatures' faces was striking, as indeed 
 was Nilsson herself, looking like a splendid embodiment 
 of Charity with her attendant children.
 
 CHAPTER Lin. 
 
 LADY AETISTS. 
 
 I FEAB it must be admitted, if we study the history of 
 art from its earliest development, that few female names 
 adorn it ; we have a long and honored list of old masters, 
 but no old mistresses. In the first list of names of Royal 
 Academicians we find two of the gentler sex Angelica 
 Kauffman and Mary Moser ; the first was a painter of his- 
 torical and Scripture pieces, the second a fruit and flower 
 painter. Neither of these attained a high level in their 
 respective ranks ; Mrs. Moser being far surpassed by the 
 Misses Mutrie of our day. I cannot recall the precise 
 date of the admission of lady students to th^e Royal Acad- 
 emy, but a very few years ago they were inadmissible ; 
 now they are almost equal in number to the male students, 
 from whom they constantly carry off prizes. Whether 
 the means and methods of study, shared equally (except 
 in one important particular) with their rougher rivals, will 
 in course of time qualify them to become old mistresses 
 to future ages, time only can prove. My position as vis- 
 itor, or teacher, in the higher schools has brought me into 
 contact with numbers of lady students, whose admirable 
 studies from the life have often surprised and delighted 
 me ; and in the Antique School I have seen drawings by 
 mere girls that could not be surpassed. Here, then, we 
 have students armed with the means of producing good, 
 and even great, pictures ; and I think I may safely assert 
 that if the great pictures are yet to come, our annual ex- 
 hibitions show good ones by several female artists. The 
 sensation created by the exhibition of Miss Thompson's 
 picture of " The Roll Call " must be well within the mem- 
 ory of my readers. I fear we cannot claim this lady as a 
 student of the Academy, but we have several others of
 
 LADY ARTISTS. 489 
 
 whom we may justly boast. Among the first, as prac- 
 tising in the higher walk of art, is Mrs. Ernest Norman, 
 who, under her maiden name, Miss Rae, has exhibited 
 during the last three years works of a poetic character 
 that would do credit to any school. 
 
 The names of the sisters Montalba, as painters and 
 sculptors, are pleasantly familiar to all visitors to Bur- 
 lington House, their works showing not only able per- 
 formance, but great promise for the future. Many men 
 would be proud to see their names attached to the pict- 
 ures of Mrs. F. Morgan, who under her maiden name, Alice 
 Havers, has again and again exhibited works full of nat- 
 ure, beauty, and truth. As I write these words I am re- 
 minded of one whom I honor more than any living female 
 painter, always excepting Rosa Bonheur, of whom I shall 
 speak presently. For the most delightful treatment of 
 homely and sometimes unpromising subjects, for the most 
 subtle and intense appreciation of beauty, whether of color 
 or of form, in all its aspects, the water-color drawings of 
 Mrs. Allingham may be sought for in the Pall Mail Gallery 
 with a certainty of delight to the student, as well as to the 
 ordinary visitor. Whether the subject chosen by this ad- 
 mirable artist be a nursery group occupied in nursery tri- 
 fling, or a woman hanging out clothes in a cottage garden, 
 with its flowers and homely surroundings, these common- 
 place themes are invested with such exquisite art as to 
 make them "a joy forever." I can scarcely boast of even 
 a slight acquaintance with Mrs. Allingham or, indeed, 
 with any of the ladies I have mentioned but I do con- 
 fess to sensations of envy when I recognize the intense 
 feeling for nature, and the happiness that must accrue 
 from such perfect rendering of its beauties, as this lady 
 possesses. 
 
 There is yet another member of the Old Water Color 
 Society whose drawings of fruit and flowers were for, 
 unhappily, she is no longer living of the highest excel- 
 lence, and for many years worthily considered great at- 
 tractions of the yearly exhibitions in Pall Mall. Except- 
 ing by William Hunt, Mrs. Angel's drawings of dead 
 birds, flowers, and fruit were never surpassed. 
 21*
 
 490 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 I feel I am not out of place, as a member of the Royal 
 Academy, in giving expression to my satisfaction which 
 I know to be shared by many of my colleagues with the 
 works of so many of the ladies who " take their chance " 
 with us every year ; and among the most prominent are 
 my old friends Miss Starr, now Madame Canziani, and 
 Miss Kate Dickens, now Mrs. Perugini. Miss Starr is a 
 gold medallist, and her exhibition-work year after year 
 sufficiently proves that she has taken full advantage of 
 her academic education. It is a sad reflection that the 
 premature death of Charles Dickens occurring as it did 
 before his daughter became known as an artist should 
 have deprived him of the happiness of witnessing Mrs. 
 Perugini's successes. The interest Dickens always took 
 in art and artists would have been intensified how greatly! 
 when he found one so near and dear to him among its 
 valued professors. 
 
 Artists' wives and sisters are frequent exhibitors, and 
 some of them excellent painters. For many years indeed, 
 till the lamented death of her husband my old friend, 
 Mrs. E. M. Ward, held a well-won position on the Academy 
 walls. Her pictures always displayed a thorough knowl- 
 edge of the principles of art, and these she now imparts 
 to a large school full of ladies, whose progress I, in com- 
 pany with some of my colleagues, have the satisfaction of 
 superintending from time to time. The exhibited works 
 of Mrs. Alma Tadema afford proofs of original power de- 
 veloped under the eye of her distinguished husband. 
 
 Miss Dicksee, Miss Gow, and Mrs. Seymour-Lucas (one 
 of whose pictures in the last exhibition received the com- 
 pliment of being selected by Sir Frederick Leighton for 
 the Art Gallery at Melbourne) are nearly connected with 
 the admirable artists whose names they bear, and how 
 worthily those names are borne may be seen every year 
 at Burlington House. More fortunate are my friends in- 
 their sisters than Sir Joshua Reynolds was in his, for it 
 is related that Miss Reynolds' pictures were of such a 
 character that " they made her brother cry and everybody 
 else laugh." 
 
 With every desire to do justice to our lady exhibitors,
 
 LADY A IM I VIS. 491 
 
 I may forget some of whom I ought to make honorable 
 mention. I think we owe them a debt of gratitude ; and 
 to those already mentioned I must add the names of Mrs. 
 Lea Merritt, Miss Osborne, Mrs. Jopling, Miss Dealy, and 
 no doubt I ought to enumerate many others. Whether 
 we shall have female academicians or not depends upon 
 the ladies themselves ; all the honors the Academy can 
 bestow are open to them, from the lowly seat of the asso- 
 ciate to the presidential chair. A female president is not 
 impossible. After the death of Sir Joshua Reynolds, 
 Mrs. Moser might have reigned in that great man's stead 
 if she had received sufficient support, for all members 
 were candidates. The fates were against her, for she only 
 obtained one vote that of Fuseli against Benjamin 
 West, who had all the rest. Fuseli met the remonstrance 
 of a brother academician by declaring that " he did not 
 see why he shouldn't vote for one old woman as well as 
 another." I most sincerely hope that we have among us 
 young mistresses in the art of painting that future ages 
 may see fit to rank among the old masters ; and though 
 I decline to prophesy with respect to England, I feel sure 
 I am a true prophet when I say that France possesses a 
 lady artist whose name will never die. That name is Rosa 
 Bonheur. 
 
 In 1868 the Great Exhibition was held in Paris, in 
 which the English school of painting was worthily repre- 
 sented, and as worthily acknowledged by the French. I 
 went to Paris accompanied by Millais, as I have noted 
 elsewhere. Our friend Gambart was the first to introduce 
 the works of Rosa Bonheur to the English collectors. 
 The famous " Horse Fair " passed through his hands, to- 
 gether with very many others, some of which still remain 
 with him in his marble palace at Nice. Above and be- 
 yond all the eminent French artists to whom Gambart in- 
 troduced us, we were most anxious to make the acquaint- 
 ance of Mademoiselle Rosa Bonhcur. Our desire was no 
 sooner made known to that lady than it was gratified, for 
 we received an invitation to luncheon with her at her cha- 
 teau in the Forest of Fontainebleau. See us, then, arrive 
 at the station, where a carriage waits, the coachman ap-
 
 492 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 pearing to be a French abbe. The driver wore a black, 
 broad-brimmed hat and black cloak, and had long white 
 hair, with a cheery, rosy face. 
 
 "But that red ribbon?" said I to Gambart. "Do 
 priests wear the Legion of Honor ?" 
 
 " Priest !" replied Gambart ; " what priest ? That is 
 Mademoiselle Bonheur. She is one of the very few ladies 
 in France who is decoree. You can speak French; get on 
 to the box beside her." 
 
 Then, chatting delightfully, we were driven to the cha- 
 teau, in ancient times one of the forest-keeper's lodges, 
 castellated and picturesque to the last degree ; date about 
 Louis XIII. There lives the great painter with a lady 
 companion ; and others in the form of boars, lions, and 
 deer, who serve as models. The artist had little or noth- 
 ing to show us of her own work. Her health had not 
 been good of late ; besides, when her " work is done it is 
 always carried off," she said. Stretching along one side 
 of a very large studio was a composition in outline of 
 corn-threshing in Spain, I think the operation being 
 performed by horses, which are made to gallop over the 
 sheaves a magnificent work, begging to be completed. 
 
 " Ah," said the lady, looking wistfully at the huge can- 
 vas, " I don't know if I shall ever finish that !" 
 
 Of course Millais was deservedly overwhelmed with 
 compliments, and I came in for my little share. That the 
 luncheon was delightful goes without saying. One inci- 
 dent touched me. We spoke much of Landseer, whose 
 acquaintance Rosa Bonheur had made on a visit to Eng- 
 land, and with whose work she had, of course, great sym- 
 pathy. Gambart repeated to her some words of praise 
 given by Landseer to a picture of hers then exhibiting in 
 London. Her eyes filled with tears as she listened. I can 
 speak no more of female painters after paying an imper- 
 fect tribute to the greatest of all, so that with that immor- . 
 tal name I conclude this chapter upon lady artists.
 
 CHAPTER LIV. 
 
 PEOPLE I HAVE KNOWN. 
 
 IP it be true that a man can put no more into his work 
 than there is in himself, it is also undeniable that his work 
 if it be a picture will betray the real character of its 
 author ; who, in the unconscious development of his pe- 
 culiarities, constantly presents to the initiated signs by 
 which an infallible judgment may be pronounced on the 
 painter's mind and character. 
 
 If an artist have a vulgar mind, his work will be vul- 
 gar; if he be of a shifty and untruthful nature, his picture 
 will faithfully reflect these faults. We know Vandyke 
 must have been a refined and courtly gentleman, as surely 
 as we are convinced that Jan Stein was the jovial, often 
 drunken, companion of the guests at kermess or ale-house. 
 
 Though I speak under correction as regards authors 
 and books, I have often proved, to my own satisfaction, 
 that it is as difficult for a writer to hide his real character 
 when he employs the pen, as it is for the artist to be false 
 to himself when he uses the brush. It would, however, 
 require an intimate acquaintance with some celebrated 
 persons writers and others to discover qualities in them 
 which their published performances imperfectly display. 
 
 Among " men I have known," the late Shirley Brooks 
 was a notable example of a man whose conversation and 
 private correspondence were so sparkling and delightful 
 as to throw his novels, admirable as they are, completely 
 into the shade. 
 
 As an example, I introduce in this place a letter written 
 by Brooks in the name of Miss Baynes, the landlady of 
 the Granby Hotel at Harrogatc. It is needless to say that 
 the paragraph alluded to was fictitious. The " early pict- 
 ures" were some of my first efforts, presented to Miss
 
 494 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 Baynes many years ago, and they now bang on the walls 
 of the Granby. 
 
 " DEAR MR. FRITH, Not being well able to write, I use the pen of our 
 mutual friend, Mr. S. Brooks, who has kindly consented to convey to you a 
 request which I have hardly the courage to make. But your kindness in 
 the matter of your early pictures emboldens me to address you. 
 
 " The local authorities have decided that all the hotels in Ilarrogatc 
 shall have signs, and against this arbitrary rule we have petitioned in vain. 
 The enclosed paragraph shows you our lamentable case. 
 
 "Would you be so kind as to paint me a sign for the Granby? I 
 should take it very well of you. I have heard from a friend of yours that 
 you can do this sort of thing very well, and if you have any difficulty I am 
 sure that your friend, Mr. E. M. Ward, R.A., would assist you with advice 
 and example. I leave the subject to yourself, but I need hardly say that 
 it must not be at all objectionable in a moral point of view, as the visitors 
 to the Granby are very high-toned about virtue and grub. If you did not 
 mind (and I am aware that I may offend your modesty, which is one of 
 your most pleasing characteristics) painting your own head for the sign, 
 I should be very glad, and it would be a good advertisement for you ; but if 
 you prefer painting any other Guy, I shall be equally thankful. Terms 
 shall not separate us, and if you would like to come and reside here for a 
 fortnight, as soon as the respectable people are gone, you shall be treated 
 as one of the family. Then you could hang the picture yourself, and as 
 you have lately been on the hanging committee I shall feel much confi- 
 dence in you. 
 
 " My nieces send their duty. They wish the sign to be the ' Queen 
 Charlotte,' in honor of the elder ; but you may not like this, for though 
 her features are very charming, they are not what you would call Academ- 
 ical. But, if you come down, you can settle this with her. 
 
 " I must not trespass longer on your patience, or on that of Mr. Brooks, 
 who is restless to get away and smoke. He is a delightful man, and 1 am 
 glad that you now choose such excellent companions. It was not always 
 so; but we need not revert to the follies of youth we have all been 
 young. 
 
 " I should like this color to be predominant in the picture I ask for ; 
 and I am, dear Mr. Frith, 
 
 " Yours faithfully and sincerely, 
 
 " Miss BAYNES." 
 
 The color that was to be " predominant in the picture " 
 was indicated by a piece of bright red paper attached to 
 the letter. 
 
 I shrink from speaking of living persons ; but, having 
 nothing disagreeable to say of any of them, I hope I shall 
 be forgiven for introducing their names. 
 
 Of my old friend George Augustus Sala I am only echo-
 
 PEOPLE I HAVE KNOWX. 495 
 
 ing general opinion when I say he is one of the most brill- 
 iant and accomplished of living writers and talkers wit- 
 ness his after-dinner speeches, scarcely surpassed by Dick- 
 ens, the greatest speaker of all. 
 
 The novels of Edmund Yates arc or have been in 
 the hands of most people ; but few, speaking compara- 
 tively, can have experienced the ready wit, the quick re- 
 tort, and the rest of his admirable dinner-table talk which 
 it has fallen to my happy lot to share on innumerable oc- 
 casions. 
 
 When I speak of Wilkic Collins, whom I have known 
 all his life, I shall meet with no contradiction when I say 
 he is one of the most popular novelists of the present day. 
 There again you have a man who is as delightful in pri- 
 vate as he is in public. That he is an admirable raconteur 
 goes without saying; of an imperturbably good temper, 
 as he proved on one occasion at my own table, when a 
 rude guest of whom I was heartily ashamed after de- 
 claring that popularity was no proof of merit, said to Col- 
 lins by way of example : 
 
 " Why, your novels are read in every back-kitchen in 
 England." 
 
 This Collins heard without a sign of irritation. 
 
 On the same occasion that dreadful person told Shirley 
 Brooks (then editor of Punch) that, of all the papers pub- 
 lished in London, he considered launch the dullest 
 
 " I wonder you ever read it," said Brooks. 
 
 " I never do," was the reply. 
 
 "I was sure of that," said Brooks, "by your foolish 
 observation." 
 
 I need scarcely say that this was the first and last time 
 that my disagreeable guest appeared at my table. But I 
 had a further experience of his unpleasantness. He wrote 
 to me saying he had purchased a collection of drawings 
 by the old masters; and though knowing his dense 
 ignorance of art I made many excuses for not keeping 
 appointments to see them, he persisted in dragging me to 
 his hotel. When I refused to believe that a bad Dutch 
 drawing of a "merry-making" was the work of Raphael, 
 and that another wretched thing was done by Michael
 
 496 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 Angelo, he told me that painting bad modern pictures had 
 completely blinded me, and that he should show me no 
 more of his treasures. I was thankful to see the last of 
 him and his drawings ; and I afterwards heard that he 
 was expelled from his club, where he had succeeded in 
 insulting every member of it. 
 
 From this disagreeable " man I have known " I turn to 
 Anthony Trollope, none of whose works I had read till a 
 few years ago, though I had known their author for a long 
 time. 
 
 I must confess that my theory of men and their resem- 
 blance to their works must fall to the ground in Trollope's 
 case, for it would be impossible to imagine anything less 
 like his novels than the author of them. The books, full 
 of gentliftess, grace, and refinement ; the writer of them, 
 bluff, loud, stormy, and contentious ; neither a brilliant 
 talker nor a good speaker; but a kinder-hearted man and 
 a truer friend never lived. What chance his works have 
 of immortality I know no more than the prophets who are 
 forever telling us that A.'s works will be read a hundred 
 years hence, and B.'s will not. Dr. Johnson said : " Sterne, 
 sir? why, the man is already forgotten !" This the sage 
 enounced when "Tristram Shandy" had been published, 
 proving himself as good or bad a prophet as the rest of 
 them. 
 
 I now come to another living author, whose name I sup- 
 press, merely adding that it is one that would be known 
 to all my readers. My acquaintance with this gentleman 
 was brief, as I shall proceed to show. 
 
 Those who have had the honor of dining at the Man- 
 sion House will remember that the lord mayor, attended 
 by certain imposing city personages, stands in an outer 
 gallery to receive his guests, and that an avenue of them 
 soon collects to watch new-comers. I was one among those 
 who formed one side of the avenue, when a gentleman was 
 brought to me and introduced. The figure was strange to 
 me, but the name very familiar. 
 
 " Mr. Frith," said the gentleman, " I am delighted to 
 make your acquaintance. I have long admired your works. 
 Indeed I possess several of them, and they are a great de-
 
 PEOPLE I HAVE KNOWN. 497 
 
 light to me" (engravings, I thought); "and now that I 
 have the pleasure of knowing you as we are neighbors 
 I hope we shall improve our acquaintance." 
 
 I made the inevitable reply, and then said : 
 
 " I had no idea we were neighbors. In what part of 
 Bayswater do you live ?" 
 
 " Bayswater !" exclaimed my new acquaintance. " Bays- 
 water ! I don't live in Bayswater. I live at Reigate. So 
 do you." 
 
 " No," said I, " I don't. I never was at Reigate but 
 once in my life." 
 
 "Why how what are you not Mr. Frith, the photog- 
 rapher?" 
 
 " No," said I; " I have not that honor." 
 
 " Who are you, then ?" said the author, rather abruptly. 
 
 " I am only an artist a painter," said I. 
 
 "Indeed ! Ah, I am disap I mean, I have so much 
 desired to meet your namesake. Do you happen to know 
 who that is who has just shaken hands with the lord 
 mayor ?" 
 
 It was quite evident that the author did not know my 
 n.ime as an artist, which I flatter myself is curious. But 
 this experience is thrown into shade by that of a highly- 
 distinguished fellow-artist, as the following story suffi- 
 ciently proves. 
 
 In my student-days at the Royal Academy there was a 
 young and rather clever fellow who rejoiced in the name 
 of Potherd. He was a lanky lad, and he wore a long blue 
 cloak with a cat -skin collar. Millais was contemporary 
 with Potherd, but still a little boy when Potherd launched 
 himself into the world as a full-fledged painter. No one 
 ever heard of Potherd as an artist, but everybody, or 
 nearly everybody, had already heard of Millais, who had 
 painted some of his most famous works. One day when 
 Millais, then grown into manhood, was walking somewhere 
 in Camden Town, he saw a figure in a long blue cloak with 
 a cat-skin collar, trudging slowly along before him. 
 
 "Surely," said Millais to himself, "I know that cloak 
 and the cat-skin collar. Can the man be Potherd?" 
 
 Millais quickened his pace and overtook the blue cloak.
 
 498 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 " Why, Potherd," said he, " it is you ! How are you ?" 
 
 " I am pretty well," said Potherd. " And who may you 
 be?" 
 
 " I am Millais," said the painter. " Don't you remem- 
 ber me at the Academy ?" 
 
 " Not little Johnny Millais, surely ?" exclaimed Potherd. 
 " Why, how you have grown !" 
 
 " Well, Potherd, I am very glad to see you again. How 
 are you getting on ?" 
 
 " Oh, middling. I don't find it a very good business. 
 I teach a little, and do a portrait now and then when I can 
 get anybody to sit. And you ? Judging from your ap- 
 pearance, I should say you had given the arts the go-by. 
 What do you do for a living ?" 
 
 The truth of this may be relied upon, as I have heard 
 it more than once from Millais himself. 
 
 My pen has run away with me, as usual. I return to 
 my theme, which I resume in the name of Alfred Austin, 
 author of " The Season " and other works. Among con- 
 versationalists Mr. Austin holds high rank, and readers of 
 " The Season " will agree with me when I say that there 
 are many lines in that satire worthy of the greatest writers 
 of satirical verse. Being nothing of a politician myself, 
 I find it difficult to understand the all-absorbing passion 
 that possesses some men in the discussion and advocacy of 
 political questions, and when as I venture to think in the 
 example of my friend a remarkable intellect is allowed 
 to spend itself in leading articles, however brilliant, or in 
 essays, however closely argued, on questions of the hour, 
 a serious loss to the higher forms of literature is the result. 
 I still look to Alfred Austin for poetic work, either in 
 prose or rhyme, that will realize all the promise foreshad- 
 owed by "The Season." 
 
 It would be difficult to discover a man more fitted in all 
 respects for the editorial chair of Punch than Mr. F. C. 
 Burnand. Possessing the satiric power that overflows Mr. 
 Austin's "Season, ".Mr. Burnand is also eminently distin- 
 guished as a humorist. I cannot boast of intimacy with the 
 editor of Punch, but I have met him very often, and as 
 often with delightfully amusing results. On one occasion
 
 PEOPLE I HAVE KNOWN. 499 
 
 I described to him a dinner-party at the Langham Hotel, 
 given by that bright genius, " Ouida," at which as, in- 
 deed, at several others I had the honor of assisting. The 
 dinner and the company were delightful. One charm of 
 it, to me (being, I regret to say, an inveterate smoker), 
 was the introduction of cigarettes during the course of 
 the dinner, beginning, I think, after the fish. I had heard 
 of the fashion in foreign countries, but it surprised me as 
 occurring in England. 
 
 " Why were you surprised ?" said Burnand. " You were 
 dining with a Weeda." 
 
 Of all the men I have known, none dwells more pleas- 
 antly in my memory than Samuel Lover, painter, poet, 
 playwright, and public entertainer. Many were the even- 
 ings at ray house that were made to pass on rosy wing by 
 the good stories, and still better playing and singing, of 
 Lover. For some years the miniature-room of the Acad- 
 emy was enriched by the works of that universal genius. 
 My first sight of Lover was in the year 1843, when he 
 came to see my picture of "Falstaff and his Friends." 
 Plays by him were being acted at two or three theatres, 
 novels and songs were produced with extraordinary rapid- 
 ity, and still time and much of it was found for the 
 production of excellent miniatures, one of those being 
 shown to me on the occasion of his visit. 
 
 " How you can find time for all you do," said I, " I can- 
 not imagine." 
 
 " Well, it is not generally known," said Lover, " but 
 the truth is, the fairies help me." 
 
 In the -year 1850 I was at work sketching from the 
 rooms and pictures at Knole House. It was said that the 
 housekeeper received small wages, if any, as the great 
 number of visitors then permitted to visit the house and 
 its treasures were supposed to contribute enough to make 
 a satisfactory salary for that functionary. I well remem- 
 ber being disturbed in my work by a gentleman and two 
 ladies. The gentleman was Count d'Orsay; one of the 
 ladies was Lady Blessington, and the other her niece, I 
 think, Miss Power. There are many ways of being known, 
 one being " known by sight." Thk is the only knowledge
 
 500 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 I possess of Count d'Orsay ; but I hope the following story, 
 told me by Sir Edwin Landseer, will be accepted as an 
 excuse for introducing the count among "people I have 
 known." D'Orsay was remarkably handsome, and as ex- 
 travagant as he was good-looking. The result of the 
 former advantage was a danger to the heart of every lady 
 that approached him, and the consequence of the latter 
 was imprisonment in Gore House on every day but Sun- 
 day. Arrest for debt was in full swing in D'Orsay 's time. 
 His " constitutional," therefore, was taken in the gardens 
 of the mansion on week-days, and anywhere abroad on 
 Sundays. The count was an accomplished man, notably 
 as an artist ; his practice being chiefly in portraits, among 
 which were likenesses of the queen and the great Duke 
 of Wellington. The queen was represented on horseback, 
 and the picture was received with so much favor that an 
 engraving was made from it. Before a copy of a picture 
 in any style of engraving can be accepted by a publisher 
 it must receive revision and what is technically called 
 " touching " by the producer of the picture from which it 
 is made ; and here arose a great difficulty. The engraver 
 would not submit his work for scrutiny on a Sunday, and 
 D'Orsay's delicate position prevented his seeing it on any 
 other day. 
 
 "My dear Edwin," said he to Landseer, "what am I to 
 do? the publisher will not pay me for the copyright till I 
 have touched the proofs ; and this miserable engraver re- 
 fuses to receive me on a Sunday." 
 
 " There is nothing for it but a disguise," said Landseer. 
 " Wrap yourself well up ; come and breakfast with me 
 some morning, and I will go with you to the engraver." 
 
 A time was fixed ; and the count, with much misgiving, 
 and his face half hidden by a neckerchief, left the secure 
 refuge of Gore House, and arrived in safety at Landseer's 
 in St. John's Wood Road. The breakfast was very gay ; 
 each additional moment of security raised D'Orsay's spirits 
 higher. The engraving was criticised, and the "touch- 
 ing" satisfactorily 'effected. Gayer and gayer grew the 
 count. 
 
 " My dear Edwin," said he, " I want to see something ;
 
 PEOPLE I HAVE KNOWN. 501 
 
 'tis long ah ! how long ! since I have seen any public 
 entertainment. Where can we go? What can we see?" 
 
 " I don't know," said Landseer, looking at his watch ; 
 " what can be seen at twelve o'clock in the day ?" Then, 
 after a pause, " There is nothing for it but Madame Tus- 
 saud's." 
 
 "Ah!" exclaimed the count, "admirable! The wax- 
 works I have never seen them." 
 
 And to Baker Street went the two adventurers. 
 
 D'Orsay's delight was childlike, but brief. They had 
 not been long in the rooms before D'Orsay touched Land- 
 seer's arm to draw his attention to two men who, at a little 
 distance, were evidently watching the count and his friend. 
 
 D'Orsay was very pale as he said : 
 
 " Let us go to the ' Chamber of Horrors.' " 
 
 The extra sixpences were paid ; but before the waxen, 
 murderers could be discussed the two strangers seemed to 
 have paid their sixpences also, and were close to the count, 
 when one of them, politely removing his hat, inquired if 
 he had the honor of addressing Count d'Orsay. 
 
 " Yes," said he, in a dignified tone, and drawing himself 
 up to his full height, "I am Count d'Orsay." 
 
 "My lord," said the man, "Madame Tussaud, the old 
 lady which your lordship saw as you came in " 
 
 "Well, sir," said the count, in tremulous tones, "what 
 of the lady ?" 
 
 " She has sent me to ask if you would do her the honor- 
 to let her model you in wax ?" 
 
 "In wax!" exclaimed the count; "in marble, bronze, 
 iron, my good fellow. Tell her, with my love, she may 
 model me in anything !" 
 
 Yet another D'Orsay story, which I heard from Dr. 
 Herring : 
 
 On the few halcyon days on which Count d'Orsay could 
 move about without fear of arrest, he was generally ac- 
 companied by a huge dog of a somewhat fierce disposition. 
 This animal was possessed of intelligence superior to most 
 dogs. 
 
 "He knows quite well," said the count, "the different 
 classes of railway carriages, and always insists on travel-
 
 502 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 ling in the first. Oh, yes, I always take a dog-ticket, as he 
 knows quite well ; but he objects to the ' coffin,' " as D'Or- 
 say called the dog-compartment. "The other day," he 
 continued, " I was sitting in my place waiting for the train 
 to start, with Hector on the seat next to me, when the 
 guard poked in his head and said: 
 
 " ' That dog must not be there, sir. Have you got a 
 ticket for him ?' 
 
 " 'Yes; here it is.' 
 
 " ' But there is a place in the van for dogs, and he must 
 go to it.' 
 
 " ' Take him, then,' said I. 
 
 "The man with great courage attempted to seize my 
 
 Hector, who, with a snarl that appalled that brave guard, 
 
 snapped at his hand, and would have eaten it in another 
 
 ^moment if the train had not started on the instant. And 
 
 Hector rode once more first-class at cofecn praice." 
 
 This story fails somewhat for the want of the delight- 
 ful broken-English in which Herring used to tell it. 
 
 Actors must now appear among the "people I have 
 known." And first and foremost in all respects is Miss 
 Ellen Terry, whose kind patience in sitting for the picture 
 of " The Private View " I shall ever gratefully remember. 
 The merits of this lady are so patent to the world as to 
 need no eulogy from me. 
 
 Delightful as was Miss Terry's Juliet, the nurse of Mrs. 
 Stirling was no less perfect. I am old enough to remember 
 the first performances of " Masks and Faces," when Mrs. 
 Stirling, as Peg Woffington, was in the prime of her beauty 
 and at the height of powers that have never decayed, as 
 those who saw her last performances can bear witness. 
 This excellent actress threatens to leave the stage. If she 
 should refuse to listen to those who hear of this resolve 
 with great regret, she will all too soon become a memory, 
 and make a vacancy that cannot be filled. 
 
 Age has few charms, but among them may be reckoned 
 the pleasures of memory; and who that has seen Mrs. 
 Keeley (who is still, happily, with us) in the Sniike of 
 "Nicholas Nickleby," or the house-breaker in "Jack 
 Sheppard," to say nothing of other and numberless char-
 
 PEOPLE I HA V K KNOWN. 503 
 
 actcrs, can ever forget the perfect truth to nature dis- 
 played in every part she acted. 
 
 What Mrs. Keeley's age may be I shall not be so rude 
 as to inquire ; that " age cannot wither her " was evident 
 to me when I saw her the other day, looking exactly as 
 she did thirty years ago. 
 
 Others I knew but "by sight" only, namely, Mrs. 
 Warner, Mrs. Orger, Mrs. Kean, Mrs. Honey and what 
 inimitable actresses were they ! 
 
 With Mrs. Bancroft I have the honor of a slight per- 
 sonal acquaintance. Off the stage she is delightful ; on it, 
 absolute perfection. 
 
 As a rule, I venture to say that amateur acting is like 
 amateur painting simply intolerable. There are brilliant 
 exceptions ; notably in the instances of Dickens and Lady 
 Monckton, who, great as she is now witness her unsur- 
 passable performance in "Jim the Penman" was but an 
 amateur the other day, when she must forgive me for say- 
 ing that I could see but little sign of the bud which has 
 since blossomed so abundantly. 
 
 I see that my old friend Miss Braddon has just finished 
 her fiftieth, or, as her publishers call it, her "Jubilee" 
 novel. Among all the " people I have known," I think of 
 no one with greater pleasure than Miss Braddon ; because 
 I have derived infinite amusement from her works, and as 
 much satisfaction from her personal acquaintance as I 
 have from that of any other authoress. I had the honor 
 of painting her portrait for her husband and publisher, 
 Mr. Maxwell. 
 
 I don't know whether she still follows the practice of 
 making drawings of the intended scenes in her novels be- 
 fore she brings them so vividly before us with her pen ; 
 but I well remember her showing me several pen-and-ink 
 sketches of scenes in " Lady Audley's Secret " notably a 
 drawing of the man who is thrown down the well : his 
 boots only and small portions of his legs being visible. 
 The prodigious industry of this author, and the infinite 
 variety of her plots and incidents, astonish such ignorant 
 people as the present writer. 
 
 Miss Braddon or, to give her her proper name, Mrs.
 
 504 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 Maxwell has kindly made suggestions for subjects for 
 pictures to me on many occasions ; and I often regret that 
 I did uot adopt one of them. 
 
 Mrs. S. C. Hall, whose Irish stories were and perhaps 
 are still very popular, comes well among authoresses 
 known to me ; and many is the pleasant evening that I 
 spent at the pretty little cottage in Brompton called The 
 Rosery. It was there, on a very hot night in the height 
 of the London season, that I saw for the only time in 
 my life a lion thoroughly lionized. The lion was Tom 
 Moore, the poet ; and the lionizers, consisting chiefly of 
 ladies, clustered round the little man and nearly smothered 
 him. Moore was so diminutive that I could scarcely see 
 his small, gasping mouth, which in its efforts to inhale the 
 dreadful atmosphere, reminded me of a fish out of water. 
 No wonder that he lost one of his shoes ; and it was " a 
 sight " to see him sitting, like one of Cinderella's sisters, 
 while a very pretty admirer insisted on replacing the shoe 
 on his little foot. 
 
 I have known lions since Moore's days whose roars I 
 prefer to those of the poet ; and prominent among them 
 was Charles Dickens, whose dislike of being made an ob- 
 ject of special mark in any company was so well known 
 that it would have required lionizers to have been as bold 
 as lions, if they had ventured to risk the reception which 
 the younger author would have assuredly given them if 
 they had treated him d la Moore. 
 
 I have already spoken of Mademoiselle de la Rame, 
 otherwise " Ouida ;" but I have not noticed an accomplish- 
 ment which may not be generally known to be possessed 
 by that lady. " Ouida " is an excellent artist, as many of 
 her drawings, hanging on the walls of her rooms in the 
 Langham Hotel, sufficiently proved to me. They were 
 indeed remarkable specimens of amateur work. 
 
 I was curious to know the origin of the famous name 
 under which this lady writes, and it is interesting, I think, 
 to find that it arises from a child's attempt to say "Louisa," 
 just as the immortal "Boz" was adopted from another in- 
 fantine attempt to say "Moses." My information with 
 respect to " Ouida " came from " Ouida " herself, of whom
 
 PEOPLE I HAVE KNOWN. 505 
 
 I saw a good deal some years ago, before she left the fogs 
 of England for the sunshine of Italy. 
 
 One of the most original and attractive writers of the 
 present day whom I have the pleasure and the right 
 to name among those I know is Miss Rhoda Broughton. 
 I have read all her novels, and I have passed some days 
 in her society in a country-house and in my own, and I 
 can assure those who know the lady's works, but not the 
 author of them, that this writer is just as delightful with- 
 out the pen as she is with it brilliant and incisive in con- 
 versation ; never dull or the cause of dulness in others ; in 
 short, a perfect instance of the truth of my theory that the 
 real nature of the woman or the man appears in her or his 
 work. 
 
 Of Mrs. Henry Wood I knew so little (she dined but 
 once, I think, at my house), and that little would be as 
 nothing in support of my pet idea, that I must content 
 myself with an expression of gratitude for the pleasure I 
 have received from I am sorry to say the few books I 
 have read of hers. With " East Lynne " I was enthralled 
 from the beginning to the end. From what Mrs. Wood 
 told me of the great sale of her books, it is evident that 
 she is one of the most popular of our modern novelists. 
 
 " All the world's a stage," and to some actors the stage 
 is all the world. I confess that in some few instances the 
 admiration that an actor has excited in me by his perform- 
 ance on the stage has been succeeded by disappointment 
 when I have met him in private life. It seems as if all 
 the beautiful language, and all that the language means, 
 has fallen from his lips without having penetrated his 
 brain, for his conversation is prosy and commonplace. He 
 is, in fact, " dull company." Among those I have known 
 these are rare exceptions. On the other hand, there are 
 actors, and actresses too, who are as entertaining off the 
 stage as they are on it. My old friend Toole is one; for, 
 funny as he is when in sock and buskin, he is funnier still 
 at a dinner-table. What stories of his could I repeat, if I 
 could tell them as well as he does! Alas! they are public 
 property, and I must not touch them. I hope I shall not 
 offend my friend when I announce that he is a practical 
 22
 
 506 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCES. 
 
 joker; but his jokes are harmless unlike some others 
 that I have named and always amusing. It is told of 
 him that he was seen, at the close of a railway journey, 
 to be going through a performance with one of his gloves, 
 which, on a close observation, appeared to be the stuffing 
 it with cotton- wool till it assumed the shape of a human 
 hand. He then contrived to arrange it in the front of his 
 coat, so that it should appear to be one of his own, and he 
 placed his railway ticket between the fingers. The train 
 stopped presently, and the usual cry, " All tickets ready 1" 
 was heard. 
 
 " Tickets, please !" said a guard, opening the door of the 
 carriage. 
 
 " Take mine," said Toole. 
 
 The guard took the ticket, and the hand as well. 
 
 " The guard was a robust person," Toole is reported to 
 have said, " but he staggered back in a faint, calling fee- 
 bly for smelling-salts." 
 
 One more example. That inveterate joker, Sothern, 
 had made an appointment with Toole to dine at a well- 
 known restaurant; the hour of meeting was fixed, and 
 Sothern arrived somewhat before the appointed time. An 
 old gentleman was dining at a table at some little distance 
 from that prepared for the two actors. He was reading 
 the paper, which he had comfortably arranged before him, 
 as he was eating his dinner. Sothern walked up to him, 
 and, striking him a smart blow between the shoulders, said : 
 
 " Hullo, old fellow ! who would have thought of your 
 dining here ? I thought you never " 
 
 The assaulted diner turned angrily round, when Sothern 
 exclaimed : 
 
 " I beg you a thousand pardons, sir ! I thought you 
 were an old friend of mine a family man whom I never 
 expected to see here. I hope you will pardon me." 
 
 The old gentleman growled a reply, and Sothern re- 
 turned to his table, where he was presently joined by 
 Toole, to whom he said : 
 
 " See that old boy ? I'll bet you half a crown you daren't 
 go and give him a slap on the back, and pretend you have 
 mistaken him for a friend."
 
 PEOPLE I HAVE KNOWN. 507 
 
 " Done !" said Toole, and done it was immediately, with 
 a result that must be imagined, for it was indescribable. 
 
 Forgive me, dear Toole, and don't deny these things; 
 for if they are not true, they ought to be. 
 
 I now come to one who is as much liked as a man as 
 he is admired as an actor Henry Irving. Well do I 
 remember seeing my friend in a play called "Hunted 
 Down," and saying to my wife, who was with me, " That 
 is the real thing. That man is a genius." And I was 
 right. If I were to relate a tithe of the kind actions of 
 Irving to his brother-actors, to friends, and to strangers, I 
 should show him to be as good a man off the stage as he 
 is a great one upon it; but I spare his blushes and the 
 patience of my readers. 
 
 Common gratitude forces me to add one more name 
 to the list of those from whom I have received so much 
 pleasure. William Farren, worthy heir of a great name, 
 is one of those who have so often delighted me by their 
 admirable rendering of " high comedy," that I cannot resist 
 telling him here what I have felt compelled to tell him 
 privately. The best "Sir Peter Teazle" and the best 
 " Lord Ogleby " is, of course, pre-eminent in minor char- 
 acters. 
 
 And with this honored name I close the list of " people 
 I have known," not without a fear that my readers will 
 endorse the following verse, sent to me by Shirley Brooks, 
 the editor of Punch, in return for a good joke that I sent 
 to him for insertion in that periodical : 
 
 " There is a young artist called Frith, 
 
 His pictures have vigor and pith ; 
 
 But his writings have not 
 
 They're the kussedeat rot 
 
 He could trouble an editor with." 
 
 I cannot surmount the reluctance I feel to dwell longer 
 on my own doings. Good or bad, those of the last yean 
 are familiar to all who have done me the honor to seek out 
 my work in the annual exhibitions. 
 
 A new style of art has arisen, which seems to gratify a 
 public ever craving for novelty. Very likely I am posing 
 as the old-fashioned academician, who declines to acknowl-
 
 508 MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY AXD BEMINISCENCES. 
 
 edge that eccentricity is a proof of genius, or audacity an 
 evidence of power; and I may be justly, or unjustly, ac- 
 cused of unfairness when I declare that the bizarre, French, 
 "impressionist" style of painting recently imported into 
 this country will do incalculable damage to the modern 
 school of English art. But I claim the right of judgment 
 that half a century's constant practice of my art must give, 
 and I wish the last words of these reminiscences to be 
 those of warning to the rising generation of painters. 
 
 Be impressionist by all means, but let your impressions 
 be as complete and as true to nature as those received by 
 the great old masters. Let it not be possible for any one 
 to say of your impressions, as was well said of some im- 
 pressionist work now popular, "If nature made that im- 
 pression upon the man, how much wiser he would have 
 been if he had kept it to himself." Keep in view the 
 honored names of the great painters of old, study their 
 works, and, convincing yourselves that they were produced 
 by simple, earnest, loving study of nature, endeavor to 
 "go and do likewise." 
 
 THE END.
 
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