THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES tf,p MY BOHEMIAN DAYS SIR HENRY IRVING. MY BOHEMIAN DAYS HARRY FURNISS WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY THE AUTHOR LONDON : HURST & BLACKETT, LTD. PATERNOSTER HOUSE, E.G. TLo fl&8 CbU&ren FRANK LAWRENCE GUY MACKENZIE ARGYLL AND SUTHERLAND HIGHLANDERS DOROTHY RED CROSS V.A.D. FOR THE GRAND SPIRIT IN WHICH THEY LOYALLY " DID THEIR BIT " IN THE GREAT WAR THESE REMINISCENCES OF MY LIFE AT THEIR AGE 1670716 PREFACE THE Editorial title Fifty Tears in Bohemia, under which the greater part of this volume appeared recently in The Evening News, was somewhat misleading, owing to the fact that this book was written twenty-five years after this period of my life. " Five and twenty years " would have been a little nearer the case, " Ten years " still better " Five years " but then we lived a fuller life, whatever is said of the crowded conditions of existence nowadays. The chapter on Irving and Tree, and others dealing with theatrical matters, appeared in The Strand Magazine. My other experiences of Bohemia will form another story. H. F. 1919. CONTENTS CHAPTER I THE STRAND OF THE OLD DAYS Charles Dickens's sanctum in Wellington Street " Billy " Russell William B. Tegetmeier and the swarm of bees The actors' street The Bohemians' publisher " Augustus Druriolanus " The founder of The Illustrated London News His scapegoat pp. i-i I Arthur Sketchley " Racy Reece " Henry S. Leigh Lai Brough Hubert de Burgh His Volume of Life Henry Irving James Anderson David James The Duke of Beaufort . pp. 12-25 CHAPTER III THE MERRY " SEVENTIES " The Strand Theatre Mrs. Malaprop Old-time actors Barry Sullivan The Gilbert and Sullivan gold mine The world, the flesh, and the devil Satirical periodicals The Octopus The Owl Lord Glenesk as a humorist Torick Fun . . pp. 26-42 CHAPTER IV ARTISTS AND THEIR STUDIOS, THEIR DEALERS, AND THEIR MODELS The prosperous seventies The picture dealer Shark Bluff studios in Bloomsbury An artists' model " Mr. Galey " A life class A dancing academy "Cramp" . . '. ,' . pp. 43-53 ni CONTENTS CHAPTER V STUDIO PARTIES AND THE HOGARTH CLUB Rudyard Kipling's parents Miss Walton Rose Leclercq's birthplace Studio parties Music and gloves Young Beerbohm Tree Edwin A. Abbey From eve till morn The Hogarth Club Sir James D. Linton Fred Barnard and Henry Irving Unlucky Friday PP- 54-^5 CHAPTER VI OLD TAVERNS AND DEBATING SOCIETIES The old Albion A sketch on a shirt-front " Ape " Henry Herman Cabby's dismay Frequenters of the Albion Henry Sampson Edward Ledger " City of Lushirigton " The old Cogers " Budding lawyers " In the very old days A practical joke A " sporting " offer I take the floor ... pp. 66-80 CHAPTER VII FROM MY STUDIO WINDOW Robertsonian comedies at the " Dust Hole " Return to nature My double " Whistler " in the Circus " A jolly good sort " Family portraits " Well caught " George Grossmith The drayman and the nuts . . . . . . . pp. 8189 CHAPTER VIII SOME ODD CONTRASTS When all were " boys " J. L. Toole and Seymour Hicks at the Garrick Club Revolt from inaction Barrie's caution " Old Bucky " Tree and the limelight Jekylls and Hydes Maarten Maartens A luxurious " shanty " Irving's favourite supper pp. 90100 CHAPTER IX MERRY NIGHTS AMONG THE " SAVAGES " After five-and-twenty years The " Busy Bees " The delinquent member and the Committee A Royal Savage Sir Somers Vine CONTENTS xiii George A. Henty His collapsible boat Saturday evening enter- tainment Dr. Farmer and Jowett The S.O.S. signal Crawford Wilson " Fairy Fitzgerald " Edward Draper The Tinsel-period Jealous and du Maurier The Savage Club Ball I censor a Savage Queen . . . - .< . . . pp. 101123 CHAPTER X WAR CORRESPONDENTS AND SOME " SPECIALS " " Billy " Russell, of 'The Times Sidney Hall, of The Graphic Melton Prior and Stanley A new " Lord High Executioner " Bennett Burleigh outwits Sir Garnet Wolseley The Savage Club romancer Archibald Forbes Fred Villiers I decline to become one " Jumbo " Blowitz G. Smalley Tennyson's pig" The Bulldog of America" pp. 124-142 CHAPTER XI SOME MUSICAL MEMORIES Opera " gods " " A 'norrible tale ! " Foli and Foley Emily Soldene in The Grand Duchess Sir James O'Dowd Patti A triumph of song Ragging a singer " Teddy " Solomon and Sullivan pp. 143-153 CHAPTER XII UPPER-CLASS BOHEMIA The Amphitryon Colonel North as Falstaff A dear " snack " Lord Chaplin Ten-shilling cigars The Beefsteak Club " Ape " and Lord Beaconsfield Earl of Kilmorey . . . pp. 154-161 CHAPTER XIII SOME NOTABLE " FIRST NIGHTS " AND OTHER THINGS THEATRICAL Two houses a night Macbeth Public and private performance Signor Salvini Irelaiony of the Wells Toole and the nuts " An overgrown Cupid " The Colonel My huge poster An elaborate v CONTENTS practical joke Anne Mie The Alhambra laundry Jacob! Miss Terry in The Cup Irving as lago Cutting the Baddeley Cake pp. 162-186 CHAPTER XIV SIR HENRY IRVING Irving as a model Art and the Drama Don Quixote His horse and what came of it Dressing-bag Thompson Appreciation Imita- tions of Irving A practical joker Mr. Gladstone at the Lyceum Buckstone V . " . . . . . pp. 187-207 CHAPTER XV SIR HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE'S HUMOUR Tree and Irving Henry VIII surprises Wolsey Tree and his taxi He offers me an engagement His bons mots The Ambassador from Java Tree and the critic Tree and Sir Hall Caine pp. 208-215 CHAPTER XVI SOME UNREHEARSED STAGE EFFECTS Misther Levy Our Flat Mr. Kendal's trousers Leah's dilemma The "star-trap" Mr. Gladstone on the stage Miss Mary Anderson's pose Mrs. Kendal in " Pantomime " Toole's dresser The two Berthas . ..... . . 'pp. 216-231 CHAPTER XVII ART ON THE STAGE A blank canvas Peg Woffington The " Divine Sarah," sculptor Tree's match Alexander's hand Miss Terry's gown Neville's ribbon Falstaff's boot Nance Oldfield's coffee . . pp. 232-244 CONTENTS xv CHAPTER XVIII BOHEMIANS IN PARLIAMENT Young Disraeli, dramatist Authors in the Commons The Dogman and the Grand Old Man Dr. Wallace's entertainment Lays of Parliament T. H. Bolton and the Theatre Dr. Kenealy Henni- ker Heaton Charles Bradlaugh H.H.H. Sketches A Photo- grapher " Chalk Talks " Labouchere and the Ladies pp. 245-263 CHAPTER XIX SOME PARLIAMENTARY OFFICIALS AND SOME NOBLE LORDS Some Speakers Captain Gossett The " Black Beetle " The Chaplain The Rev. F. E. C. Byng Dr. Percy Some Lord Chancellors- Sir William Harcourt The Black Rod Lord Clanricarde Lord Courtney Lord Dunraven ..... pp. 264273 CHAPTER XX THE PRESS GALLERY The old days Bohemian members Work under difficulties Mr. Paul Sir Edward Russell Inaccuracies " Cookin' porpoises " Speeches reported " By courtesy " I am " named " An revoir pp. 274-286 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS SIR HENRY IRVING . . . . . Frontispiece MP WILLIAM B. TEGETMEIER ...... 3 SIR AUGUSTUS HARRIS ...... 7 THOMAS PURNELL . . . . . . .10 ARTHUR SKETCHLEY . . . . . . .13 ROBERT REECE AND HENRY S. LEIGH . . 15 " LAL " BROUGH 16 HUBERT DE BURGH ....... 17 IRVING AS " DIGBY GRANT " IN " THE Two ROSES " . 19 4< I MADE IRVING" . . . . . . .21 DAVID JAMES AND THE DUKE 1 . . 24 THE POWER OF THE TRAGEDIAN'S EYE ... 29 "THE WORLD, THE FLESH AND THE DEVIL" . . 31 " THE OCTOPUS " 33 LORD GLENESK ........ 35 IRVING AS KING LEAR ...... 37 RICHARD DOWLING AS POE ...... 41 WILLIAM BRUNTON AND HIS " TRADE MARK " .42 CHARLES BURTON BARBER AND THE DEALER . . 45 A MODEL . . . . . . . . 47 "" SILENCE FOLLOWED. I EYED HER UP AND DOWN " . 49 G. A. STOREY SINGING " MR. GALEY " . . . .51 Miss WALTON ........ 55 SIR BEERBOHM TREE IN HIS YOUTH .. . .4 57 TREE IMITATING JAMES AND THORNE . . - - . 58 E. A. ABBEY IN A BONNET . . ... .60 SIR JAMES D. LINTON IN HIS EARLY DAYS . . .61 b xvii xviii LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS PAGE BARNARD BURLESQUING IRVING . ... . 6j CARLO PELLEGRINI, " APE " OF " VANITY FAIR " . -67 APE'S SKETCH ON A SHIRT-FRONT .... 68 " AND NOW SEE YOU'VE DONE IT " . . . . 69 CHARLES WARNER ORDERING HIS SUPPER ... 72 EDMUND KEAN'S TABLET AND MASK IN THE " CITY OF LUSHINGTON " . . . . . -74 COGERS . . . . . . . - 75 COGERS SKETCHED BY SlR FRANK LoCKWOOD . . 7/ A COGER MAKING A SPEECH ..... 78 THE BOARD-MAN ........ 79 TOM ROBERTSON . . ;'." . . . . 83 " WHISTLER " ON THE TIGHT-ROPE . . . .84 MR. SIDNEY BANCROFT . . . . ".'''.' 8 GEORGE GROSSMITH . . . . . . ; 88 J. L. TOOLE AND SEYMOUR HICKS . . . . 91 THE MODERN ACTOR'S ENGAGEMENTS . . 93" J. B. BUCKSTONE ....... 95 SKETCHING IN NORMANDY . . . . 97 MAARTEN MAARTENS ....... 99 I TAKE THE CHAIR AT THE SAVAGE CLUB . . IOI ALDERMAN TRELOAR . . . . . . . 102 MY DESIGN FOR THE SAVAGE CLUB COSTUME BALL . 105 A BOHEMIAN WHO DEFIED THE COMMITTEE . . . 106 SIR SOMERS VINE . . . . . . . 107 GEORGE A. HENTY . . . . ~ . . 109 J. B. FIRTH . . . * ; . . . . "O WHEN GROSSMITH FAILED TO GET A LAUGH . , in DR. FARMER AND THE MASTER OF BALLIOL . . . nj CRAWFORD WILSON * . .. ; . . . 115 J. A. FITZGERALD AS FITZGERALD * , ( . . 117 A POPULAR SAVAGE . . . . . . .118 JEALOUS AND DU MAURIER . . . . . .120 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS xix PAGB TEGETMEIER AS A JAPANESE . . . . .123 DR. SIR WILLIAM RUSSELL "BILLY RUSSELL" OF "THE TIMES " IN HIS LATTER DAYS . . . .125 MELTON PRIOR . . . . . . . i 128 SIR HENRY M. STANLEY . . . . . .129 ARCHIBALD FORBES HAS 'EM ALL ON ! . . . .133 "I MIGHT HAVE BEEN ONE MYSELF " .... 135 JUMBO . . . . . . . . .136 HENRI GEORGES STEPHANE ADOLPHE OPPER DE BLOWITZ ........ 139 G. SMALLEY ........ 141 THE " GODS " . . . . . . .145 Miss EMILY SOLDENE ....... 147 SIR JAMES O'Dowo, A FRIEND OF THACKERAY . .148 WAS IT A JOKE ? . . . . . . .151 COLONEL NORTH AS FALSTAFF . . . . 155 LORD CHAPLIN . . . . . . . .157 "APE" CATCHING THE LAST OF BEACONSFIELD . . 159 THE EARL OF KILMOREY . . . . . .161 SEEING TWO PLAYS IN ONE EVENING .... 163 IRVING RECITES MACBETH ...... 164 IRVING AS MACBETH ....... 165 SALVINI . . . . . . . . . 167 SIR AUGUSTUS HARRIS AS A CUPID .... 169 MY POSTER FOR " THE COLONEL " 172 EDGAR BRUCE STUDYING RUSSIAN .... 175 "ANNE MIE FALLS A LITTLE FLAT" .... 177 JACOBI ......... 179 IRVING AS IAGO . . . . . . . .181 IRVING AS OTHELLO ....... 182 IRVING AS HAMLET . . . . ' . . 193 IRVING AS DON QUIXOTE ...... 195 IRVING IN " THE CORSICAN BROTHERS " 201 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS PAGE MR. GLADSTONE AS A SUPER . . .' . . 205 " THANK YOU, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, FIRST PERFORM- ANCE THANK You!" . . . . . .211 A STUDY OF TREE IN AMERICA . . . . .217 SIR BEERBOHM TREE . . . . . . . 219 " THEM'S CLOTHES "-..-. ^ . . . 222 PERDITA'S PREDICAMENT ...... 226 TOOLE AS THE ARTFUL DODGER . . . . .228 A CRISIS IN TOOLE'S PERFORMANCE OF " THE CRICKET ON THE HEARTH " ...... 231 " THE CANVAS WAS DISCOVERED TO BE PERFECTLY BLANK " 234 " THE DIVINE SARAH " . . . . ^ 236 FALSTAFF'S OTHER BOOT . . . . ... 243 YOUNG DISRAELI AS A DRAMATIST . . . . 246 WILLIAM WOODALL'S GUESTS IN THE HOUSE . . 250 FARMER ATKINSON -. . ... . . 251 BOLTON AND HIS THEATRICAL CLIENTS . . . 254 LORD HENRY LENNOX . . . .. ' . . . 255 " OLD DADDY LONGLEGS WOULDN'T SAY HIS PRAYERS " 257 BRADLAUGH FLUNG INTO THE PALACE YARD . . 258 "H. H. H." 259 SIR BENJAMIN STONE ..... ..' . 261 BEARDED SPEAKERS . . , . . . . 265 THE BLACK BEETLE .. '. ... . . 266 THE CHAPLAIN TO THE HOUSE . / ' . . . 267 SHOWING HOW I SKETCH IN MY POCKET . . . 270 LORD CLANRICARDE, AN ODD FISH . . . . 271 LORD COURTNEY . , , , . . . 272 MR. HAROLD Cox , , . . . . 276 A CORNER OF THE PRESS GALLERY .... 277 MR. HERBERT PAUL . 280 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS CHAPTER I THE STRAND OF THE OLD DAYS Charles Dickens's sanctum in Wellington Street " Billy " Russell William B. Tegetmeier and the swarm of bees The actors' street The Bohemians' publisher "Augustus Druriolanus " The founder of The Illustrated London News His scapegoat. WHEN I first made its acquaintance London's Bohemia consisted of a ramshackle, picturesque, and historically interesting jumble of famous old streets, narrow passages, " inns," square taverns, and publishing shops. In this interesting quarter jostled together vice and virtue, intellect and ignorance, poverty and opulence. In this Alsatia dwelt " characters " both eccentric and clever, and, if not inspiring, they were at least artistic. The very pavements reeked with tobacco from the calumets of semi-savages, combined with the onions accompanying the chops and steaks which were carried from the cook-shop to the office of the wealthy banker or the establishment of the well-to-do tradesman. All these odoriferous rookeries have been razed to the ground, and upon their site have arisen stately and imposing edifices in which are to be found the offices of the Marconi Company, colonial agencies, banks, etc., together with palatial newspaper and other offices. In 3 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS such an environment it is impossible that Bohemianism could ever exist. It would be a gross anachronism. As a matter of fact the death of Bohemianism is really due more to the genius of the architect than to any vagaries of fashion or fortune. In Wellington Street, adjoining and, in fact, forming part of the old Gaiety Theatre, stood a charming little building with bow windows. In my youthful days it formed the office of The Army and Navy Gazette, the editor and part proprietor being Sir William, otherwise " Billy," Russell, the famous war correspondent of The Times, who, dull as his paper was, no doubt kept alive the light-hearted humour which pervaded the atmo- sphere of the pretty little editorial room, since it was for nine years the sanctum of no less a celebrity than the late Charles Dickens himself. Here the great novelist laboured strenuously to nurse into a success his weekly paper Household Words, which, when " Billy " Russell made his name as a war corre- spondent in the Crimea, was exactly four years old. Dickens, like in after years my friend Irving at the Lyceum over the way, made his business office a rendezvous for his friends, entertaining them with little luncheons in the midst of work and bright suppers after the theatre. When George Edwardes was visibly swelling into affluence as a manager the journal of Red Tape was obliged to move out in order to allow more dressing room for the beauties of the Gaiety burlesque. In the old days I recollect making a sketch for The Illustrated London News of a curious scene outside that quaint bow window. A crowd had gathered to watch a swarm of bees which had settled on the ledge of the window. Someone it may possibly have been myself WILLIAM B. TEGETMEIER. 3 4 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS happily bethought himself of that dear old Bohemian Tegetmeier of The Field newspaper, the offices of which were luckily located close to the spot. He was brought upon the scene and a ladder obtained, and with the aid of a hearth broom he adroitly managed to capture the entire swarm intact. This spare, alert figure of the celebrated nonagenarian was for years perhaps as familiar a figure as any daily treading the pavements of the Strand. William B. Tegetmeier was one of those wiry, thin little men who never seem to age ; he was only robbed of his century by three years. In his long life he had been doctor, naturalist, journalist, but, above all, a Bohemian, the friend of Darwin and Russell, and a helper with that extraordinary work on the " Origin of Species." He was best known to the public as a great authority on pigeons, and best known to his friends in the precincts of the Savage Club, which he helped to found. When I first met Tegetmeier it was in the Savage Club, then situated in the Strand ; in fact, you pushed open a door and found yourself in the club, there being no hall or entrance but the door into the street. In this sidelight of Bohemia that evening I heard old George Grossmith, grandfather of the present George Grossmith, deliver one of his inimitable mock scientific lectures after dinner. Irving was there before running round to the Lyceum where he had just been engaged at a moderate salary by Colonel Bateman Charles (later Sir Charles) Wyndham, and many other actors who became famous and of whom, alas ! many have ceased to strut their brief hour on the stage. For some reason I was more struck by Tegetmeier than by any other member. Perhaps he was kind to THE STRAND OF THE OLD DAYS 5 me as a visitor and a mere youth anyway we struck up an acquaintance which lasted for many years. He was not only Bohemian in living, but in attire a black slouch hat, a short waterproof cape, and a shabby port- folio under his arm. I recollect his calling to see me one day, and being immensely amused by the maid who answered the bell informing him that " Master did not require any models," and slamming the door in his face. Tegetmeier never smoked or drank and seldom ate thus his youth. The demolition of Catherine Street marked, if I may be allowed to say so, the disappearance of half the London Bohemians of literary pretensions. The Era the " Actors' Bible " in its palmy days was the means of bringing crowds of the profession to the street, which, according to Halliday, was then devoted (before my time) to second-class eating-houses and the shops of newsvendors and advertising agents. The street had not changed its character in any particular when the exigencies of my profession compelled me to become an habitue, for it also contained various offices belonging to publishers who would, perhaps, be deemed second-class. The most notable figure among these was that of Tinsley, and Tinsley, familiarly known as " Bill," was facile princess the Bohemians' publisher in those far-away days. When I first made the acquaintance of the big city I was a constant frequenter, not only of the Gaiety Theatre, but also of the restaurant in the basement. " The Gaiety Bar " was in those days, practically speaking, the literary and artistic Bohemians' club. Before my eyes now I imagine I can see the familiar figure of Gus Harris, with the glossiest of silk hats worn 6 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS at a perilous angle on one side of his head, his florid complexion, sparkling eyes, and the smile of self-satis- faction that is the heritage of the successful few ! I can see him now, as was his wont, strutting up and down the Gaiety Bar, attired in immaculate evening dress with the then fashionable Inverness cape thrown over one shoulder. It was this familiar personality that was so cleverly portrayed by Willie Edouin in that wonderfully success- ful farce Our Flat, at the old Strand Theatre. " Augustus Druriolanus " was a shrewd, long-sighted, long-headed genius. He was essentially plucky, and for this quality, and for playing the game like a sportsman, he always commanded my sincere admiration. Even a more familiar figure than Harris's, however, was that of John Hollingshead, manager of the Gaiety, who with excellent reason prided himself upon keeping the sacred lamp of burlesque burning brightly for so many years. Directly facing the old Gaiety were the offices of Gaze, of tourist fame. Over these there existed a typi- cally Bohemian club. This was my first club in London, started simultaneously and I believe actually by the influence of the proprietors of The Illustrated Sporting and Dramatic News. For a year after my arrival in London I was marked for a contributor to that journal, and to locate my editor it was necessary for me to join that club and also frequent the Gaiety Bar. What first led me to the Strand was to call at the office of The Illustrated London News with my sketches. The paper was then run in the interests of the widow of the first proprietor by a few directors. Ingram, the founder of The Illustrated London News and pioneer of illustrated journalism, must have been THE STRAND OF THE OLD DAYS 7 a remarkable man of a strong and impetuous nature. I have been told stories of his impetuosity, which I have no doubt were characteristic of him, but in all SIR AUGUSTUS HARRIS. probability untrue. One was that whenever he was worked up to a high pitch of excitement, or in anger, it was his habit to rush up to the compositors' room and seize a particularly chubby, unaggressive " comp.," who was always ready and not unwilling to be the recipient 8 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS of other men's punishment. The Guv'nor having worked off his pent-up passion by kicking this selected scapegoat, would immediately empty his pockets of their contents as compensation for this assault and battery. The compositor was thus kicked into prosperity. He retired in time from business, having picked up sufficient to build a row of cottages with the money. Another story. An artist was sent to China to supply sketches to The Illustrated London News. The agree- ment was to the effect that this artist was to receive a certain sum per week so long as he made sketches in China for the paper. In those days there was no tele- graph, and it was some time before the young man could be informed that the proprietor had had enough of his sketches, interest in China having ceased, and that he was to return. The artist knew better. He replied that he had married, settled down there, and would continue to send sketches. In the agreement there was no limit of time. I think this story is true, for a friend of mine met the artist in far Cathay, " an old man with a long white beard, a large family, and an agree- ment with The Illustrated London News." This remarkable man, Ingram, had died drowned in Lake Michigan some time before I knew the office. The affairs of the paper were then in the hands of the widow, Mr. Leighton, the printer, Mason Jackson, the art editor, and Mr. S. Reid, the artist. The latter was, facile princeps, the sketcher of streets, old buildings, cathedrals, and country houses. Who does not remem- ber his " Haunted House," " The Hall, Christmastide," and other effective drawings in The Illustrated London News ? Mr. Reid looked like a keen Scotch commercial traveller, invariably carrying a black bag. THE STRAND OF THE OLD DAYS g Thursday was the day set aside by the Art Editor to see contributors. I well recollect those Thursday gatherings. To use the familiar editorial term, the week's paper had been " put to bed," albeit anything but a " bed " of rest, for one heard the groaning, clashing, heated rolling machinery upon which bed the paper was, waiting one's turn. There was difficulty in hearing the lively chatter of those calling upon the Editor by appointment for work for the following number. I recall a little man a very little man with a very long white beard resembling the typical Father Christ- mas cut off at the knees ; he has a cheery, red face, a pleasant smile and a twinkling eye. This is the engraver of animal pictures. He has a friendly chat with me. I was but a boy, and he well in the autumn of life. He tells me of the old days, and I drink in all the incidents he informs me of anent the starting of Punch, of an uncle of mine, a publisher in Wine Office Court, where the Punch staff first met. He also tells me of his own daughter who is just starting as an artist. Out of a parcel he takes her dainty sketches, and I admire them, for they were then just the same as they were when she became world-famous. Her Christian name was Kate and her surname Greenaway ! Thomas Purnell, leader writer on the Globe, was a familiar and most picturesque figure treading the Strand pavements when I was young. I believe I am right in saying that brilliant Welshman was at one time a driver of a coach in his native country, a self-made man. He had a very refined, almost Quixotic face, a long, lanky figure, flowing beard, and eyes that saw further than most people's. I was looking over some writings of my old friend THOMAS PURNELL 10 THE STRAND OF THE OLD DAYS n Joseph Hatton the other day and came across an extraordinary illustration of Purnell's long-sightedness. Hatton was a great friend of "Tom" Purnell's, and once made a tour (about thirty years ago) in Holland with Purnell. It appears that Purnell was a passionate lover of Holland, " which, in his estimation, was the Naboth's vineyard of the Dutchman's envious neighbour Germany." This excitable Welshman, Purnell, de- livered himself of a patriotic defiance of Germany on the occasion, and, adds Hatton, " pointed with a long, artistic finger the way the German legions would come. This done he triumphantly turned towards the sea to describe the British ships that would have landed bluejackets to the aid of Amsterdam and Rotterdam, to say nothing of their neighbour Antwerp, who would be in no less peril of her ships and her liberties. My experience of the Germans at home does not lead me to think that as a people they for a moment would dream of any such outrages as these and other startling forecasts suggest. But his Imperial Majesty William II is governed by a tremendous ambition, and England may no longer place implicit faith in his demonstrations of friendship." These sentiments of two Strand literary men of years ago are certainly curious reading to-day. CHAPTER II SOME STRAND FREQUENTERS Arthur Sketchley " Racy Reecc " Henry S. Leigh Lai Brough Hubert de Burgh His Volume of Life Henry Irving Jamei Anderson David James The Duke of Beaufort Two of the stoutest men, probably, who ever trod the Strand were in other ways conspicuous figures in the old days. One was Arthur Sketchley, who for a time had quite a big success with his books, Mrs. Brown at the Play, Mrs. Brown at Margate. Mrs. Brown well, was his peg upon which to hang a somewhat indifferent imitation of Sairy Gamp on every conceivable subject. Sketchley gave " Readings " from his Mrs. Brown series at the Strand Theatre. The other stout man was a lecturer on sanitary and other matters, Joseph Pope, familiarly known as " Jope " ; his brother, another alarmingly stout man, was Pope, Q.C., at one time leader of the Parliamentary Bar. These two Falstaffian Strand fre- quenters were one day seen to enter an ordinary four- wheeler it is a fact they did and it is a fact that the bottom came out of the cab ! A member of the Savage Club witnessed the strange event and hastened to the club ; he was much sought for by disbelieving members and feted. In the end the poor fellow had to be sent home in a cab himself. 12 SOME STRAND FREQUENTERS 13 Another frequenter of the Strand in its Bohemian days was Robert Reece, known as " Racy Reece," apropos ARTHUR SKETCHLEY. I suppose of the facility of his pen, for he wrote burlesques and verse, and in fact anything required, by the yard 14 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS at high pressure. He was of the punning fraternity, but he was also a captious critic of the critics, and the Strand in his days was the critic's School for Scandal. This is Recce's opinion of them. I quote from the opening of his screed on critics by whom he had suffered : You know me ? I live by my pen, In anonymous courage not lacking. I thrive on the murder of men Whose boots I'm not worthy of blacking. I live in a vapour that seems Half brandy, half something mephitic. I'm drunkenness dealing in dreams That's it ! yes ! you're right ! I'm a Critic ! Henry S. Leigh was a genius of a kind, who lived his life in the Strand. He was a very neat versifier any one who has read his Carols of Cockayne must appreciate that; but his ambition was to have the admiration of the Strand. It was his world, and he was little known outside it ; now and then he dropped into the Savage Club and warbled one of his clever carols, sitting with his overcoat on as he accompanied himself on the piano ready to continue his hourly pilgrimage in the Strand. He was the son of Leigh whose famous school of art Thackeray immortalised as " Gandish " in The Neiucomes in a composite character portrait of Sass and Leigh. A well-known comedian who was for a time at the Gaiety Theatre and at all times the wit of the Strand, Lai Brough, one of the famous Brothers Brough, dramatic authors, was originally connected with The Illustrated London News. Lionel Brough was an excellent racon- teur ; he imitated the Cockney, the Yorkshireman, the Scot, Yankee, and Irishman with marvellous truthfulness ; and no matter how busy one might be, or how much SOME STRAND FREQUENTERS 15 in a hurry, Brought would never let you pass him in the Strand without telling you his latest story. In this way his stories became public property, and have long since been put on the shelf labelled " chestnuts." ROBERT REECE AND HENRY S. LEIGH.] Pantomime writers seemingly found inspiration in the conglomeration of humanity frequenting the Strand. One of these suppliers of pantomimes was Charles Mill- ward ; he was also a journalist, inasmuch as he provided a London Letter to country papers, his London being i6 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS the Strand. In private life he was a mural mason ! He was a sallow-faced, serious, black-bearded, depressing individual, of whom H. J. Byron, the great wit of the Strand, observed : " I have just met Millward : he looked as proud as a corpse with two tombstones." By the way this re- mark reminds me that once, and I believe once only, the curtain was rung up on a new play and rung down again without a word being spoken I do not mean a UEnfant Prodigue kind of play, but a serious play in three written acts. The fact is it was too serious. When the curtain went up a couple of mutes were " discovered" standing at either side of the door of a house, the supposition being that there was a corpse in it. The play was the corpse, for the audience was so indignant not a word was spoken ! This was at the Old Globe Theatre in the Strand. "LAL" BROUGH. SOME STRAND FREQUENTERS 17 One of the most interesting literary men I met at the offices of a paper in the Strand in my early days in London was Hubert de Burgh, a gentlemanly, tall, HUBERT DE BURGH. good-looking fellow, the son of Colonel de Burgh, a father he was proud of, not so much for his successes in the battlefields indeed, I cannot recall his even mentioning his father's feats at arms but I well remember his admiration for his father's success as a military after- i8 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS dinner speaker. I think young de Burgh edited and published his father's post-prandial martial orations. De Burgh himself was a poet and wrote for various periodicals. He lived for a time in the same house as another poet, better known to the world, then much read and hotly discussed the great Swinburne. De Burgh was the antithesis to the other poet. He was a fine specimen of a man, no nonsense about him, a genial Bohemian, not dependent fortunately, perhaps on his pen. His eccentricity took the form of never allowing any acquaintance he met to leave him : he insisted on being seen to his door. He would walk, if you had time to spare, but if not one had to take a cab. This peculiar eccentricity was in reality fear. He had some complaint of the heart, and always dreaded dying in the Strand. Often have I seen him to his door, and great was his gratitude. Poor De Burgh did actually die suddenly. Wit and poet, De Burgh died when he was thirty-two, while the ink was still wet on the following lines, the last he ever wrote, entitled Ike Volume of Life. The first four lines ran : A volume there is called the Volume of Life. Seldom its pages exceed fourscore : Those pages teem with sorrow and strife. Yet they who read them still crave for more. The concluding verse was : And in some copies ah ! the print is so bad The tale such a tissue of sin and of tears, That the weary reader is all too glad When the printer's FINIS at last appears. The theatrical associations of the Strand alone are sufficient for a chapter. Such is the whirligig of time, IRVING AS "DIGBY GRANT" IN "THE TWO ROSES.' 19 ao MY BOHEMIAN DAYS there is not one Strand theatre standing now that I frequented in my early life in London. The Strand Theatre is now a tube station, the Gaiety, the Adelphi, and the Lyceum are not the theatres I sat in. The Opera Comique, the Globe, and others disappeared to widen the Strand. I came to London in the year 1873, wnen tne Strand was the centre of theatreland. That young actor, Henry Irving, afterwards Sir Henry, was having his first benefit in the Lyceum Theatre, under the management of Colonel Bateman, who had " discovered " this promising young actor when playing Digby Grant in The Two Roses, an extra- ordinary performance which is so often referred to, and had brought him to the Lyceum to support his daughter in his various productions. But it was not long before young Irving asserted himself and brought him the play called The Bells, written by an obscure and generally Bohemian barrister, Lewis, who lived on this bit of luck for years, and always said, " I made Irving." But what overshadowed everything in London and permeated the stage and the music-hall was the brilliant visit of the Shah. " Have you seen the Shah ? " was the catch-phrase of the hour. His photograph was in every window and his picture in every paper : at the Opera Comique was produced a most amusing burlesque of the Shah's visit Kissi-Kissi : or the Pa, the Ma, and the Padisha, by F. C. Burnand, music by Offenback. A brother of Arthur Sullivan's played the Shah : he was the original judge in Gilbert and Sullivan's Trial by Jury in after-years. The Shah in the first act was represented as a bankrupt : all his famous diamonds SOME STRAND FREQUENTERS 21 had disappeared } in their place on his hat and around his neck were strings of pawn tickets. It was stated at the time that the Shah was so impressed with the attire of the young ladies in the ballet that on his re- turn he adopted it as the Court dress in Persia ! hardly less startling than the adoption of the Per- sian ladies' dress would be for our Court here. The sight of our Court beauties tied up in sacks, the shape of balloons, although economic, would cause more laughter than any raised by the performance of Kissi- Kissi at the old Opera Comique. Antony and Cleo- patra was the attrac- tion at Drury Lane, under the direction of F. B. Chatterton, that old-time and unlucky , f MADE IRVIN G." manager a magnifi- cent spectacle, principally famous for the truly beautiful scenery by Beverley. Antony was played by an actor of the old school James Anderson whom I knew very 23 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS well in after-years. He had made his money in Australia when the first people over there were making theirs, and this return to his own glory in London for it was mostly glory and little pay in his younger days was perhaps the last glitter of this "star." After that he grew his beard, retiring to his armchair at the Garrick Club. Shortly after seeing him as Antony, I recollect passing along Old Wych Street, in the Strand, and observing him standing with his back to a shop door, gazing in- tently at an oil painting which was high up in the window of a second-hand shop opposite to him. I recalled this little incident to him years afterwards in the smoking- room of the Garrick Club. Taking me into another room, he showed me, framed, that very portrait I saw him looking at years before it was a portrait of himself in Coriolanus* When he was a younger actor and the rage of London, playing Coriolanus, a young unknown artist begged Anderson to sit for his portrait in character, as it would be a good advertisement for the young artist. Anderson never saw the painting or the artist again until, as an old man, he spied it hanging up in the second-hand shop. " I wondered was it a portrait of myself, so I went to the other side of the street to have a good look at it. There was no mistaking it, my boy ; it was Jimmy Anderson's neck. There is not another man in the world with so long a neck as mine." This portrait of Anderson still hangs on the walls of the Garrick, close to the portrait of another actor who flourished at the same time Walter Lacy. Burlesques were rampant in those days, written by Reece, Byron, and Burnand hardly a week passed that SOME STRAND FREQUENTERS 23 these happy-go-lucky punsters did not contribute one, but the majority unfortunately were short-lived. Always an ardent Dickensian, I looked in at Charing Cross Theatre, now part of Charing Cross Hospital, to see a farce written by Charles Dickens, the only drama, it is said, that the great novelist ever wrote. It was called A Strange Gentleman, but I have no recollection whatever of it. But I do recollect seeing at the Globe just then a play written on Dombey and Son. I re- member it particularly on account of one of the finest impersonations I ever saw, certainly the best of all Dickens's on the stage, the Carker of James Fernandez. Then at the Vaudeville those old English plays were having a most successful run. The School for Scandal, played to big houses for over four hundred nights, which was considered a tremendous success in those days, and was followed by The Road to Ruin, was the first of the series I saw. The fine cast included W. Farren, David James, Charles Warner, Tom Thorne, Horace Wigan, Miss Sophie Larkin, and one of " The Two Roses " who had bloomed so long in the same theatre Amy Fawcett. David James pleased me the most. There was no doubt he was one of the best low comedians we ever had on the London stage. I met him years afterwards, and he always struck me as an unassuming, clever man of the world, like all his race with an eye to the main chance. When he made his " pile," as the Yankees say, over the phenomenal run of Our Boys, he practically retired. His real name was Belasco. He was always the low comedian, off the stage as well as on, even when patronised by what he would call " the upper succles." 34 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS The Duke of Beaufort, who in the eighties was the king of theatrical Bohemia, and a well-known frequenter of the Gaiety Theatre, had a great liking for Belasco, and accepted an invitation to lunch at the comedian's house somewhere in Camden Town. The DAVID JAMES AND THE DUKE. Duke drove up in his four-in-hand, causing a stir in that neighbourhood of cheap lodging-houses which had not been equalled for many a day. The lunch over, the company were invited into the back garden to enjoy their weeds. David James, then addressing himself to the Duke and his friends, said : " I believe, your grace, SOME STRAND FREQUENTERS 25 you are very fond of horseflesh. Would you like to look over my stables ? " The Duke, who was always the courtier, bowed, and said nothing would please him better. They marched up the little back garden to the little stable, in which stood one miserable animal covered with a sack. Whisking off the old sack, James said to the Duke, " He ain't much to look at, your grace, but he is all right on Sundays for the family." CHAPTER III THE MERRY " SEVENTIES " The Strand Theatre Mrs. Malaprop Old-time actors Barry Sullivan The Gilbert and Sullivan gold mine The world, the flesh, and the devil Satirical periodicals The Octopus The Owl Lord Glenesk as a humorist Torick Fun THE seventies of which I am writing were the days of gay Lord Quexes, Lord Henry Lennoxes, Lord Rane- laghs, and other foppish old Don Juans hanging around the stages of burlesque and ballet. Paddy Green pre- sided at Evans's, the wondrous place with its chops and baked potatoes, its virtuous choir- singing, and cham- pagne corks popping ; and the Poses Plastiques were on view nightly in Leicester Square. Money was plentiful, the Franco-German war had made England rich, and our country cousins were having a good time that was all! Clubland was then select and limited. Restaurants were few. Actors met and supped at the taverns, and at the Bohemian little clubs ; the Savage Club, with its sanded floor, was then their club of luxury. Salaries were modest, so were actors. They lived for their work and for themselves, not for society. Bohemianism was their dream ; good-fellowship their motto. They loved their London as London loved them. 26 THE MERRY " SEVENTIES " 27 The Strand Theatre, now a tube station, was the merriest side-show in the seventies and early eighties. One was always sure of a laugh there. There was even laughter behind the scenes, for was not Mrs. Swan- borough, the manageress, the Mrs. Malaprop of her time ? Was it not also the home of Terry and Marius, of Miss St. John and Nellie Bromley, James and Thome, Harry Cox, and many other ever-to-be-remembered enter- tainers ? Many stories of Mrs. Swanborough have been freely reported. Many of these " Mrs. Malapropisms " were, I think, the invention of Henry J. Byron, the actor and prolific playwright* They were generally asserted to have occurred in Mrs. Swanborough's conversations with the Prince of Wales, afterwards King Edward who frequently visited the Strand Theatre, and was duly received by the proprietress " 'Ave your Royal 'Ighness seen Mr. Dore's wonderful picture, Christ Leaving the Criterion I " " I say, Mrs. Swanborough, you want an architect to look over this theatre ; it absolutely rocks when I walk in." " Now does it, your Royal 'Ighness ? That must be caused by the obesity of the audience when you enter." I believe I am right in saying that it was at the Strand Theatre that King Edward gave an instance of his keen observation and strictness. One evening he observed the conductor of the orchestra wearing foreign orders, specially put on for the event. King Edward sent round and ordered him to remove them, as it was contrary to the rules of Court etiquette to wear foreign orders without special permission. Actors in those days were conspicuous. Nowadays a8 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS all men seem alike, but there was no mistaking the old comedian, and particularly the old tragedians in the Strand, Phelps and Ryder, Creswick and Barry Sullivan. The last-named was perhaps the most conspicuous of the four. He never forgot or allowed those he met to forget that he was the greatest tragedian on the stage. The power of his Hibernian accent, his beetle brows and flashing eyes were always at play. I recollect seeing him cross the Strand through the crowded traffic, and for the moment I thought he would have been run over by a hansom. Not a bit of it. The great and only tragedian opened his mouth, flashed his eyes, struck a pose and the horse reared until the great Barry strode past. There was the power of personality if you like ! My work took me to the theatres a good deal. For The Illustrated. London News I sketched Gilbert and Sulli- van's first success at the Opera Comique. No one then realised what a gold mine those operas would eventually prove to be, and as a matter of fact the promoters had " to go into the Strand " to find some one with a modest few hundreds to work the mine. That lucky some one turned out to be the proprietor of the Gaiety Theatre, Dublin, and to look after his interests he placed his nephew, Mr. George Edwardes, in the concern. Mr. Edwardes was subsequently the ruler of the Gaiety Theatre in the Strand, and many others so you see what a chance meeting in the Strand will bring about in the fortunes of men. The busy, crowded Strand has, until the last widening and improvements spoilt its fun, been the rendezvous of the members of the profession and others connected with the stage. I recollect being introduced to a keen THE MERRY " SEVENTIES " 29 little Welshman, carrying a black bag ; he was a business traveller then, who had just produced his first play in London I think it was called Heart of Hearts at the Vaudeville Theatre in the Strand. He has now been famous for years, and< success has not spoilt him. When a commercial traveller he saw life and saw the theatre, THE POWER OF THE TRAGEDIAN'S EYE. and gained the experience out of which the popular plays of Henry Arthur Jones have proved so human and delightful. In my early days in London, and for some years after- wards the Strand was the rendezvous of most men con- nected with literature and the stage, and a good sprinkling of artists and musicians, to say nothing of the law ; and 30 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS these were not needy Bohemians, but the shining lights of the day. The fact is recorded that one day H. J. Byron, the actor and witty playwright, came " pro- miscuously " upon three gentlemen walking arm-in-arm in the Strand Edmund Yates, Henry Labouchere, and the massive Arthur Sketchley. " Be ye greeted," Byron cried, "ye three greatest enemies of man world, flesh, and devil." Dutch, German, Russian, French men of letters mostly letters of introduction found sympathetic and congenial spirits in the Strand. The oldest of them all was a curious little man, Dr. Gustave Ludwig Strauss, who wrote under the nom-de-plume " The Old Bohemian." A bright-eyed, sharp-nosed little face, belonging to a head much too big (artistically) for his body, peered out of a massive head of long, wavy hair and spreading beard and moustache. He crept up to one silently purring, but once he opened his mouth he never stopped talking. I recollect I made a caricature of him as a cat which the Bohemian's publisher walked off with, and the " Doctor " cut me ever afterwards. The old Bohemian was a well-educated man, one of those jack-of-all- (liter- ary) trades and master of none at least not in a com- mercial sense. He wrote a delightful autobiography of which George Augustus Sala said, " Fiction is liberally mingled with fact." The old Bohemian eventually found sanctuary in the Charterhouse, but he was too Bohemian for its hospitality and left it. In the seventies there was a tremendous boom in satirical periodicals. The Tomahawk had just been buried, and Arthur a'Beckett, its editor, had retired into the wigwam of the hunchback-chief, Punch, to smoke the calumet of peace in the odour of respectability. THE MERRY "SEVENTIES" 31 Figaro in London, believed to be endowed by the Emperor of the French, Napoleon the Third, and run as propaganda for him by Mortimer, was very popular, principally due to the very clever nonsense written by " Philander Smiff." At the same time we had The Mask, written and illustrated by the ex-dragoon officer Alfred Thompson* artist, writer, editor, playwright, and producer ; The Glow Worm, a theatrical broadsheet which used to circu- late at night in the theatres. Of a more satirical nature was The Hawk. For these and a whole host of satirical journals there seemed no difficulty in finding backers. Men like myself were sought out by those bitten by 32 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS the craze for caustic journalism. I recollect receiving a letter from a stranger in the Midlands proposing to start a journal of this class in London, and requesting me to meet him. I duly presented myself at the Salis- bury Hotel, off Fleet Street, and was ushered into a private room, where a funny little man was seated, not much bigger than myself, of middle age and of apparently prosperous circumstances. Manuscripts (all his own) were scattered here, there, and everywhere. A bottle of champagne and a box of cigars it was n a.m. were open on the table, pens and ink, despatch boxes, scissors, a bottle of paste all the paraphernalia of an editor's office gave a strong impression of serious " business." Indeed, I never met any one before or since more determined to be an editor and proprietor than this gentleman from the country. He informed me that he had plenty of money to finance a publication, but that, it subsequently tran- spired, was the only asset he possessed. He had any number of ideas, which he dilated upon at length with evident self-satisfaction. He had, he told me, been trying for a long time to get his articles published, but all editors were ignorant, or jealous, and not one would accept a line of his. He had therefore come right into their centre to show up their stupidity, and the crass stupidity of all men, public or private ; in fact, he intended to make things hum. He wished me to be his artist. As the title of his weekly sensation was The Viper I shook my head. He then suggested The Vampire. " No." He smiled. " I thought you would not like these," he said, " but you will like the title I have decided upon." He opened the door to see that all Fleet Street THE MERRY "SEVENTIES 33 was not eavesdropping, opened a despatch box, and laid a sheet of paper in front of me on which was written The Octopus. " Now then, young man, please do not repeat that title, not even to me not a word ! You have grasped " THE OCTOPUS." it ? good ! Now, lose no time, design the first page, including that title, bring it, and we will then discuss business. The tentacles of the Octopus, you see, embrace all the subjects I have described to you." The octopus I am now referring to natural history, not unnatural journalism was the sensation of the hour. 3 34 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS It was being exhibited at the Brighton Aquarium, and in those days was considered unique. This fact, no doubt, inspired my acquaintance from the Midlands, but he failed to see what I did at once that the public would look upon such a title as a scientific publication on the fish already overdone. In my rough design I made this point evident. Under the heading I sketched in a portrait of dear old Henry Lee, the popular manager of the Brighton Aquarium, and sent it to the Salisbury Hotel. By return of post I received the following note : "SiR, I did not ask you to criticise the commands of your editer and proprieter. As you do not take this commission seriously, I am finding another artist." The Octopus never appeared, and I never again heard of its " Editer and Proprieter." The aristocrat of all these satirical papers was The Owl, edited by Algernon Borthwick, afterwards Lord Glenesk, of The Morning Post, with a staff unpaid, I believe of extraordinarily clever men, literary, diplo- matic, and political. Mr. T. A. S. Escott, for so long the acting-editor of The World in its palmy days, and the right hand of its proprietor, Edmund Yates, thus described it : " The Owl, like The Pall Mall Gazette of ' Pendennis,' might have made the boast never, as a fact, put forward by its namesake that it was written by gentlemen for gentlemen. The information it often contained in politics, especially in diplomacy, was generally in advance of, and more accurate than, that which appeared in the daily or weekly press. It might, no doubt, have commanded even then a wide and paying circulation. LORD GLENESK. 35 36 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS It was, however, ostentatiously conducted with a fine disregard of commercial principles. " The writers thought themselves sufficiently rewarded by the opportunity of showing, in good company, their brightness, cleverness, knowingness, and wit to a choice circle of appreciative readers ; they only sent in their copy to the editor when they were in the humour to write, or thought they had something that would repay the trouble of saying ; their engagements, social, political, or diplomatic, made their movements rather uncertain ; they refused to be ' dunned for copy.' ' As a consequence, newsvendors were not very keen to obtain orders for the clever columns, appearing at eccentrically uncertain intervals. It was really brought out for the edification of the staff, not as a commercial speculation. Lord Glenesk was a very remarkable and fascinating man, courteous, witty, good-looking, and a master of small talk. He was an excellent journalist and a very hard worker to boot, though no one would have believed this in his latter days when he became proprietor of The Morning Post, as he then delighted to pose as a dilettante. He was particularly clever at selecting the right men for his staff. One man, I recollect, he heard making a speech at some political meeting ; he at once engaged him as a leader writer, and he remained on the staff till his death. This journalist prided himself that he was not a Fleet Street man ; and Bohemia, so called, was to him unknown. He was elected to the Garrick Club and soon became one of its journalistic features not a pleasant feature either, for he was an egotist and a gourmand, and one of the ugliest men I have ever met. Lord Glenesk had a keen sense of humour, and was an V*. 37 38 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS excellent raconteur. I remember he gave me quite an entertainment while we were travelling together alone in a carriage to the country one Sunday morning. Irving had produced his much criticised representation of King Lear the previous evening. I was giving a show that night and was unable to be present perhaps the only first night of Irving's I missed. Glenesk was full of the subject of Irving's terrible mistake in playing the King as an imbecile. It appears that Irving was for some reason seized with the unaccountable idea of so playing the part at the eleventh hour when he stood at the wings ready to go on ; otherwise I am sure he would never have made such a blunder. In the part he was almost inaudible, and Glenesk's burlesque of Irving's peculiar utterance and mannerism was immense. So tickled was I, though heartily sorry for Irving, that when I saw the performance at the Lyceum a few evenings later, Glenesk's imitation haunted me all through, and I could hardly refrain from laughing. It had the same effect upon me as when I saw Royce at the Gaiety burlesquing Irving's performance in The Corsican Brothers, one of Irving's most successful parts. It was in that burlesque at the Gaiety how good those genuinely . funny burlesques of the time were, to be sure that Royce in the duel scene appeared with only one brace over his spotless white shirt. The ghost his brother wore the other ! An imitation of the defunct Tomahawk was started soon after I came to London, and I was engaged to illus- trate it, being the only artist on the staff. It was doomed by its name Torick. " Alas, poor Torick \ " was inevitable, and I was asked THE MERRY " SEVENTIES " 39 to design for the cover a very sad Yorick gazing at a bauble, while a female figure, resembling poor Ophelia, was shown in a set stage scene for Hamlet. Its editor was Richard Dowling, the novelist, who, though a humorist to order, was a sentimentalist by nature, a mild delightful Bohemian with a mind void of satire, unkindliness, or aggressiveness. Consequently, apart from the size of the paper, and my cartoon, " with a colour block," similar to Matt Morgan's cartoons in The 'Tomahawk, it was a very tame production. The letterpress was respectable and the effect artistically, literary, and commercially was nil. The man who found the money and lost it was a heavy good Christian New- castle man in the glass trade, a personal friend and great admirer of Dowling. The advent of its publication brought to my know- ledge for the first time a trick in the printing trade, which, alas ! has annoyed me more than once since. It was this. Certain questionable little printers in posses- sion of some obscure, ramshackle printing establishment in the purlieus of Fleet Street watch every announcement of a new paper. As soon as its title is known no time is lost in getting out something that looks like a periodical with the same title and dated back a few weeks. This is duly presented to those bringing out the new venture, with all sorts of injunctions threatened, and damages claimed. Then these unscrupulous printers, after bluffing for a time, suggest compromising for as much as they can squeeze out of the bewildered and excited promoters of the new periodical. I happened to be in the office of Torick when this trick was played. I took up the spurious Torick , which 40 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS we were informed was some weeks old, and discovering the printer's ink still wet, I threw the copy out of the window, and took upon myself to tell the man who brought it that he might pick it out of the gutter on his rapid exit from the office. Like Thackeray and other men of letters one could mention, Dowling began to write late in life. He was thirty or more before he came with his mother to London to start in literature. He had been an omnivorous reader from childhood, and therefore actually saw the world through the works of those he had read, and not for himself, the exception being in his first book, The Mystery of Killard, which he wrote of the wild Irish country coast he had come from, and in this book he gave a wonderfully fresh and strong picture of nature. When I read that book I thought that Dowling was going to be a great author, and when I met him and delighted in his companionship, I thought his wit must surely assert itself, and that soon his name would become of world-wide fame. But he soon drifted into the quicksands of Bohemianism and never got off. He sank a wreck, with a rich cargo of genius that was never delivered to the world. Dowling's work was much influenced by that of Edgar Allen Poe ; he was always studying Poe's books, reading them to me, and delighted to discuss them in detail. I started illustrating Poe, but, strange to say, I never went on with the drawings, though I still enjoy reading his stories. Dowling wrote some clever tales in Poe's style probably better known now as the Sherlock Holmes school. Fun had a long career, and in its earlier days had a better staff than any other humorous paper was ever THE MERRY "SEVENTIES" 41 endowed with. It was edited by " Young Tom Hood," with Henry Sampson, founder of The Referee, as his right-hand man, and H. J. Byron. Sir W. S. Gilbert's Bab Ballads appeared in its pages ; and among the literary contributors were Francis Burnand, subsequently Sir Francis and editor of Punch, Prowse, George Rose (" Arthur Sketchley "), Tom Archer, Tom Robertson, the dramatist, William Brough, and Clement Scott ; and George R. Sims, when Sampson became editor after Tom Hood's death, became a vigorous contributor. Among its best-known artists were Matt Morgan, Boyd Houghton, Brunton (whose work was similar to Dicky Doyle's in Punch}, and that very clever and delightful artist Paul Grey, who, alas ! died just as he was making a great reputation; after him the genial Gordon Thomp- son was for years the cartoonist. He was followed by Fred Barnard as cartoonist, but it cannot be said the accomplished and versatile illustrator was at home in political cartooning. There were a host of others all as brilliant, including Sullivan, with his inimitable British workman series. I have doubtless omitted many names, both writers and artists, of that extraordinary staff, but these are sufficient to show how excellent it was and how cheap, and all for a penny. William Brunton was, if I may use the term, the Bohemian caricaturist, in the same way as Wallis Mackay was in a later period ; both were essentially of the Fleet RICHARD DOWLING AS POE. MY BOHEMIAN DAYS Street clique, always at hand for any- new venture, and thoroughly imbued with the spirit of their surroundings. The capital letter W, laid on its side, attached to the capital letter B, divided with an arrow, makes a re- presentation of clever W. B.'s familiar sig- nature. Old Tegetmeier introduced me to Brunton as his " double-hearted friend," and re- marked that when some one sang Long- fellow's poem, "The Arrow anI am awfully sorry, old fellow I have cut up the wrong picture it is not mine after all ! " OLD TAVERNS AND DEBATING SOCIETIES The old Albion A sketch on a shirt-front " Ape " Henry Herman Cabby's dismay Frequenters of the Albion Henry Sampson Edward Ledger " City of Lushington " The old Cogers " Budding lawyers " In the very old days A practical joke A " sporting " offer I take the floor WHEN I first knew London the old Albion Tavern, directly opposite the north side of Drury Lane Theatre, was by far the nearest approach to the tavern of the Georgian period as regards its frequenters and the way in which it was conducted. Its old mahogany tables were beautifully polished and divided by partitions of mahogany ; it had good silver, good fare, and good company. It was used by many men of good position. Having at that time no club, I generally supped at the Albion on Saturday nights alone, for I had few acquain- tances ; later I joined the Savage and the Garrick and the Beefsteak clubs, to find among the members nearly every one of the principal habitues of the Albion. The first night I dropped in for my supper I was struck by the cosy old-time appearance of the famous inn. As I slipped into a seat by an unoccupied table I noticed a batch of celebrities at the next table, prin- cipally leading actors. 66 CARLO PELLEGRINI, " APE " OF " VANITY FAIR." 68 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS The room was very quiet, but finally the silence was broken by a murmur of amusement on the other side of the partition dividing my table from the next. Curi- osity made me peep over the partition ; I then observed a foreigner, a rather stout little man with hair parted in the centre, a moustache, and speaking with an unmis- takable broken accent. " You fellows, you stop quiet a minute. I give him not a glass eye, but a diamond one, see ? Now you look in the mirror, quick, before he wake up." The foreigner had been amusing his friends by sketching on a shirt-front an excellent caricature of a man at a side table who was enjoying forty winks after supper, the diamond stud in the centre of the dress shirt forming a very effective eye. APE'S SKETCH ON A SHIRT-FRONT. I soon found out from the waiter the name of Ape " Pellegrini of Vanity the caricaturist ; he was Fair. " I say, Carlo," said one of the party, " let (I forget who the wearer of the dress shirt was) show it to Herman " (the subject caricatured). " What, you fool, you fellow ! " jerked out Pellegrini, " what would you fellow be given 'im what you call, eh, affront ! " I knew Pellegrini well in after-years, and can say that that was a fab: sample of the genial Carlo's wit. The man Pellegrini caricatured on that occasion was OLD TAVERNS AND DEBATING SOCIETIES 69 one of the literary men who generally wound up the night at the Albion. He made a fortune later as part " AND NOW SEE YOU'VE DONE IT." author of The Silver King Henry Herman and he wore a glass eye. 70 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS Once when I was relating the incident at a club- I think it was the Savage Herman vouched for the story and moreover declared he was the hero. Also he, to use an Irish expression, " made light of his eye." On one occasion when riding in a hansom cab the driver used his whip so frequently and unprofessionally that Herman raised the trap on the roof and remonstrated over and over again, only receiving abuse in return and flicks of the whip directed dangerously near his face. Alighting, Herman held one hand over his eye and turned the other towards the abusive cabby. " Give me your number, you scoundrel ; what is your number ? I'll prosecute you for this. I told you you would put my eye out with that infernal whip and now see you've done it." Before he could utter another word the driver had whipped up his horse and, with a face the picture of horror, dashed away without his fare, whilst Herman smilingly replaced his glass eye. Carlo Pellegrini " Ape " was the life and soul of the Beefsteak Club. He was an aristocrat, an Italian who, having lost his money, came to England and became famous as a caricaturist. Whether he made Vanity Fair or Vanity Fair made him is a question I need not debate. Thomas Gibson Bowles was certainly " Ape's " best friend, but he had many others, for he was a universal favourite. If kings of old had their jesters, clubs of to-day have their jesters too. Pellegrini was a club jester. Nothing he said gave offence. He said every- thing in such a quaint un-English way that every remark of his was greeted with a roar ; as a caricaturist he was inimitable it was cruel uncompromising caricature, beautifully reproduced and printed by Vincent Brooks, OLD TAVERNS AND DEBATING SOCIETIES 71 Pellegrini was the Whistler of caricature, and of epigram or what was accepted as epigram, which, if delivered by an Englishman without Pellegrini's accent and foreign mannerism might strike one as rather coarse commonplaces. Pellegrini prided himself on never possessing a sketch-book ; he said that he carried his impression of his subjects in his head. In that respect he was a conjuror, for when the poor fellow was ill in his rooms in Mortimer Street, and one of his club friends called to see him, and, discovering a pile of soiled shirts in a corner of Pellegrini's bedroom, began to sort them out for the laundress, " Ape " jumped up in his bed and cried : " You fellow, what are you doing ? You send them to the wash never ! They are my stock-in-trade." On every right-hand cuff were sketched memoranda for the portraits he " carried in his head." F. B. Chatterton, manager of Drury Lane Theatre when I knew the Albion, joined with two others the trio responsible for the pantomime : J. R. Planche who wrote the book and Beverly who painted the scenes. Planche's pen was always delightful, and Beverly's brush has never been equalled. But Chatterton was not successful. Chatterton had many skirmishes with his performers he was probably the last of the bullying, coarse, ill-tem- pered managers. His pen, confined to the office, became delightfully ineffective; in fact it was he who said " Shakespeare spells ruin." But Shakespeare did not write pantomimes, and it was his failure in the great Christmas festival which eventually ruined him. Among the younger members of the theatrical pro- fession who frequented this inn-club, the Albion, was Charles Warner, who was then a '* leading juvenile," MY BOHEMIAN DAYS and just as intense and self-conscious as in after -years when he became famous as Coupeau in Drink, the dramatised version of Zola's UAssommoir, by Charles Reade. Warner ordered his refreshment with such fervour that it might be imagined he was demanding poison, and handled his knife and fork with the tragic ges- tures with which Macbeth might have seized the daggers. I made the acquaintance of Henry Sampson who wrote under the nom-de-plume of " Pendragon," and was founder of The Referee in a peculiar way. He was stand- ing at the bar of the Albion discussing athletics and pro- pounding some theory on the qualifications necessary for running races, and he turned round to find some one who would serve as an illustration. It will amuse all who know me to learn that he selected me I was then young and very thin ! " I do not know that young man," remarked Sampson, " but he would make a sprinter," and he pointed out that in proportion to my height five feet two and a half my chest de- velopment and my length of leg from hip to knee were, among other points, those of a runner. Strange to say, his remarks were justified, for as a boy CHARLES WARNER ORDERING HIS SUPPER. OLD TAVERNS AND DEBATING SOCIETIES 73 I was never beaten in a race ; I trained for running, and I loved it. David James, who looked like a drummer or commercial man showing London life to his clerk, and James Thome, were both meekness personified, though they coined money with their performance of Our Boys at the Vaudeville. Edward Ledger, the proprietor of The Era, known as " the Actor's Bible," smiled on the com- pany. But Ledger has long discontinued his connec- tion with the theatrical profession I saw him quite recently at a club in the West End looking over The Era, in a very different environment to that of the Albion in the good old days. Many years before I made the Parliament at West- minster my happy hunting-ground, I paid particular attention to the Parliaments in Bohemia, the best known probably being " Ye Ancient Society of Cogers," though the Temple Discussion Forum, held at the Green Dragon in Fleet Street, was in my early days in London equally celebrated, besides being older by one hundred years, and for a long time its popular chairman, " Old Ross," ensured a big attendance. I was also early introduced into the " City of Lush- ington," and shown, among its many theatrical relics, the cast of Edmund Kean's face and also the jealously cherished dent in the wainscotting caused by Edmund Kean hurling a pewter pot at the head of one of the " Aldermen." This " City " consisted of the back parlour of the Harp, a public-house which up to 1902 stood next to the stage door of Drury Lane Theatre. The famous Sheridan was placidly enjoying his pipe and his glass when the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, of which he was lessee, burst into flames, and the messenger 74 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS rushed with horror and distraction to inform Sheridan of the fact, and was quietly informed : " Well, what of that ? Cannot a man sit in peace by his own fireside ? " I remember " doing " these mock parlia- ments very thoroughly in company with a charming American who wrote an ac- count of them for Harper's Magazine whilst I made the sketches. It added greatly to my interest in the subject be- ing able to compare notes with a writer from the New World, who, like all Ameri- cans of literary or artistic tem- perament, loved the associations of all these quaint old-time retreats of Bohemia in London. This article appeared in the late eighties, quite thirty years ago. I had been an occasional visitor to these Bohemian Parliaments for some time, in EDMUND KEAN'S TABLET AND MASK IN THE " CITY OF LUSHINGTON." OLD TAVERNS AND DEBATING SOCIETIES 75 particular to the " Old Cogers " before it moved away from Shoe Lane to its present quarters. I found them rich in character subjects, for among them were men of all ages, classes, and conditions, including well-to-do tradesmen, budding lawyers, newspaper reporters, clerks, and apparently a small sprinkling of artisans or petty COGERS. tradesmen. Also there were a good many whose oc- cupations it would be difficult to guess : A place there is, not far from fam'd Fleet Street, Where youthful Whigs and brawling patriots meet ; Thither the City spouter wends his way, To waste the night with profitless display. There is no doubt the " budding lawyers " found the Cogers Hall particularly useful for the practice of speak- ing in public. I know that Sir Edward Clarke when he was living as a young pressman, and at the same time studying for the Bar (at which he became so famous), 76 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS found it an excellent place to study for parliamentary debating, in which he was equally successful. I am not quite sure whether Sir Frank Lockwood ever addressed the Cogers, but I know he had been there, for he and I were discussing the place one evening, and he drew these Cogers from memory. That such young men still find their mock parliaments advantageous is illus- trated by the fact that the shining light of the last one I attended was the present Lord Chief Justice, Lord Reading. I think this has always been so, at least as regards the Cogers, for I came across a very curious account of the Cogers in a book published ninety years ago, in which it says : " Among the various convivial meetings with which this Metropolis abounds, none, upon several accounts, is more worthy of a visit than Coger's Hall. At most of the other places of evening entertainment, singing forms one of the principal attractions to the company ; but in the Coger's Hall, political discussion is the order of the night, although it is somewhat of the noisiest kind, and although from the vast number of boisterous radicals who attend the room, nothing goes down in it but revolutionary sentiments and democratic toasts. Yet it cannot be denied that some of the most cele- brated of our city orators have acquired their eloquence in that far-famed school of Cockney declamation ; which, however, has degenerated into a mere bear-garden." The Society of Cogers, from a prominent announce- ment over the mantelpiece, appears to have been first established in 1756. While " My Grand," as the President is called, is in the chair, the Company, according to the regulations, one and all doff their hats, a rule which, I believe, is OLD TAVERNS AND DEBATING SOCIETIES 77 not enforced in any other convivial meeting in London ; but here it is not allowed to be violated for one instant. Late one evening, as I was passing, I think it was Cogers Hall, or it may have been one of the other debating societies in the neighbourhood, I noticed four or five young gentlemanly dressed men, either students of the Temple or young medicos, speaking to a sand- wich man. As board-men did not walk the streets in that neighbourhood at that late hour, I stopped to watch the game. " That is capital, Jack ! You look fine. Keep yourself warm till the time comes and don't go too far away," I heard one of them say. The others then entered the Hall, and I followed. A debate was in full swing and, as usual, some of the speakers were excellent, but they seemed to have no effect on the students, whom I was still watching. They pooh-poohed the speaker who was " orating," an old hand at this place, and interrupted him with cries of " rot," " bosh," " piffle," etc. The chairman's calls to order were of no avail. At last one of the students COGERS SKETCHED BY SIR FRANK LOCKWOOD. 78 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS said, " Pardon me, sir, but it is too much to expect us to listen to such twaddle. I'll make a bet with any one present the first man in the street to pass will, whoever he may be, make a better speech than this." A sporting- looking, bucolic-looking man rose and said that no bets A COGER MAKING A SPEECH. were allowed to be made, but he would meet the stranger's wishes at the bar outside. This was tanta- mount to the permission of admitting " the man in the street," who, of course, turned out to be the sandwich- man. I must say the young fellow played the part well. OLt> TAVERNS AND DEBATING SOCIETIES 79 His assumption of nervousness and timidity was good, and when the subject of the debate was stated his rather awkward attempt to reply, and then his warming up (he was evidently prepared for the subject of the debate of the evening), and his eloquence and epigram, THE BOARD-MAN. given in his best Oxford debating style, electrified his hearers. After a really fine peroration the sandwichman sat down. The sporting man had his hand in his pocket ready to pay up outside, when I thought the joke was a mean one and in bad taste, and I rose and for the only time in my life spoke in a place of that kind. 8o MY BOHEMIAN DAYS " Gentlemen," I said, " this is a practical joke. I am but a young man, but I like fair play, and the gentlemen who have spoken so well to-night have, I think, been insulted. The brilliant young man who has just sat down is not a stranger to the other young men, and further- more, I, as an artist, can prove it. I have observed, as you all can if you look at the young man's shoulders, that there is absolutely no sign of any straps ever having rested upon them. Were he a genuine sandwichman the cloth on the shoulders would shine and show signs of wear." The speaker who had been so rudely interrupted came to me and said that I had missed my vocation in life and advised me to study for the Bar (he was a solicitor, I believe), and in truth I often regret I did not take his advice. I looked in at either the Cogers or the Green Dragon one evening with my friend, Richard Dowling, the novel- ist, and we were both hugely amused by a discussion on the rival merits of Dickens and Thackeray. Dowling was fond of recalling the following opinion quoted by one of the Cogers : " It's in 'is wonderful insight into 'uman nature that Dickens gets the pull over Thackeray ; but on t'other hand it's the brilliant shafts o' satire, t'gether with a keen sense o' 'umour, that Dickery gets the pull over Thackens. It's just this : Thickery is the humorist, and Dackens is the saterist. But, after all, it's 'bsur' to instoot any comparison between Dackery and Thickens," which, after all, is a very fair specimen of the after-dinner oratory we were accustomed to hear in the discussion forums of Bohemia. CHAPTER VII FROM MY STUDIO WINDOW Robertsonian comedies at the " Dust Hole " Return to nature My double " Whistler " in the Circus " A jolly good sort " Family portraits "Well caught" George Grossmith The drayman and the nuts WHEN I came to London the Bancrofts were still in the old Prince of Wales Theatre, familiarly known as the " Dust Hole," and playing a series of revivals of poor Tom Robertson's delightful society comedies, Caste, School, etc. The delight caused by these Meissonier-like pictures of English life in the sixties and seventies can hardly be conceived by playgoers of to-day particularly if they have only seen them when revived. I know I took my own young family to see a revival of Ours, I think at the old Globe Theatre. Miss Irene Vanbrugh, whom they knew, was playing Lady Bancroft's part ; I forget the others, but they were all excellent. The effect upon the rising generation was that the humour did not make them even smile, and the pathos made them laugh. Perhaps this was inevitable, for plays of this class go out of fashion more quickly than pictures or novels, and the public taste changes with the time. 6 si 82 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS Robertson undoubtedly understood the taste of his time. Sir Squire Bancroft, in The Bancrofts' Recollec- tions of Sixty Tears, writes thus of the generality of plays before he discovered Robertson : " Many so-called pictures of life presented on the stage were as false as they were conventional. The characters lived in an unreal world, and the code of ethics on the stage was the result of warped conditions." " It was truly said," adds Sir Squire, " that the author of Society rendered a public service by pro- viding an entertainment which suited their sympathies and tastes. The return to nature was the great need of the stage, and happily he came to help supply it at the right moment." This was true enough of that time. " Their sympathies," however, were mid-Victorian, and as out of touch with the sympathies of to-day as the songs and paintings of that time. At a later period I frequently met a son of Robertson. His father had then been dead some years, and our meetings were always painful. He invariably started when he saw me, turned pale, and almost fainted. " Oh ! Mr. Furniss, I wish you had never been born. I thought you were my dear father, and he had come to life again ! " This happened so often that, as I had never seen his father, I asked those who had known him if I resembled the dramatist, and they one and all assured me that I was not a bit like poor Tom. Tom Robertson had red hair and a reddish beard, as I had then, but he was a much bigger man than I, and of Semitic appearance. So the " strong resemblance " seen by young Robertson remained a mystery. In penning one's recollections of long ago it is curious how the mention of one name or one incident may lead FROM MY STUDIO WINDOW 83 to another. The word " resemblance " switches me from Bancroft to Whistler. One evening I was dining with Sir Squire Bancroft at his charming house in Berkeley Square, and seated next to me was Val Prinsep, the Royal Academician, who at once said to me, " I say, Furniss, is it you who has started the rumour that Jimmy Whistler has thrown up painting and joined a travelling circus ? " I had to plead guilty. This is a very good instance of how a small and very in- nocent joke may expand into an apparent fact of appalling dimensions. It happened in this way. Sir Edgar Boehm, R.A., the most favoured, most delight- ful of men, but one of the worst sculptors of the Vic- torian Era, as one can judge by many of our public statues, had a charming daughter, who, when she married, was given TOM ROBERTSON. as a wedding present by her father the house in which he lived in Sussex. Shortly after her marriage I rented that house for several months. My children were young, and I took them all to a travelling circus in the neighbourhood, and with them Boehm's married daughter and her young brother, both of whom had been brought up in the inner circle of the art world. I was struck by a strong resemblance borne by a gentleman performing on the tight-rope to Whistler. So, in pure mischief, I said to young Boehm, " See, 84 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS that performer is a friend of your father's it is Jimmy Whistler." " So it is," cried the youth. " Yes ; your father will be sorry to hear such a clever man has become a member of a travelling circus." Young Boehm was so interested and excited that I had the greatest difficulty to prevent him jumping into the ring when " Whistler " jumped off the wire after his show. In fact he urged the reason that " Whistler was one of dad's pals, and, as he knew him, Whistler would be jolly surprised to see him appear," but I did not give him the chance. That the youth believed he had seen Jimmy Whistler perform was evi- dent by the manner it was repeated afterwards in art circles, and so finally " WHISTLER " ON THE TIGHT-ROPE. . , reached my ears. Sir Squire Bancroft, then Mr. Sidney Bancroft, had a personality all his own. He played the swell of the period in a natural, gentlemanly way in place of a burlesque (in the same way that Sothern's Lord Dundreary was a revelation). It added greatly to the phenomenal success of the Robertsonian comedies. My studio, as I have said before, was close to the old Prince of Wales Theatre, and I frequently saw Bancroft passing by. I remember a friend being asked what he was like. " Oh, a jolly good sort for a swell, a sort of man who disdained dilly-dallying on the kerb, but FROM MY STUDIO WINDOW crossed the road under the horses' heads as if he wanted to get to the other side." Some ladies were having afternoon tea in my studio when I saw Bancroft on the other side making his way to Oxford Street. I pointed him out to my friends, who were keen theatre-goers, but only knew the stage from the front, and they instantly exclaimed, " That Mr. Bancroft ! We do not think much of him ! Why, he is just the same in the play ! We know many young men who, if they walked on to the stage, would be just like him." A re- mark which shows that true-to-life, natural acting was neither understood nor appreciated in the comedies of those days. The Bancroft Com- pany at the Prince of Wales was quite like a family party. I ventured one day to remark upon the fact to a lady at one of my studio parties. " Quite so ; no doubt you are right," she replied ; " we often go to see them, but why should the performers, if they are a family party as you say, put up large photo- graphs of their sons and other members of their home circle for the public to gaze at in the vestibules of the theatres. Toung Mr. Hare, for instance ! " MR. SIDNEY BANCROFT. 86 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS This was actually a reference to a portrait of John Hare himself. Gilbert, his son, a capital actor of a later date, was not yet born ; but no one who then saw Sir John Hare playing the wonderful old-men parts which made him famous could credit him with being so young an actor. It was from the window of my Newman Street studio that I saw a " swell's " tall hat blow off and dance down the pavement. It belonged to Frank Dicksee, now the well-known Royal Academician, who instantly gave chase to it. The Dicksees, I may add, lived in Fitzroy Square at the top of my street. Opposite to my studio was a French restaurant, and as it was not long after the Paris Commune several French refugees hung about it. The sight of this new silk hat twirling towards them caused great excitement. They all gallantly faced it on its wild career ; one, braver than the rest, rushed forward and brought his foot straight down on the crown and struck an attitude of triumph. In those days every one who wished to appear respect- able, from peers to cads, wore the " silk hat," " tall hat," " topper," " chimney pot," or whatever one chose to call it. Although most men wore them, comparatively few of the lower class could afford new ones. " Bet you a new hat," was a common remark, and really meant, " Will bet you a guinea." It was a fine but windy day, after a long spell of wet weather. The London streets were in a filthy condition. I was standing at the window when I saw a brand new hat carried by the wind into the roadway across to the other side, and a Pickwickian, stoutish gentleman dodging the traffic after it. His hat came capering on, under the horses, and FROM MY STUDIO WINDOW 87 between the wheels, uninjured. A seedy-looking in- dividual on my side of the way stepped off the pathway to arrest the hat in its wild career, in the attitude of a goalkeeper in a football match about to receive the ball. The hat came right under a brewer's cart ; in an instant the " catcher " to use an American baseball term caught it in one hand, with the other he removed his own shabby " tile " off his head, and placed it in some inches of mud in front of the hind wheel of the brewer's cart, and walked on. No one, I think, saw the incident but myself. The owner of the new hat was on the other side of the dray, waiting for the juggernaut of beer to roll on. There lay a hat as flat as a pancake, covered in mud. Thinking it was his own, the " swell " walked on to find another hat shop. Mentioning a dray-cart reminds me of another act of remarkable quick- wittedness I witnessed. It was the custom in the old days, before clubs sprang up in London Bohemia, to purchase during the walnut season nuts in Covent Garden Market, and to adjourn to a well-known establishment famous for its old port " out of the wood " served in " dock glasses." George Grossmith Secundus father of the present actor of the name was an inveterate practical joker. He was then 'The Times reporter at Bow Street Police Court close by, and one day, as I was in company with him, discussing our " Walnuts and Wine," two huge draymen were in the act of lowering barrels of wine into the cellars under our open window. The irrepressible Grossmith amused himself pelting the draymen with the shells of the wal- nuts, much to the annoyance of the giant drayman who had his back to us. " Blow me, Bill, 'ow's that ? Where's them a-comin' from ? " and so on. " G. G." was GEORGE GROSSMITH. 88 FROM MY STUDIO WINDOW 89 delighted shells, and more shells, unbroken walnuts, and then high-explosive laughter. " A woa ! above ther ! " came from the cellar below. We then heard the rattle of the barrel descending pre- cipitately, a rope flying round, and a man running the pelted drayman had, in fact, spotted his assailant, who was at the moment seated with his back to the door quite unconscious of his danger. Grossmith turned round just in time to see the huge, bared arm of the giant dray- man in the air, ready to descend with the force and fury of the angry one. We might never have enjoyed Gilbert and Sullivan's operas at the Savoy in later years if he had not, like a flash of lightning, held up his ringer, and smilingly cried, " Port or sherry ? " The sinewy arm relaxed. " Well, sir, thanks, I like port, I do. My pal outside, he is partial to sherry." George Grossmith had many good stories to tell ; one that always amused me was his story, which he related as a true one, of a costermonger who thought he would enjoy his holiday taking a walk through the West End. " Yes, Mr. Grossmith, I dress myself up spiff, and goes up Regency Street. I was a-lookin' at some photer- graafs in a shop winder when a swell bloke wid a lydy on his arm gives me a shove and sends my 'ead clean through that 'ere winder. Did I cuss and swear ? Did I use bad langvidge ? No. I remembered w'ere I was, so with the blood all a-streamin' down my face, I rose my 'at graceful an' says, * I beg your parding.' That's all I says, ' I beg your parding.' I crushed 'im with breediit \ " CHAPTER VIII SOME ODD CONTRASTS When all were " boys " J. L. Toole and Seymour Hicb at the Garrick Club Revolt from inaction Barrie's caution " Old Bucky " Tree and the limelight Jekylls and Hydes Maarten Maartens A luxurious " shanty " Irving's favourite supper THE older Bohemia was pervaded with an atmosphere of perpetual youth, or at any rate an assumption of it. In Bohemia the old croakers and hypochrondriacs one meets at Buxton or Llandrindod were unknown. They were all " boys," but, like the stableyard " boy " of the old coaching days, the " boy " on the lugger, or the " boy " in a Kimberley diamond mine, some of them had passed the allotted three-score years and ten. To have only one score of years to one's credit and still to be one of them was an item of not the slightest significance. They were all " boys." Their motto was " Let us be merry to-day, for to-morrow we may be in the Charterhouse." This indeed was a comfortable haven of rest, but to gain admittance thereto meant being ticketed " old," and to be acknowledged decrepit meant ostracism as far as Bohemia was concerned. When I was a boy it was the pace that killed many and many a genius in the world of art and literature. It is an unfortunate fact and somewhat disconcerting 9 o SOME ODD CONTRASTS 91 to one chronicling his experience of men over half a century that boys will not remain boys, but grow into middle age before they can be placed in the portrait gallery. Yet how well I remember young Forbes Robertson before he ever walked the stage, then an art student, sitting in his studio in Bloomsbury surrounded by fair J. L. TOOLE AND SEYMOUR HICKS. admirers ; another artist, Weedon Grossmith, who has been known for years now as one of the funniest actors on the stage alas ! since I wrote these lines, poor Weedon is no more and Bernard Partridge, who was an actor when I first saw him years ago, and is now a " veteran " on the staff of Punch. I remember one evening at the Garrick Club J. L. Toole bringing into supper a bright-eyed, modest youth of the name of Hicks, who night after night sat next to Toole without uttering a word. Of those nights (and what de- 92 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS lightful suppers they were, too, in those days) Seymour Hicks writes : " What hours we used to keep ! He (Toole) could not go to bed. I have sat up with him at a famous club (the Garrick) six times a week till five every morning month in, month out." Yet, in spite of it, Seymour Hicks has been for years the most volatile and delightful favourite of the theatre-going public. Actors of the Seymour Hicks type came as a real relief after a depressing craze of " reserved force." De- lightful Charles Coghlan perhaps through his ambition being on the wane, or probably because he suffered from ennui originated " reserved force," and it grew ; in- action, long pauses, low tones, were considered force ; it really was nothing but depressing laziness. I was seated in the stalls during one of those funereal tragedies or were they comedies ? when some people in front of me rose from their seats quite seriously, and an old dame chaperoning the party remarked audibly enough to be heard on the stage, " Come, dears, we had better come again when the performers know their parts." I mention in another place the first contribution of a young journalist who used me as a peg upon which to write a clever mock interview, and is now Sir James Barrie, Bart. When Barrie was producing his charming play Quality Street, he cast young Seymour Hicks for the young lover. Some one spoke to Barrie about the selection " Seymour Hicks can never keep still, he is far too modern." " Ah, weel," remarked Barrie, rolling his head slowly, " I thought of that so I have one of the officer's arms in a sling just to curb him a bit." According to Moy Thomas this could not be a new device, for he informs us that Coquelin denies that French actors gesticulated more than English actors, SOME ODD CONTRASTS 93 for at the Conservatoire the ' prof essors repress gesticula- tion by tying the young actor's arms behind him. In the old days actors and actresses looked upon the theatre as the thing, the whole thing, and nothing but the thing ; for them music-halls, or whatever name variety houses are called by, were for comic singers, dancers, and acrobats. As for the kinemas they did not exist. Now the actor plays in the music-halls and also acts for the kinema. Thus he has to alter his methods. He must speak up if he is to be heard in the halls ; it is of no use lisping through a society play ; he must study his action more if he is to succeed in the " movies." The more I look back upon the old days the more I regret we had not the kinema to perpetuate the old favourites and to hand down the present generation to THE MODERN ACTOR'S ENGAGEMENTS. their wonderful personalities and their perfect acting. To all of us who recollect theatrical London in the seventies, Buckstone is a dear and valued name. Practic- ally speaking, " Old Bucky " was himself the old Hay- market Theatre, notwithstanding that he had around him a fine old English comedy company. The public were brought to the theatre by the personality of Buckstone. The country cousins visited the Haymarket as they would, as a matter of course, go to see the Tower, St. 94 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS Paul's, Madame Tussaud's, and the other sights of the big city. In my opinion this great actor cannot better be de- scribed than by saying, as all my readers who frequented the kinematograph shows a few years ago will know, that in personal appearance he was the John Bunny of the legitimate stage. I repeat, never do I witness a photo- play but my mind travels back to the plays and players of my youth with the regret that the kinematograph was not then in existence. Had that been the case the present generation would have been enabled to see Buckstone. That, as a matter of fact, is all that most people did in his later days, for the simple reason that one could not hear him. I have written and produced many plays for the kinema, both in America and in England, and I found that, with few exceptions, actors, however good, cannot walk off the stage into the studio and expect to act before the camera at once. In acting for the kinema, Tree was at first hopeless ; Trilby had to be done all over again, and the book was in fact eventually sent to me to be arranged for the kinema. I never saw the final pro- duction. Tree wanted more space and less pace in acting before the camera. The lighting also bothered him ; one of his company cruelly remarked that he was not accustomed to having the lights so equally divided. It was always a joke against Tree that he had the most of the limelight directed on himself which, from a business point of view, was no doubt necessary, but at the same time it had an irritating effect on those who were playing leading parts with him. A Canadian actor, who made a hit at His Majesty's and worked so hard that it J. B. BUCKSTONE. 95 96 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS was declared the " steam came off the top of his head,'* ventured one day to rebuke Tree, who was " playing him off the stage," by remarking, " Say, Mr. Tree, in Nature, the moon is impartial ! " " Who's Who " of Bohemia would make an interesting volume. The most fascinating pages would be those devoted to the Jekylls and Hydes that is to men, and I might add women, in art, literature, and the stage who have lived two lives. In my early days I was one evening in the smoking room of a Bohemian club I had recently joined, where an artistic and clever-looking member with a fine head and long hair, wearing a velveteen coat and salmon- coloured tie of the typical artist, informed the room that he was starting in a few days on a tour through Normandy and Brittany, with his wife and daughter, and suggested there was a chance for any one to join his party of three. The only response came from myself. I was then about one-and-twenty. I was living alone, had been working hard, and badly needed a holiday, so I introduced myself to the speaker, delighted to find such a charming com- panion. Moreover, he was an artist (he went in for modelling), and we could sketch together. His wife and little daughter were delightful, and I, thanks largely to my new acquaintances, enjoyed my month or six weeks' holiday immensely. Returning to England, I was invited to visit his people in Kent, and found there a refined couple who had made their money in the City and retired to the country. My artistic friend, who was a writer as well as an artist, con- tinued to carry on the business, but as he made such a success with his novel writing he eventually sold it. I SOME ODD CONTRASTS 97 looked him up in the City soon after our Continental trip. He was a pork butcher, and was behind the counter cutting up legs of pork, and weighing out sausages. He SKETCHING IN NORMANDY. became one of our popular novelists, and enjoyed a very successful career. Maarten Maartens, the great Dutch novelist, author 7 g8 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS of " God's Fool " and other notable works, was one of the most interesting men I have met. Like his books, he was thoughtful and reserved, and penetrated with a keen sense of humour. He spoke perfect English, and gave pleasant little literary dinners at his club in England, where I met the shining lights in literature. Maarten Maartens was fond of Bohemia and Bo- hemians. He made the acquaintance of some young painters, who were going up the river to paint landscapes, and Maarten, at their invitation, visited them. " This little shanty isn't much of a place to which to invite a guest," one of the hosts remarked, " but if you can manage the ladder, we have rigged up a bed of sorts, and you'll find the old roof well ventilated." The famous novelist thoroughly enjoyed his sojourn with the Bohemians, and in return made them promise to visit him at his country place near Utrecht, in Holland. In due course the Merry Bohemians pushed into their Gladstone bags some things befitting a rustic country life, and looked forward to a few days in the writer's " shanty." Arriving at their destination, they were met to their surprise by the author, accompanied by footmen in gorgeous livery, who relieved them of their hand-bags ; and to their increased surprise there were waiting for them carriages with outriders in livery ; the magnificent gates were flung open by liveried servants, and the path to the castle was lined with torchbearers, and their host, whose full name was Joost Marius Willem Van der Poorsten-Schwartz, lived like a prince at his home. Once a Bohemian always a Bohemian ; that is true of most men I have come in contact with. Sir Henry Irving is an example. He not only rose to the highest SOME ODD CONTRASTS 99 pinnacle of fame in his profession, but he made it his mission to elevate " the profession " of which he was the acknowledged head and raise it from the depth of " vaga- bondism" to its proper place. Royalty and Bishops patted Irving on the back, learned societies and universities honoured him ; he was equal to it all, and played the part so well that he in turn patronised them. But, in his heart of hearts, he hated it all. The pose in public, though genuine in pur- pose, was but a pose ; his heart was in Bohemia. I have frequently been in his company in the pro- vinces, when he, at the theatre, and I, at some public hall, were doing our best to entertain the public, and later in the evening we foregathered at some supper function given in honour of Irving. " Never mind," he used to say, as we were returning ioo MY BOHEMIAN DAYS to the hotel together, " we'll have a really enjoyable supper on Saturday." This meant Irving inviting me to his sitting-room at eleven o'clock or later, perhaps to meet one or two particular friends of his associated with the city in which we happened to be. On his way to the theatre Irving would purchase some chops, and on his return some baked potatoes from a vendor in the street. Arrived at the hotel, he attended to the fire himself, and from his portmanteau produced a silver gridiron which our mutual friend Joe Hatton had given to him. Irving having cooked the chops, and procured the best wine obtainable and the finest cigars, we would make a splendid supper. That was Bohemian, and in that atmosphere Irving unbent and was at his best. CHAPTER IX MERRY NIGHTS AMONG THE " SAVAGES " After five-and-twenty years The " Busy Bees " The delinquent member and the Committee A Royal Savage Sir Somers Vine George A. Henty His collapsible boat Saturday evening enter- tainment Dr. Farmer and Jowett The S.O.S. signal Crawford Wilson " Fairy Fitzgerald " Edward Draper The Tinsel-period Jealous and du Maurier The Savage Club Ball I censor a Savage Queen TWELVE years ago I dined at the Mansion House as one of the guests invited by the Right Hon. the Lord Mayor, Alderman Sir William Treloar, a member of the Savage Club, to meet his fellow- members. I had two reasons for accepting the Savage Lord Mayor's in- vitation. First, I was not invited because I had been a " Savage," nor be- cause I was looked upon as a representative man for the others to meet. 101 I TAKE THE CHAIR AT THE SAVAGE CLUB. loa MY BOHEMIAN DAYS I was invited because I had just previously done a little indirect service to Sir William in connection with one of his appeals on behalf of his Cripples Fund. For another thing I admired the ex-Lord Mayor as a man. Sir William is a jolly good fellow and a brick for fighting the bigoted Sabbatarians who object to people making our English Sunday endurable. Another reason for attending was the desire to meet some of my old friends. Over my head a quarter of a century had flown remarkably quickly ; so quickly, indeed, since I had last seen the "Savages," that the auburn locks which were wont to fall over my temples when I sat on the Com- mittee of the Club had to a great extent blown off. I beheld a bald-headed, middle-aged gentleman, be- spectacled as well, whom I remembered as a young singer from the Savage Wigwam, building up a reputation in Gilbert and Sullivan's operas at the Savoy. " Hullo, old chap, how are you ? " was my greeting. ALDERMAN TRELOAR. MERRY NIGHTS AMONG THE " SAVAGES " 103 He stared at me. " You have the advantage of me, sir," he replied loftily. " I do not think I have the pleasure of knowing you." I gave him my name, and incidentally a dig in the ribs. " Good gracious, Harry, old fellow ! Well I never ! You fat, bald-headed old chap ! Bless my soul, who would have thought it ! " And my old-time confrere was not the only one that evening who shook me by the hand without guessing my identity, and who was oblivious of the fact that he had grown older and balder with the passage of the years, even as I myself. But the men who were even more interesting than my contemporaries were those who appeared old to me when I was a boy ; and to hear Santley sing again, and Mark Twain retail delightful stories almost as old as himself made me feel young again. There is no doubt the famous Brothers Brough started the Savage Club. It is truly said that if there had been no Broughs there would have been no Savage Club. Per- sonally I think the title a mistake. In the circumstances the " Busy Bees " would have been a better one. Most of the members are busy bees, with a few drones thrown in, and I do not think that literally they have a Savage among them, a fact that was singularly emphasised at the great Savage Ball at the Royal Albert Hall. I was a member of the Savage Club when it was housed in the Savoy, on the ground floor of a large block of buildings facing a graveyard. Some of my pleasantest memories are connected with those Savage days ; they were not long, but merry. More than once I presided at the famous Saturday night dinner and sang songs and, 104 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS thumped the accompaniment on the table, and made the one speech of the evening, " Gentlemen, you may smoke." I designed a number of menus, or mementoes, for these dinners ; I served on the committee, and before beginning my career on the platform I " tried it on the dog " at the Savage. They were great days. Some of the original Savages were still members, and young fellows of my age drank in the earlier history of the Savages from them with much delight. There is no doubt that the wide river of true Bohemianism flows steadily through the Land of the Savages. There are other clubs of its kind in the back- water, but the Savage holds to a firm foundation, and I trust is still rippled with a little of its old eccentricity. In the old days some delightful incongruities happened, that could not possibly occur in any other club I have been connected with. I was on the committee at the time the affairs of a certain impecunious but popular member were brought up, and we had to deal with them for the five-hundredth time. The member paid for nothing, broke the rules, and generally behaved in a way that had he been a member of any other club he would have been expelled without a doubt. After much consideration we thought it our duty to suggest payment or suspension. The delinquent member's wrath knew no bounds. He called a general meeting, and the result was that his friends, absolutely ignorant, it is needless to say, of all the rules of clubland, passed a vote of censure on the committee. We resigned. And the popular member in question is still a member of the club ! It may be interesting to mention the members of the committee who were so ignominiously retired : Sir TWM "it?** f Cff* tf/Kf lW' L> A' Tl^ f/ $M;<\ft.9B y?/M yvw *" KiJai.vjv ^SST-^ HI 9g^hS^ zo6 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS Gladstone ministry Philip Cunliffe-Owen, K.C.M., G.C.B., C.I.E., was in the Chair ; T. R. Somers Vine (afterwards Sir Somers Vine) ; Charles Kelly, the well-known actor who married Miss Ellen Terry ; W. B. Tegetmeier, of whom I have written elsewhere; William Woodall, M.P. in the P. T. Duffy, the well-known authority on chess; Edward Draper, solicitor, one of the oldest and most respected members; C. B. Birch, the celebrated sculptor and member of the Royal Academy ; George S. Jealous, editor and pro- prietor of The Hampstead and High gate Express ; Herbert Johnson, of The Graphic, and an art war correspondent; William Hughes, the famous painter; Thomas W. Cutler, an old member and architect ; John Rackliff, leading flautist of the Royal Opera; E. T. Goodman, honorary secretary, and a sub-editor of The Daily Telegraph ; and your humble servant. These were the men turned out of office for asking a member to pay his club debts ! I merely mention their names as the same committee who had signed the resolution asking H.R.H. the Prince of Wales (Edward VII.) to join the club. I suppose that the election of H.R.H. the Prince of Wales as honorary life-member was the greatest social event in the history of the club. A BOHEMIAN WHO DEFIED THB COMMITTEE. MERRY NIGHTS AMONG THE "SAVAGES 107 The Harlequin who arranged this royal visit, and there- by transformed the Savage Club, was Sir Somers Vine. Vine originally, I believe, was in the business of Waterlow and Sons, printers, in the City. He was selected by Sir Sidney Waterlow, when he became Lord Mayor of London, as his secretary, and Vine acted in the same capacity to succeeding Lord Mayors for six or seven years, thus gaining an invaluable ex- perience of men and things. It was popularly supposed that he acted as the medium between King Edward and the City in financial affairs. Anyway, he was very popular with King Edward. Vine had a quaint way of say- ing things. I asked him in a chaffing way how he got his knighthood. "Well," he said, with a broad smile, " it was like this. I was walking about the grounds of Sandringham with His Royal Highness one day, and he said, ' Vine, would you like an honour ? ' Well, Harry, you could have knocked me down with a feather. ' A what, sir ? ' I said. * An honour a knight- hood.' l Well, Your Highness, I should be most happy/ That was on a Tuesday, and I was Sir Somers on Thursday, and that's all I know about it." There is a story told of a very caustic wit, the popular member Baker Greene, barrister and leader-writer on The Morning Post t when invited by Sir Somers Vine to io8 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS pay him a visit at his " ancestral " home, at Vine Court, Sevenoaks, replied, " With pleasure if I can manage it but, I say, Vine, you have not given me the number in the Court." Dear George Henty was perhaps the most popular member of the club in my day. His rugged, honest appearance and manner were thoroughly Bohemian ; his gruff, deep voice and firm hand-grip endeared him to all. If the boys of Britain loved him for his annual war story, we grown-ups admired him as a journalist and as a club- man. Henty was one of the famous war correspondents in the Crimea, and it may be said that he always suggested the Crimea, for the war started the fashion of wearing full beards. Henty, in a military coat, was from top to toe a typical Crimean warrior, always enjoying the inevitable pipe. He had a nature as simple as a child's. I recollect one day he came into the club in great distress. He must have been then about fifty years old. It appears that he had invented a collapsible boat, a boat that could be folded in two and easily carried. Well, in mid-stream it did collapse, and poor Henty had to swim to the shore. " When I got home I crept in at the back door. I did not mind the soaking or the failure of my invention. What did distress me was the fact that my mother did not know I was out, so pray don't say a word, any of you fellows, in the papers." Henty, although the most genial of men, had his likes and dislikes, apart from politics, in which he figured as a strong old-fashioned Tory. He had no bitterness ; cer- tainly he entertained none towards any member of the Savage Club. There was a certain visitor frequently in the club I do not think he was ever a member a MERRY NIGHTS AMONG THE "SAVAGES" 109 very notorious Member of Parliament, J. B. Firth, whose mission in life was to mend or end the ancient companies of the City of London. The organisation he presided over had offices in the same building as the Savage Club. GEORGE A. HENTY. Both in and out of Parliament he harangued, tub- thumped, derided and attacked unceasingly the City Guilds, and in consequence I noticed that at every City dinner I attended Firth's attacks, without exception, caused much uneasiness. Firth was a cocksure, self- satisfied, egotistical man. He wore his hat balanced well no MY BOHEMIAN DAYS forward on his perky little nose, leaving exposed the bump of self-esteem at the back of his cranium, altogether just the man to get on the nerves of good old Henty, who one afternoon remarked in his gruff way, " I never know if that man is the Firth of Forth or the fourth of Firth." The usual Bohemian concert or entertainment took place generally, as I believe it does still, on a Saturday evening. And in this the good nature of the Bohemian is extraordinary, his long-suffering and patience are phenomenal. For hours every week they will keep the enter- tainment going. Very seldom is there anything not worth listen- ing to, from the opening piece on the piano to the solos on the flute or on the violin of some master of the instrument, before he departs to the Opera or the Concert Hall ; or later on, when the beautiful voice of some practised singer charms the assembly as he sings in the atmo- sphere of smoke, and the fumes of whisky, some song that has an hour or so before charmed the public in the stalls. But it is easily seen that he has in front of him, hidden in the clouds of smoke, a more appreciative audience than he could possibly have elsewhere ; so, in spite of the disadvantage of singing while the vocal chords are irritated by the weed, he protects himself by taking a puff from his own cigar between the parts. J. B. FIRTH. MERRY NIGHTS AMONG THE "SAVAGES" in There was often introduced some new talent, just come to Town, perhaps to win over the critics and make many a friend ; and without doubt an evening spent in a club such as this is more entertaining than all London's concerts of the evening put together. Men will run in WHEN GROSSMITH FAILED TO GET A LAUGH. to " do their turn " and rush off to their work again, and in this way some funny complications take place. I recollect George Grossmith singing one of his funniest songs, and not understanding the failure of the audience to appreciate it after the first burst of laughter. The fact of it was there had been another vocal humorist, MY BOHEMIAN DAYS who left the room as he entered, who had sung the very same song ! The theatrical members gave " a turn " before rushing off to their work, and if it was a late evening at the club, gave another on their return. Between the appearances of these professional turns arose the opportunities of the stand-byes or stop-gaps, and didn't they enjoy them- selves too ! These stop-gaps were, in my time, always the same ; their repeated thread-bare strains were always met with good humour in spite of a lack of appreciation. The music master of Harrow School, John Farmer, came first to the rescue (principally because he had to catch an early train to Harrow) with a kind of George Grossmith turn at the piano, more suited for a nice suburban tea-party than a Club of Savages. Farmer was a very entertaining man. He wrote the popular Harrow School songs. He was beloved by the Har- rovians. He had the manner of a scholastic professor, but was at heart a true Bohemian. He was a great friend of Professor Jowett, and when Jowett was Master of Balliol, he induced Farmer to leave Harrow and settle down in Oxford. He had great influence over the young men, particularly those who had been Harrow boys. Harrow boys worshipped Farmer, and at Oxford his concerts were equally popular. Dr. Farmer I knew well. I once spent some days with him at Oxford during the Eights week. He was never tired of talking of his " bies," as he called the young men, and I am sorry to say that although " bies " will be " bies," they will not be " bies " when they are college men, so Farmer was not either as popular or as successful towards the end of his career. I remember his telling me that when at Harrow a circus MERRY NIGHTS AMONG THE "SAVAGES" 113 passed through, and the boys became very excited. In front, on a splendid white charger, rode the " Boss " of the circus red and gold trappings, magnificent diamond shirt-stud every inch a King ! When he came up to where Farmer was standing with the " bies," the sedate monarch pulled up, jumped off his horse, and shook " John " warmly by the hand. From that moment Farmer rose high in the estimation of the " bies " and never came down to the level of an ordinary being again. It ap- pears Farmer began life as a member of the troupe ; he played the big drum and dis- tributed the handbills. Men overtaxing their brains have ex- traordinary, eccentric antidotes. Mr. Gladstone, ac- cording to Tom Cat- ling, of Lloyds, when carrying on his famous crusade in Midlothian, tore himself away from delivering speeches and orations, to soothe and steady himself with music. The G.O.M. arranged with a church organist to have organ practice at a convenient time, and he was provided with a key so that he could enter the church quite privately and sit silently and alone " while the organist played over a number of familiar and impressive hymn tunes " ; then with a " Thank you " he passed out. 8 DR. FARMER AND THE MASTER OF BALLIOL. ii4 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS One day at Oxford I came in to tea and found Jowett seated in Dr. Farmer's room, quietly tucked up in a corner, listening to Farmer's little entertainment on the piano, the same as he gave so often at the Savage. This was the great master's recreation. Another of the Savage stop-gaps was an artist named Soden, a fellow of infinite jest and varied accomplish- ments. He wrote clever verse and recited his own pieces, but in spite of years of repetition he invariably broke down at the critical point of his extremely humorous pieces. I do not think he would have been half so popular had he remembered his words. The company would probably have resented it. After him came a stout man with a bushy black beard and moustache, and a profusion of hair on his head. He approached the piano with a broad grin, as if the song he invariably sang, called "Twickenham Ferry," was all a joke. He was the clever painter of fruit and flowers, William Hughes, and was known as " Fruity Hughes." His voice seemed to be lost in his moustache and beard. Crawford Wilson was for a long time an interesting figure in Bohemia. He was in business as a costumier, but his heart was in the theatre where at one time he, as an amateur, had " strutted his brief hour." Un- fortunately he was never brief in relating his experience and dwelling upon its importance, and as he got older he well, to put it plainly became a bore. He was imbued with the " legitimate " mode of acting, and being endowed with a strong voice, and an Irish brogue, he favoured Bohemia on every occasion by reciting long passages from the legitimate drama. The At Homes in his house, near to the north side of Primrose Hill, were largely patronised by Bohemians. Among others I met MERRY NIGHTS AMONG THE "SAVAGES" 115 there were Karl Blind! and his wife. The latter, like our host, had a voice and a passion for exercising it by- reciting long, tragic pieces ad lib. It was said that besides being Wilson's friends, many were also the mantle- maker's customers, and one evening when, leaving, my wife and I got on to the steps of the house, I remarked to a friendly wit departing at the same time, " For this relief much thanks." "Hush!" he whispered, " Mrs. Karl B is just behind us ! In fact one can say the mantle of Wilson has fallen upon her." Crawford Wilson on one occa- sion asked me down to his breakfast room to look at some theatrical portraits. As we entered, his parrot called out : " Hullo, hullo ! you rascal, at it again ? " then gave a derisive screech, and in a most marvellous manner imitated a cork- screw being applied to a bottle, the pop of the cork, and the pouring out of the liquor. " You infernal rascal ! " cried Wilson. " I'll be twisting your neck if y'do that agin." It struck me the parrot was by no means the least amusing Bohemian entertainer I had heard. Crawford Wilson was an old member of the Savage Club, and about him another and a very old Savage, " The Old Bohemian," Dr. Strauss, was fond of recalling a performance of The School for Scandal at the Lyceum Theatre, in which Henry J. Byron (the author of Our Boys) and Crawford Wilson played respectively the parts CRAWFORD WILSON. ii6 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS of Joseph and Charles Surface. Crawford's Irish brogue was very apparent and puzzled the critics how it was that Joseph came from London and his brother Charles from Cork. There was another well-known and respected Irishman, a popular member of the Savage Club, where I spent so many happy evenings, in their wigwam forty years ago. He was a picturesque old chap, imbued, like Crawford Wilson, with the traditions of the transpontine drama, and unlike the commercial and bearded Wilson, J. A. Fitzgerald looked his part. He had a mobile face, a twinkling eye, and his hair was long, thick and thrown back from his face, but not as thick as his rich Irish brogue. He was known as " Fairy Fitzgerald " from the fact that his work, both colour and black-and-white, was devoted to fairy scenes, in fact his artistic life was one long Midsummer Night's Dream. When I was a constant contributor to the pages of The Illustrated London News, no Christmas number was considered complete without a page of Fitzgerald's dream fairies, and he was drawing the same subject before I was born. In the Savage Club on Saturday evening he was one of the regular stop-gaps. If I recollect, he only had two turns, one a burlesque imitation of old-time actors, the other a burlesque of an old-time theatrical manager at rehearsal, in which h's were scarce and swear words abundant. The merriment caused by his supposed representations of old actors, Kean, Kemble, Macready, etc., was not as the dear old chap fondly imagined, but lay in the fact that they were one and all Fitzgerald himself. He sometimes introduced Irving into his repertoire, and a few other actors, to bring it up to date MERRY NIGHTS AMONG THE "SAVAGES" 117 but they were all Fitzgerald. Of course certain limita- tions of articulation in very old men become very evident, and that I think accounted for the curious exhibition. L. D. Powles, a very popular member of the club, a typical barrister of the jolly-good-sort-of-man-about- town type, who ran a society weekly, The Tattler, a revival of the famous old Tattler (with two " t's "), and subse- quently became Judge of the Bahamas, filled up any gap in the Saturday evening entertainments at the Savage Club with his excellent burlesque of the summing-up by a learned justice. Then one of the original Savages, Edward Draper, a solicitor who drew up the original rules of the club, gave a quaint recitation. This popular member, with his ever-smiling face, was a familiar figure in Fleet Street and the Strand in the old days. He in- variably carried a rather large-sized black bag, which contained far more entertaining matters than lawyers' briefs, for Draper was a collector of the old penny-plain-and-twopence-coloured prints of theatrical characters a fact which endeared him to me, as I am also a collector, and am the proud possessor of a book containing every specimen and pattern of " tinsel " ever made. Beautiful works of art they are too, finely engraved, I believe by Wyon (the firm responsible for the engraving of the Seals of State). Draper as a Bohemian and a member of the Savage n8 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS had a unique and unfailing characteristic, for no matter how gay or distinguished the company might be, at nine o'clock punctually he left the club, carrying his bag, believing and living up to that excellent maxim of " early to bed and early to rise." The rage for tinsel pictures took place long before my time, in the days when Madame Vestris played in The Green Bushes and the palmy days of the " Old Vic." I was present, however, at the last performance of that famous transpontine playhouse, and wit- nessed the last "dog drama," a blood-curdling play in which the inevitable mastiff flies at the throat of the villain. Everything in the play leads up to this one incident, it might be in truth called the raison d'etre of the play and it was worth the money too ! The part of the villain in this scene was generally substituted by the master of the ferocious hound, who had trained his dog, partly by starvation, I fear. This " actor-villain " con- cealed a nice juicy piece of uncooked meat round his neck, and at the critical moment, to the music of a full orchestra, the dog fastened his teeth into the meat ; the man and he struggled all over the stage. The realism of the combat brought the house down, and the villain and the curtain simultaneously. That was something like a drama ! Edward Draper, in the second series of The Savage Club Papers, written and illustrated by the Savages and A POPULAR SAVAGE. MERRY NIGHTS AMONG THE " SAVAGES " 119 published for charity in the sixties, and now exceedingly rare, contributes an article on these old-time plays, characters, and scenes of the tinsel period. The chief publisher was West, who kept a shop opposite the Olympic Theatre in Wych Street, Strand. The scenes were en- graved by clever scene-painters, the characters were etched by skilful artists and were so well drawn that they frequently presented actual portraits. They were coloured by William Heath, a famous water-colour artist of the day. George Cruikshank designed and etched many of them. The large single-character portraits were covered with real tinsel, over inserted material of either satin, silk, or velvet, and finally framed. These tinsels are admired by artists of to-day for their beautiful workmanship. May, the theatrical costumier of Garrick Street, is an enthusiast and has quite a collection on his premises. But my collection is unique. Jealous, the editor and proprietor of The Hampstead. and High gate Gazette, was a good type of the suburban journalist and editor, of the compositor type, a shrewd, level-headed man of the world, and quite a representative of the working Savage. He was a neighbour and friend of the du Mauriers, and more than once supplied jokes for the pencil of that aristocratic discoverer of Mrs. de Tomkyns in Punch. He looked up to du Maurier in more senses than one, for Jealous lived in the hollow of Hampstead known as the Vale of Health, and du Maurier at the top. Between them they had one thing in common, a cabman who supplied vehicles to the neigh- bourhood and whose name resembled Montmorency. On the occasion of du Maurier engaging this cabman to drive him to and from the Society functions in the West End, when the guests were leaving, the cabman, as directed, 120 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS gave his own name to the footman at the door. " The Duke of Montmorency's carriage stops the way," called the footman from the doorstep. But if Jealous engaged the same man to drive him to and from somewhat more plebeian gatherings, " Mr. Montmorency's cab is still a- waiting," was called from the foot of the rank. Jealous was always full of schemes for new ventures in journalism. His latest was a penny Tit-Bit style of weekly, entitled Love, dealing with that magic word in all its phases. The author of Charley's Aunt Brandon Thomas and several other Savages found the money to start it ; but it was, alas ! for love, and love was, as ever, fickle. Jealous was one of the stop-gaps at the Savage Club gatherings on Saturday evening, and responded to the S.O.S. signal. When the entertainment seemed flounder- ing, Jealous good-naturedly came to the rescue. He had not much to contribute, but he made the most of it. Very deliberate in manner, he insisted upon walking very slowly round the tables right into the centre of the room under the chandelier. Then he deliberately took out of his pocket some papers, out of which he selected a MERRY NIGHTS AMONG THE " SAVAGES " 121 press cutting about three inches long. This was an American humorous description of a critic's advice to an artist of the name of Barker, and this advice to Barker was read out, without exaggeration, for years with the strange effect that every one knew every word by heart, but Jealous himself ! The ornamental members that join these Bohemian Clubs of course only see the club life on state occasions when a special banquet is given to some particular guest. In fact, it was the introducing of these particular guests, the taking such clubs away from their surround- ings, and making a public affair of these entertainments in public rooms, that has practically spoilt the home of Bohemianism. When Mr. Gladstone visited the Savage Club years ago, it was at a big public function held at the Pall Mall Restaurant, with the Earl of Dunraven in the chair, and M. E. About, M. Got, Sir J. Benedict, some Members of Parliament, half a dozen Academicians, Delauny, Mounet- Sully, and other English and foreign celebrities among the guests. After this the club never seemed to settle down in its quiet home, but was always bursting out into public dinners, as I have said before. The climax came when the Prince of Wales became a member at the dinner in Wills's Rooms in 1882. King Edward's tact was proverbial. When Prince of Wales he was the guest of the Savage Club and became a member. He had a very difficult task in making his speech, so he wisely did not mention any names, with the exception of myself. I had designed the menu for that occasion. It was double and stood upright on the table, and was supposed to represent a row of the 122 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS Savages' tents, and on this peg His Royal Highness hung some of his remarks. After the banquet, which by the way was held at Wills's Rooms, the Prince asked me for the original drawings, which I subsequently had framed and sent to Marlborough House, and I receiving no acknowledgment, wrote to Sir Francis Knollys and had in return a graceful apology saying that he had been very ill. Sir Francis (afterwards Lord Knollys) had in fact been on his honeymoon, an irresistible excuse. His Royal Highness having become " one of us," ex- pressed a wish to see " the Savages in their habit as they lived," so we all adjourned to our wigwam at Lancaster House, Savoy, where the usual entertainment took place. The greatest public function held by the Savages was their fancy dress ball at the Royal Albert Hall, held in July 1883, for the purpose of raising a fund, at the Prince of Wales's suggestion, to found a Savage Club Fellowship at the Royal College of Music. Over four thousand visitors and spectators were present. I designed the invitation card and acted as one of the three judges selected for the ungrateful task of inspecting all those \vho were in fancy dress on their arrival, in order to prohibit those who were in any way vulgar or objection- able. One of those I had to censor was a very beautiful young lady, who came with her parents. They were Society people, who had gone to the expense of sending to the best costumier in Paris for a suitable and effective savage queen's costume. It had only arrived just in time, and great was the young lady's chagrin when I informed her that unless she promised to keep on her wraps and opera cloak, I could not admit her. The MERRY NIGHTS AMONG THE " SAVAGES " 123 " costume " was beautifully hand-painted and absolutely tight-fitting. The ladies sat in a corner of the gallery all the evening. I chatted with them from time to time, but failed, I fear, to dissipate the only thing typical of the occasion, and that was their savage looks. The ball was a wonderful success, and the talk of London. I made sketches of it for The Illustrated London News. The letterpress states : " The costumes were probably the most varied ever seen together, and many were remarkably artistic, accur- ate, and splendid. It was more than amusing to see respectable old Bohe- mians in war-paint performing the Buffalo dance." The most artistic and accurate cos- tume of all was that of dear old Tegetmeier, as a Japanese ; and as I began my notes on the Savages with Tegetmeier, it seems only just and fitting to close them with his name. TEGETMEIER AS A JAPANESE. CHAPTER X WAR CORRESPONDENTS AND SOME " SPECIALS " " Billy " Russell, of 'The Times Sidney Hall, of The Graphic Melton Prior and Stanley A new " Lord High Executioner " Bennett Burleigh outwits Sir Garnet Wolseley The Savage Club romancer Archibald Forbes Fred Villiers I decline to become one " Jumbo " Blowitz G. Smalley Tennyson's pig" The Bulldog of America " WAR correspondents, both wielders of pen and pencil, who have followed the fortunes of battle in so many parts of the world, have all, with perhaps one exception, emanated from Bohemia. The exception was the first and the most famous Dr. William Russell, familiarly known as " Billy Russell," of The Times, who, as I have before boasted, shared with me the honour of making a noise in the world at the same time, he with his famous letters from the Crimean War and I in my cradle. Russell owed much of his popularity and patronage to his Irish humour. He was always good company, and his ceaseless flow of stories, retailed in the dulcet tones of a rich Irish brogue, were greatly relished by King Edward, who, as Prince of Wales, made Russell one of his staff companions on his tour in India. Not long before his death I was chatting with Russell 124 DR. SIR WILLIAM RUSSELL " BILLY RUSSELL " OF " THE TIMES " IN HIS LATTER DAYS. 125 126 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS at the Garrick Club, and he told me of his first appearance at The Times office. He was a young man, and naturally in a state of excitement when the editor sent for him. On the strength of the summons he invested in a new hat, gloves, and boots, but the boots were uncomfortably small ; by the time he arrived at The Times office and sank into a chair in the waiting-room adjoining the editorial sanctum, he could bear them no longer. Off came his boots, and, as luck would have it, just then the door opened and the great Delane appeared and invited him into his office. Russell had perforce to leave his boots in the outer room, but he sat down on a chair and tucked his legs as best he could out of sight. The interview was satisfactory, and when Russell rose to go Delane noticed his bootless condition. But Russell was never at a loss ; he explained the facts of the case in his usual happy humour, and wound up his remarks by thanking the editor for giving him his opportunity " to make good," as the Americans say. " Well," said the editor with a smile, " there is one thing you can always say, that you came to The Times office without a shoe to your foot." I saw Dr. Russell for the first time at a dinner given in a private house. It was rather a large party, and Russell, at the other side of a long table, was, as usual, the principal talker. One good story followed another, but between these stories he, rather to my embarrass- ment, fixed his eyes upon me. I am a bit of a story- teller myself, but I was then too young and too modest to enter into the lists against the famous raconteur, yet the look he cast upon me suggested that he had an idea I should accept his gauntlet. However, my suspicions were incorrect, and quite wide of the mark. For WAR CORRESPONDENTS AND " SPECIALS " 127 directly after dinner Russell came up to me and said, " I haven't taken my eyes off you all the evening, for I thought I was looking at myself all the time. You are the very image of what I was at your age." I was then comparatively a youth, with wavy auburn locks and a small moustache, but I was otherwise clean- shaven and perhaps it was a little difficult for me to accept Russell's explanation, as he was then a grey- haired man with a grizzled moustache and stout figure. Billy Russell became very crotchety in his old age. I happened to criticise the War Office in general, and Lord Wolseley in particular. Russell attacked me savagely in his Gazette for doing so, and I retaliated by sketching him as a toady tuft-hunter. Such are the amenities of journalistic life. Among the artist war correspondents who followed Frank Vizetelly, the first correspondent to lose his life, of the old days, was Sidney Hall, who, from an artistic stand- point, ranked the highest of all. Up to his day, and in fact after it, special artists were little more than special correspondents. Like Melton Prior they gave a pictorial report of military matters. Hall struck a new line by giving human incidents of the picturesque side of war, culled from the leaves of his sketchbook, which appeared in The Graphic, then first making its bow to the public, much the same as " Ouida " did in her delightful stones of the village life in France of the Franco-German War, in her book entitled Leaves in the Storm. Melton Prior was the reporting style of artist, and whilst Hall became an artist of home affairs, Prior remained the " Special War Correspondent " up to the end. He was an energetic, businesslike artist, with tremendous vitality 128 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS and a terribly shrill laugh. He had a large head, was quite bald, and was known as " the screeching billiard ball." In spite of his vast experience, Prior at times showed a sad want of tact. On one occasion Henry M. Stanley, an old war correspondent and the discoverer of Living- stone, and Prior were guests at a large dinner. Prior spoke first and told a story about Stanley, who had acted as a special correspondent in the Ashanti War, and how they met. The story greatly annoyed Stanley, so in his speech he referred to his friend " without hair." Stanley was very proud of his, and it is said that in that long march of his to dis- cover Livingstone, over a score of his attendants were exclusively engaged in carrying boxes, all through those strenuous travels, which contained nothing but hair- dye for Stanley. His excuse was that a grey head has no power over the natives. Writing of a younger genera- tion of war correspondents it would be difficult to place any one above his fellows. They were all out to do their best, and, unlike the doctor, have had to rough it. I remember after the Soudan campaign the Savage Club gave a dinner to a number of war correspondents, for which, by the way, I designed the menu. Dear old G. A. Henty was in the chair, but of all the guests who were members of the club, only one remains Fred Villiers, who has a fine record of war service ; others were Bennett Burleigh, Charles Williams, MELTON PRIOR. WAR CORRESPONDENTS AND "SPECIALS" 129 Phil Robinson, Melton Prior, and Hilary Skinner, of Daily News, a curious little wiry man, with close-cut grey hair and a red face, a barrister, who, fortunately for the reporters of legal proceedings, preferred war to briefs, for SIR HENRY M. STANLEY. without doubt Skinner was the most rapid talker I ever came across in my life. As Mr. Aaron Watson has written. " he (Skinner) had a mind so brimming over with information of all sorts that it poured out its surplusage in cataracts of brilliant and amusing talk. It was with 9 130 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS difficulty that one followed such a rush of impetuous words." I recollect sending a letter to the editor of The Standard by Henty who was then on the staff, and who censored it concerning a public sensation of the time, about a man, who, it was said, had been hanged in a blundering fashion. In my letter I suggested and proposed, out of pure humanity, that Mr. Hilary Skinner should be offered the post of Lord High Executioner, together with a substantial salary, for the very good reason that he would effectually talk the head off any living man, and in the pleasantest and most amusing manner. All these war correspondents were men of strong character, and perhaps the strongest of all was Charles Williams. He was a talker too, but also a tremendous worker. For many years he represented The Standard ; later on he became editor of The Evening News. " He was a man of restless, stormy, and combative tempera- ment, driving at full speed, with something of the force of a hurricane." Bennett Burleigh was another war correspondent of considerable force and a prodigious worker, and a man well equipped with that quality indispensable to all special correspondents resource. I remember he told me how he outwitted Sir Garnet Wolseley, afterwards Lord Wolseley. I forget which " little war " was the one, but there was much excitement, speculation, and doubt about the plan of campaign, and the war corre- spondents at last in a body interviewed Wolseley in his tent. Sir Garnet was exceedingly kind and hospitable, champagne was handed round, and the general pointed out the proposed route on the map. The next morning the correspondents lost no time in taking it. Wolseley WAR CORRESPONDENTS AND "SPECIALS" 131 reached his destination, which was not theirs, but to his great surprise found Burleigh awaiting him. " You here, Mr. Burleigh ? You here ! " " Yes, General, I listened to all your instructions and then, as I know you better than the others, I started off in exactly the opposite direction to the place you mentioned, and here we are ! " Phil Robinson, the well-known war correspondent, was the best liar I have ever met in my life, and I have come across a few in my time ; but Phil Robinson was the most finished and accomplished. Lying with him was a fine art. He did not lie to deceive or injure any one. Every one who knew Phil and every one in Bohemia knew that versatile man and liked him knew moreover that he was lying. I recall many a Saturday evening after-dinner entertainment at the Savage Club in the old days, when the speeches and songs, music and recitations had occupied an hour or two, a good-looking, well-dressed, sun-bronzed man of forty or forty-five, with silvery, wavy hair and a grey moustache, and quiet move- ments typical of a refined Anglo- Indian gentleman, who had travelled much and had more than a nodding acquaintance with the wide wide world, reclining, one arm on the piano in the centre of the room, and puffing his cigar, and thus standing at ease would enchant us all for half an hour or more with some elaborate experience he said had befallen him in some far-off climes. He was fond of introducing some minute detail, generally scientific, and often dealing with natural history, for he was one of the best-informed naturalists of his day, and wrote delightful books on the subject. These stories he so graphically related made our hair (I had a lot to spare then), stand on end, and yet we knew that 132 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS clever Phil was making it all up as he went along. As a liar he was unique. His patter was high-class nonsense. Mr. Aaron Watson gives the following specimen of Phil's whimsical way, in his history of the Savage Club : " I was born at Clunar. It was a freak, I confess, and in an autobiography might call for some explanation, but I have none to give. The fact of my mother being at Clunar at the time may, of course, have had some influence on my selection of a birthplace. But apart from this conjecture, I have no justification to offer, except the proverbial thoughtlessness of childhood." Archibald Forbes was by far the greatest of all war correspondents in the old days. I doubt if there will ever be his equal ; the circumstances that led to his superiority were uncommon. He had served for five years as a ranker in the dragoons, had previously been to a university from which, by the way, he ran away, and began writing, and eventually became a journalist. He was a man of splendid physique, determined in character, and capable of literally fighting his way through to get " off " his dispatches, a task which in those days required much more resource than it did to see a battle and write its report. His famous rides are historical relays of horses, no sleep or rest for days together. In giving a picture of the ideal war correspondent, Forbes said : " He must be sweet-tempered, suave, and diplomatic, but big and ugly enough to command respect." He was big enough certainly, but it is generally agreed that Forbes was one of the worst-tempered men of his day. He evidently kept his suavity and diplomacy for his private interviews with generals and their censors. WAR CORRESPONDENTS AND " SPECIALS " 133 Forbes, " the most decorated journalist who ever lived," seemed covered all over with rows of medals and foreign decorations ; in fact it might be said he fairly glistened with them. At a public dinner I could not resist making a rough caricature of him on the back of the menu as a step-dancer or professional runner, or acrobat of the kind seen in photographs, covered with more or less spurious trophies of his prowess. As this caricature was passed along the table, Forbes must have seen it out of the cornier of his eye, for a mutual friend informed me afterwards that Forbes had been saying how much he disliked me. He certainly never spoke to me again, and as he was a very disagreeable man I was glad of it. I have often squashed an acquaintance I did not care for by caricaturing him and giving the caricature to the man's best friend, who re- ceives it on the condition and solemn promise he shall never show it to the caricatured friend. It is a far safer and more certain way of dispatching it to the right victim than addressing and registering the sketch at a post office. Forbes was a Scotchman, but he had one joke. It is ARCHIBALD FORBES HAS *EM ALL ON ! 134 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS recorded in the Life of the editor of The Daily News, the paper with which Forbes was connected. During the Russo-Turkish War a deputation of war correspondents with a grievance was granted an interview with the Grand Duke Nicholas ; as they were going in, Forbes, to his annoyance, noticed that another Scotch correspondent was writing in a sketchbook, making copy of the inter- view while actually in the presence of the Grand Duke. This was too outrageous : " Do put that away. Can't you carry what you want in your head ? " said Forbes. " I hae juist thought," said the other, " that I paid five francs yesterday for dinner which I didna put down." Frederick Villiers, who has been in more wars than any other living correspondent, beginning with the Servian War in 1876, might be called the Forbes of the special war artists, as William Simpson, of The Illustrated London News, was the William Russell of the pencil of his time. It was he in fact who first started sketching on the battlefield. There are many names of those who at one time served as war correspondents, names too which would probably surprise some of my readers to-day. Among these may be mentioned Sir H. M. Stanley, the explorer ; Stephen Crane, William Black, author of A Daughter of Heth, The Strange Adventures of a Phaeton, Green Pastures in Piccadilly, etc., and many other literary men of the past. I doubt if the man in the street discuss- ing Mr. Winston Churchill to-day remembers that he was a war correspondent in the South African War. I might have been one myself but my chance came too late. In fact it is only three years ago since I was actually offered a commission as special artist attached to a battalion of kilted Canadians. It so happened that one of my three sons is in the Canadian Engineers, and WAR CORRESPONDENTS AND "SPECIALS'* 135 the other two are serving in Scottish regiments, and I figured myself appearing before them as I have depicted in the accompanying sketch an apparition which surely would have had a more disastrous effect upon my sons than many of the dangers threatened by the Huns. " Our Special Correspondent," the descriptive writer of the type of George Augustus Sala and Godfrey Turner, requires a special talent. Turner was the indirect cause of one of the greatest sensations in London. While in the Zoo one day, having some refreshment at one of the bars, he noticed the barmaid seemed sad and tearful. Turner inquired sympathetically as to the cause. " Oh, sir, dear Jumbo, our biggest elephant, has been sold and is going away. The Gardens will not be the same without him ; we are all broken-hearted." Turner was touched, and he wrote a stirring appeal, which eventually worked up public excitement to fever heat. " Jumbo " became the one topic .of conversation ; crowds flocked to the Gardens ; ladies arrived in carriages with boxes of sweetmeats for " dear Jumbo," angry letters appeared in the press protesting against his removal, " I MIGHT HAVE BEEN ONE MYSELF." 136 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS leading articles were written, and a furious controversy raged for a considerable time, until his final departure for the States. War correspondents only come to the surface when there is a campaign ; for a brief time they enjoy the most exciting experience in journalism. They are " it," they spend money like princes and return as heroes ; they appear on lecture platforms in their war-paint or in evening dress h la Forbes, their coats ablaze with foreign orders, or hanging from ribbons round their neck. They appear in the limelight and are then lost from view until the next war brings them forth again. But there is another special correspondent, one who WAR CORRESPONDENTS AND " SPECIALS " 137 serves his paper in peace-time and has the power to make war or prevent it. Among the latter number some of the most remarkable Bohemians on the press. It is their duty to root out thieves who are " in the know." They are, in a way, detectives of journalism, and, to be successful, must use every artifice which the wit of man can devise. For that reason they do not beard the lions of diplomacy in their dens, they only roar to bluff the world. The journalist's special duty is to find out the truth by circumventing officialism, and by meeting all sorts of " knowing ones " outside the official pale in a Bohemian way. In the old days the biggest of these journalists in deed, but the smallest in stature, was undoubtedly Blowitz. He was the smallest man with the longest name : Henri Georges Stephane Adolphe Opper de Blowitz, the famous Times correspondent in Paris, whom I only met once. It happened when I first visited Paris with Sir John Staats Forbes the railway magnate. We were examining the pictures at the Salon when I observed a very talkative, very tiny and elaborately got-up old gentleman going the rounds. " Who is that ? " I asked. " Why, do you not know our Times correspondent, Blowitz ? " "I read him every morning with great interest, but I never saw him before." John Staats Forbes who knew everybody stopped Blowitz, and I was introduced to him as a great admirer. " This is Furniss, our famous cartoonist. Let me introduce one little man of fame to another." Blowitz in all proba- bility had never heard of me. He certainly looked blank, and snappishly replied : " There are small men and small men." " Certainly," I replied, " there is Marshal Canrobert sitting on the couch over there, and not far I 3 8 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS from here is a great monument to a little man known as Napoleon." On reflection, I didn't think there was much point in my repartee, but it served to set Blowitz blowing off verbal steam on the genial Forbes (he ignored me), and gave me time to study and sketch the odd little man. I subsequently discussed with Forbes a curious point. Could Blowitz who was smaller than I reach high enough to place his hat on a peg in a restaurant ? I could just do it with an effort, but could Blowitz ? The peg upon which Blowitz made his name and brought tre- mendous " kudos " to The Times was an account of the sitting of the famous Berlin Treaty Tribunal, which, in Disraeli's words, brought England " Peace with Honour " and appeared in The Times in spite of the strictest secrecy being maintained, and in spite of all precautions. There was no doubt Blowitz was closely watched. How was it done ? It appears Blowitz dined every evening at a certain restaurant ; next to him, but at another table, sat a minor official engaged at the Tribunal ; neither spoke or even looked at each other. Every time Blowitz rose to go he took the other man's hat and left his own ; in the lining of that h#t were the secret notes of council of that day. Blowitz was a Jew born in Bohemia. For several years he was a teacher of German at various French lycees, besides being a prolific journalist. He was a great friend of another very small man, M. Thiers, who at the time of the Franco-German War gave him his full support and assistance. He became a naturalised Frenchman and received the Legion of Honour. He was one of the first " interviewers," and supplied pen portraits, as well as the important opinions of the most prominent HENRI GEORGES STEPHANE ADOLPHE OPPER DE BLOWITZ. 139 140 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS men, including Prince Bismarck. He at that time sent a most interesting and sensational account of a private meeting of diplomatists to The Times, but subsequently informed the editor it was purely imaginary such a meeting had never taken place. The reply came that if he could write so well of something which never hap- pened, he would be invaluable in supplying copy about matter which really occurred, so thenceforth he became The Times correspondent. Another famous Times correspondent was G. Smalley* the first London correspondent to The Tribune of New York. He crossed over, and after a time acted as the New York correspondent to The Times, London. I met him frequently on both sides of the Atlantic, and once gave him a sensational headline. In one of my visits to America I was present at a famous dinner in New York. Seated next to Chauncy Depew was a man I had not seen before, the Chief of Police in New York, who rose to speak. Depew nudged me and said, " Here's a subject for your pencil watch him." I could not help watching him, I never beheld a more ugly man. He grinned and showed two rows of the most aggressive-looking teeth : he was all teeth, oratorically aggressive, but brilliant in effect. It was the first address he made as a bid for a political career ; he proceeded with his speech and I sketched him gradually being transformed into a bulldog, and these sketches appeared in The New York Herald, the following Sunday. A few years later, when Roosevelt for it was Roosevelt I sketched was elected President of the United States, Smalley telegraphed over " The bulldog of America is elected President," so evidently my caricature was remembered. I told a story, in a book of mine published fifteen years WAR CORRESPONDENTS AND " SPECIALS" 141 ago, of Smalley, when over in England for The Tribune, interviewing or rather attempting to interview Lord Tennyson, the Poet Laureate; but as I did not then mention his name, I may be pardoned referring to it here. Smalley, who in those days considered himself a great dandy, turned up at Hasle- mere for the interview dressed in the pink of fashion ; a silk hat of dazzling newness, light summer overcoat, lavender trou- sers, and patent-leather shoes. The Poet Laureate greeted him on the doorstep with a question : " Fond of pigs ? " " Why, I guess I am," replied Smalley. " Follow me then," said Tenny- son, leading him through the filthy yard to the pigsty. " 'Ain't she a beauty ! eh ? a charmer ! " remarked the poet as he scratched the back of the biggest sow, and added, address- ing the sow, " You like inter- viewing ?" (scratch). "Appreciate the honour, my beauty, eh ? " (scratch). And turning to Smalley he held out his hand, and said, " Sir, good morning," and so the interview terminated. Smalley was a very conscientious worker, and he in- sisted upon personally posting his own copy, no matter where he happened to be. Whilst on a visit to some friends in the country, who always sent their letters by G. SMALLEY. 14* MY BOHEMIAN DAYS a groom on horseback to the post-office in the nearest village, Smalley, no matter how bad the weather might be, walked to the post-office and posted his own letters. One day the postmistress observed at least, Smalley declared he heard the remark " That gent must be carrying on with some lady, he must, or he wouldn't be so mighty particular about posting 'is letters 'imself." And as Smalley posed as a lady-killer he was not displeased. CHAPTER XI SOME MUSICAL MEMORIES Opera " gods " " A 'norrible tale ! "Foil and Foley Emily Soldenc in Ike Grand, Duchess Sir James O'Dowd Patti A triumph of song Ragging a singer " Teddy " Solomon and Sullivan. I WAS but a boy when I had my baptism of opera, or to be correct, my baptism of the opera audience at the Old Theatre Royal, Dublin, of that time ; the " gods " were the self-elected directors of the evening's amusement. They were young gentlemen of the " 'Varsity " who gained their position by a free fight at the gallery doors and up the stairs. Once in possession of the top gallery they divested themselves of their coats and waistcoats, which they hung over the railings in front. Oranges, eggs, pea-shooters, penny whistles were produced, and the " fun " became fast and furious. The sight of a white hat in the pit was their hearts' desire : cat-calls, personal threats, and, what was worse, missiles of all descriptions were hurled at the unfortunate wearer of that white hat. The orchestra might play, the curtain might rise, managers might come and go, but the row went on till the hat went out. That was not all, for before the opera was allowed to begin, the " gods " elected their own singer to open 143 144 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS the programme. Mr. Crotty, afterwards a well-known vocalist, was then the " gods' " bright particular star. When he had finished the opera might begin. Sometimes the exuberance of the " gods " was carried to extremes. Little packets of cayenne pepper were thrown up to the ceiling, and as soon as the packets burst and the contents spread, a general sneezing occurred. Sometimes the police were obliged to interfere, and I recollect one night the students surrounded the " payler " (Irish for " peeler ") stripped him of his uniform, stuffed clothes into it, stuck on the helmet and tied on the boots, and after a tremendous struggle called out, " Over with him ! Chuck the payler ! " and over the dummy police- man went. This sort of thing, after all, was only aristo- cratic larrikinism, or hooliganism, a boyish exuberance which, being vulgarised in time, lost all sense of fun and spontaneity. There were one or two incidents in these unruly proceedings not altogether unpleasing. For instance, the prima donna, if a favourite, would on the last night receive a present from the " gods," tied round the neck of a pigeon lowered from the gallery, and after- wards the horses from the favourite singer's carriage were unharnessed, and the " gods " dragged her in triumph to her hotel, to be repaid by a song from the balcony. J. L. Toole was fond of telling a story of the " gods " in Dublin when he was playing the " Gravedigger," with T. C. King as Hamlet. No sooner had Toole stepped into the grave, warbling " A pick and axe," etc., than the gallery called out for him to sing " A 'norrible tale ! " and kept on calling until the manager came before the curtain and made a speech drawing attention to the fact that the play was a tragedy by Shakespeare, and not a modern farce, and that neither the actor nor he could 10 145 146 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS desecrate the Bard by introducing comic songs ; at the close of which the Gallery shouted, " Go to bed ; go to bed ! " The favourite American actress, Mrs. Gilbert, in her Stage Reminiscences, includes an amusing incident that occurred during the performance of Faust in Dublin. Something went wrong with the trap that should have let Mephistopheles down to the lower regions. He stuck half-way, and all the efforts of the stage carpenters failing to move him down to the underworld, the curtain was lowered. A voice from the gallery shouted, " Hurrah ! boys, hell's full ! " Signer Foli was a tremendous favourite : his real name was Foley. Strange that another Irishman, a famous sculptor, found that name good enough to retain and make famous, but that singers, actors, and variety performers, for some unaccountable reason, must needs change theirs ! Foli sang in the first opera I ever saw, Don Giovanni. Then the opera season in Dublin was a short, merry, and expensive one. The two rival opera companies in London combined and went over to Dublin, so we had double " stars " (and double prices). It was the day of Titiens, the Bettinis, Nillson, lima de Murska, Campobello, the return of Mario to the opera, and others I forget. " I go through " my operas, as the Americans would say, " pretty quick," and when I came to London I seldom went to them except to make sketches, finding the O'pera bouffe much more to my taste. How well I remember my delight a delight shared by millions of theatre-goer,s in the good old days of Offenbach, witnessing that never-to-be-equalled Grand Duchess, when Miss Emily Soldene sang in it. Emily SOME MUSICAL MEMORIES 147 Soldene was not only a wonderful actress and singer, but all those who have read her reminiscences must admit she was also a very clever woman, " a damn fine woman," as the men about town would say, though it did not always mean a pretty one. Soldene was decidedly plain, and her mouth was certainly the largest I have ever seen on the stage. I was making sketches of her in the part, and seated next to the dramatic critic of the paper we were both working for. I roughed in Soldene's face and then put my sketch down for so long a time my friend asked me if I was not satisfied with the like- ness, which seemed to him a very good one. " It is not finished," I replied ; "I cannot sketch the ends of her mouth till she turns her back." When The Grand Duchess was revived in later years, I cut the following paragraph out of some criticism I forget by whom : " ' Very good : but wants Garlic.' That is the general verdict on the revised Grand Duchess at the Savoy. When an essentially French piece French in conception, French in execution, French in music, French in spirit is produced at the Savoy, it ought to be cooked a la Savoy Restaurant not a la Savoy Theatre. It has been Cockneyfied up to date, and a * Rule Britannia ' composer has obligingly improved M. Offenbach's orchestration, for which Paris will be very grateful. Voltaire looked upon Shakespeare as a barbarian, and wrote a fricasseed Othello. Offenbach has evidently a great future before MISS EMILY SOLDENE. 148 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS him, but alas ! the spirit of Offenbach's conceptions departed with him." For many years I enjoyed the acquaintance of Sir James O'Dowd, C.B., late Judge Advocate-General, affectionately known as " O'D." O'D was a genuine operatic enthusiast as keen a lover of the opera at the patriarchal age of three-score years and ten as he was in the days of his youth. It was a treat to listen to the con- versation, when a friend had just re- turned from a visit to the opera, to dis- cuss the performance with O'Dowd in the smoking-room of the Garrick. One of the shrewdest mu- sicians assured me that "Jimmy's" knowledge of operatic music was truly mar- vellous ; though, I will admit, it was his descriptions of the musicians and their personalities that charmed me most. " Jimmy O'Dowd " could remember the first appear- ance of the greatest songstress of our day, Patti and he was fond of recalling the incident. O'Dowd was a privileged visitor behind the scenes in the days of that wonderful manager, Harris, father of the even better- SIR JAMES O'DOWD, A FRIEND OF THACKERAY. SOME MUSICAL MEMORIES 149 known Sir Augustus Harris ; and one evening old Harris said casually to O'Dowd, " Look in at Covent Garden on Monday if you have nothing better to do, O'Dowd." "Why?" " I have been rehearsing a chit of a girl this morning, and she enchanted me. She is not more than eighteen or nineteen, and has yet much to learn. She did not create the best impression at rehearsal, and indeed she may never be great." O'Dowd went round to Covent Garden, and stood in the wings during the opera. The new singer did not take the house by storm, and when the curtain finally fell, so did many a tear down the pretty face of the trembling debutante, sadly mixing with the make-up. Old Harris, however, to the surprise of O'Dowd, rushed up to Patti and kissed her. It was the seal of her triumph, as facts afterwards proved. Some years ago a disgraceful scene took place in the Albert Hall. Patti was unwell, but rather than disap- point the public, sang two songs. Her audience insisted upon encores, and as she was unable to comply they hooted and hissed. I was mentioning this incident to Mr. Otto Gold- schmidt, the widower of Jenny Lind, at dinner one night soon after it occurred, and he told me that his wife made a strict rule, to which she made no exception, that she would never take an encore. But there was the in- evitable exception ! It happened at Sheffield. Jenny Lind had sung her two songs and returned to be loudly encored by her many admirers for several minutes, with cries for " Home, Sweet Home," but Madame did not budge. Presently the audience, her husband informed me, raised their voices and sang " Home, Sweet Home " 150 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS in chorus, and sang it so well that Jenny Lind was touched. With tears in her eyes she slowly moved on to the stage, and as the last verse started she sang it with them. The scene after this was indescribable, but these good musicians " cum fra Sheffield," and Jenny Lind said she had never heard the song so well sung before. When we all were young men, practical joking was far more prevalent and far more elaborate than it is in the ranks of the rising generation. We spared no pains or trouble, and sometimes, I fear, carried the joke too far. I recall an episode in the late seventies. My friends had decided to publicly " rag," as the term is used nowadays, a singer who had foisted himself upon the public, a musical quack, a self-advertised, aggressively offensive individual who was in a measure the talk of the town. It was therefore decided to make his much-boomed con- cert ridiculous. A costermonger or two arrived early, to be refused admission, but upon assuring the box-office officials that it was their admiration for the photograph (then exhibited in every window) of the " greatest singer on earth," these cleverly made-up costers were given back seats. George Grossmith posed as a lunatic, seated in the centre of the gallery with his keeper by his side, and in the middle of the concert-giver's most sentimental songs dropped into the sloping gangway below coppers, one by one, which rolled all the way down to the platform, or took side turns, coming to the feet of the audience. His brother, Weedon, sat in the front row of the stalls and occasionally rose angrily and asked those seated behind to sit down or he could not see the stage. But where was Beerbohm Tree ? He had promised to join the merry band of " raggers." Possibly he would appear SOME MUSICAL MEMORIES as a foreign potentate in one of the boxes, or assume being a rival pianist who had called for his fee or, well, Tree was so good at disguises he could appear as anything. When the fun was at its height he did appear as Tree himself ! He stood at the side of the stalls, and applauded the victim's singing. He turned an angry face to our funny friends, and cried out " Shame ! Shame J " He then fetched a policeman and had two of the ringleaders arrested for disturbing the performance, and they were i 5 2 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS removed. To this day I cannot say if Tree forgetting the compact was genuinely annoyed by the outrageous conduct of his friends, or whether he was not the greatest practical joker of the lot ! I recollect one Saturday evening at the house dinner of the Junior Garrick Club in Adam Street, Adelphi. Webber, an able man, but coarse and rude in speech, with a fine, handsome face, a bear in Bohemia who attacked every one, particularly those who gained a certain modicum of success. He interrupted a speaker who was referring to Sir Arthur Sullivan's great musical talent by bawling out that Sullivan was a fraud, and never wrote an original piece of music in his life. This idea I heard demonstrated on another occasion in another club by " Teddy " Solomon, a very talented composer, who had emanated from Covent Garden Market. This young genius had been, I believe, a pupil of Sir Arthur Sullivan ; his light operas and extravaganzas at the Gaiety and other theatres showed him to be a not unworthy successor to Sullivan, but he died at a comparatively early age. I have been present when he sat at the piano and began by playing familiar church music, and then, by degrees, altered the melody and time, working it into some well- known piece from Sullivan's operas. I am not musical, so I cannot say if this was a libel on Sullivan or not, but it had certainly a very remarkable effect. Sullivan was not only a great genius, but a very popular and delightful personality. The last time I spoke to him was at the Clef Club, Birmingham ; he had just arrived to deliver his presidential address at the Birming- ham and Midland Institute. The same evening I was myself giving one of my lecture-entertainments close by the institute. Poor Sullivan was very ill. " Fancy me, SOME MUSICAL MEMORIES 153 Furniss, fortifying myself with a lemon squash for the trying ordeal I have to go through this evening." " It is a good thing," I said, " you had not to write your music for Gilbert under the same conditions." " You're right," was his rejoinder. It makes me wonder if we shall have any geniuses when the world is made " dry." I fear not. CHAPTER XII UPPER-CLASS BOHEMIA The Amphitryon Colonel North as Falstaff A dear " snack " Lord Chaplin Ten-shilling Cigars The Beefsteak Club " Ape " and Lord Beaconsfield Earl of Kilmorey UPPER-CLASS Bohemianism had a pub they termed a club of their own, or rather a club-restaurant, known as " The Amphitryon." The chef, of European reputa- tion, had been induced to start this in London by those extravagant English abroad who grumble about every- thing English when they are out of their own country. Well, he came he served and he charged ! Did he not charge ! An old friend of mine, and an old " Savage," Thomas Cutler, a well-known architect in his day, built a mansion for the millionaire Colonel North, " the Nitrate King." The Colonel refused to pay the architect, so a trial took place before Lord Chief Justice Coleridge. I made a drawing for Punch entitled " Shakespeare and North, not Christopher." " Colonel North is popularly supposed to have been the architect of his own fortune, but he does not seem to have profited much by his architectural knowledge when applied to house building. The burly Colonel we for- get at this moment what regiment is under his distin- 154 UPPER-GLASS BOHEMIA guished command has met many a great personage in his time, but like the eminent barbarian who encountered a great European for the first time St. Ambrose, we rather think it was, but no matter our bold Colonel had to climb down a bit on coming face to face with COLONEL NORTH AS FALSTAFF. the Lord Chief Justice of England. What a cast for a scene out of Henry the Fourth \ Falstaff, Colonel North, and my Lord Coleridge for the Lord Chief Justice. The scene might be Part II, Act II, Scene I, when the Lord Chief Justice says to Sir John, " You speak as having power to do wrong ; but answer, in the effect of your 156 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS reputation, and satisfy the poor woman ; " only for " woman " read " architect." To celebrate his success in the action, Cutler gave a dinner, to which I was invited. Unfortunately I was that night giving my lecture on the " Humours of Parliament," in St. James's Hall, and wrote my friend Cutler the architect regretting that " I could not be present at the ' Cutler's Feast.' ' He replied asking me to join the party after my show, and it was agreed that I should. Cutler's feast was, I believe, excellent. It was in a private room, and Cutler paid like a hero, like an Amphitryon in fact, for his victory ; he was bled for his friends. It was arranged that when I arrived I should have a snack in the restaurant below. I had a cutlet, a small bottle of claret, and a biscuit, and then joined the party. I forget what Colonel North's victor paid for the dinner I did not have, but out of curiosity I asked what my old friend had paid for my snack. Five shillings ? Seven- and- sixpence ? Eh ? What ? No ! Three guineas ! I was not surprised. Another friend of mine, a member of the " Club," invited two friends to a " little refreshment " after the theatre. Two ladies and my friend three cutlets, one bottle of champagne, coffee. Bill : six pounds ten shillings ! I dined one night with Henry Chaplin, M.P., now Lord Chaplin, in this " dear " little private room. There were present A. J. Balfour, Lord Randolph Churchill, and one or two others. The champagne was brought from our host's own cellar ; the Waterloo port and the one-hundred-year-old brandy were also from his own cellar. But there was one thing our host did not provide, LORD CHAPLIN. 157 158 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS for he was no connoisseur he does not smoke cigars. We had the Amphitryon brand long, torpedo-looking cigars wrapped in silver paper. It happened that our host and I went down to the House of Commons after dinner in the same cab. As I say, our host is not a smoker, thus the reason we had the " Club " cigar. I could not smoke it ; like myself, it could not draw. My host, noticing this, asked me was it good no ? Then he confided he told me what he paid for them ten shillings each ! The Amphitryon has closed its doors long ago. The Beefsteak Club is perhaps the most Bohemian club in existence, besides being the most exclusive. It opens at four o'clock in the afternoon, and holds its general committee meetings at midnight. I enjoyed being a member for many years, and only retired from it when I left London a few years ago to live in the country. When I first became a member it had not long been started, and was housed over Toole's Theatre, where it remained until Charing Cross Hospital bought the property to enlarge the hospital. There was a narrow, awkward staircase up to the club rooms, with a rope fixed by the wall to aid one in getting up and down. Such is the peculiar conservatism of Bohemia that when its new premises were built, with no limitations regarding space, the Beefsteakers insisted upon a narrow door and awkward stairs and a rope fixed to the wall ! Even the interior was copied as closely as possible. The members all sit at one large long table, and every- thing is arranged to resemble a charming dining-room in an old country house. The company consisted, all the years I knew it, of the most interesting men about town. The cuisine was of the best, and Savarin might have been UPPER-CLASS BOHEMIA its chef. It had a president, but there was nothing formal or orthodox about the position. So fascinating was the company I have often " looked in " at the club to " get some dinner," intending afterwards to meet my family at the theatre, and found myself still dining at eleven o'clock and barely time to fetch my family from the theatre. " APE " CATCHING THE LAST OF BEACONSFIELD. It was said that if one heard a good new story it would be necessary to jump into a hansom and rush to the Beefsteak, otherwise it would be there before you. Pellegrini, the celebrated Vanity Fair caricaturist, was its bright particular star in its early days ; the Duke of Beaufort, Sir Henry de Bathe the Beefsteak B's alone would fill a page, so why mention names ? Members 160 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS of both Houses of Parliament, the diplomatic service, sport, literature, art, the drama, law, and science were all brilliantly represented. No strangers were ever admitted. Lord Rowton, so well known as Monty Corry, was a familiar figure at the Beefsteak. He was official com- panion to Lord Beaconsfield, and seemed to us when he arrived at the club to dinner to be always in high efferves- cent spirits. Yet Sir Squire Bancroft tells us that when he and Rowton were walking home one night from the Beefsteak, he stopped suddenly and said reflectively, " The whole of my life seems to have been passed in holding my tongue." The caricaturist Pellegrini appealed to " Monty " to try to persuade Beaconsfield to sit to him for Vanity Fair. " Can't be done, Carlo ! " was the reply. " But Pll trot him out of doors for you to-morrow, and walk him up and down till you have made your sketch, and he will be none the wiser." And that was how it was done. The Marquess of Granby of those days was an aristocratic Bohemian, with a leaning towards the stage, and so was the late Earl of Kilmorey, with a practical interest as a landlord of theatres and a producer of stage plays. When I met him last he was interested in another sort of stage many, many miles away from the Strand, London. It was at Adelaide, in Australia, where it was proposed to build a harbour and landing stage, which is, I believe, still badly required. As I stood talking to him of the Garrick and Beefsteak Clubs in which we were in the habit of meeting, I thought how strange he looked in oilskins and seafaring boots after the familiar man-about- town get-up in London Bohemia ! THE EARL OF KILMORBY, II CHAPTER xm 1 FIRST NIGHTS" AND OTHER THINGS THEATRICAL Two houses a night Macbeth Public and private performance Signor Salvini Irelawny of the Wells Toole and the nuts " An overgrown Cupid " The Colonel My huge poster An elaborate practical joke Anne Mie The Alhambra laundry Jacobi Miss Terry in Ibe Cup Irving as lago Cutting the Baddeley Cake FOR many years I was on the first-night list, and with few exceptions witnessed all the more important pro- ductions, a record that was broken at last by my " lecture " tours when I was travelling the provinces, America, and the Colonies. I have been such an ardent playgoer that I have actually seen on one night two whole plays, played simultaneously in two separate theatres. It was a mere coincidence, not done for a wager, and any one could have laid any odds against my success had I thought of it in time, and, I may add, had I been a betting man ; as a matter of fact I never made a bet in my life. It occurred in this way. I had seats on the same night for a performance at the Haymarket and at His Majesty's. I had friends in both plays. I saw one scene at His Majesty's, crossed the road, saw the first scene at the Haymarket, and so on. It so happened that 162 SOME NOTABLE "FIRST NIGHTS 163 the acts fitted in. The acts were fewer at the Hay- market and the waits were longer. But I got the two plays so inextricably mixed that I never tried the experi- ment again. The first night of Tennyson's Promise of May at the Lyceum was almost wrecked by one unfortunate line which, by some extraordinary oversight, had survived readings and rehearsals. The same night, by the way the Marquess of Queensberry created a scene by address- ing the audience from a box. SEEING TWO PLAYS IN ONE EVENING. On the first night of Ravenswood the curtain rose so quickly on the second act that Irving was discovered running across the stage, calling out to the supers, and hanging on to the end of a piece of vanishing scenery. The first night of Wilson Barrett's Hamlet, and, for the matter of that, Tree's also, were nights to remember ! It was on the latter occasion that a wit remarked that a conclusive way to settle the vexed question whether Shakespeare or Bacon wrote the play was to see if Shake- speare had turned in his grave. I was particularly struck with the first night of Macbeth at the Lyceum. Irving was a failure in the part from 164 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS the moment he entered. His reading was wrong : no doubt from a student's point of view it was right to make Macbeth a weak coward, but from a theatrical point of view it was wrong. He had no stuffing in him, and the IRVING RECITES MACBETH. audience felt they had none either. Miss Terry acted to a certain extent as an antidote she was not Lady Macbeth, but that didn't matter she was a woman, living's Macbeth could hardly be termed a man. In fact, Irving's Macbeth had not a redeeming feature ; neither did it interest me. But I had a great awakening later. IRVING AS MACBETH. 166 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS It was in Scotland. I was lecturing, Irving playing Macbeth. We met at supper in living's rooms, five or six of us, quite a little private affair, including a cele- brated Scotch critic. Naturally the conversation turned upon Irving's rendering of the part. The Scotchman took exception to it ; Macbeth may have been a black- guard, but he was no coward. This roused Irving ; he neglected his supper, and recited long passages of the play to confirm his opinion. The Scotch critic barely got in a word, and then he only inflamed Irving to greater exertions. I never saw Irving to better advantage. It was an intellectual treat, and for the time I firmly be- lieved that Irving was right, and all other actors wrong. I thought this conscientiously until I saw him play it again on the stage, and then I changed my mind again. Perhaps the greatest first night I remember was the appearance of Signer Salvini, the greatest actor I ever saw, as Othello at Drury Lane Theatre in April 1875. I was then twenty, but no performance had I seen be- fore or have I seen since that so impressed me as that. From the moment he walked on to those classic boards to use the hackneyed phrase to the fall of the curtain, the house was enthralled. His voice, his manner, his method, and above all, his eyes, combined to make that performance ever memorable. He was frightfully handicapped, for his " support " was atrocious and his scenery unworthy of a village booth. In those days I patronised the top gallery, satisfied with a bird's-eye view of the stage, and I shall never forget the vile carpet of large square pattern the most aggressive covering I ever saw on any boards, used in the bedroom scene, where the Moor suffocates Desdemona ; yet, blinding as it was, Salvini's personality and wonderful facial expression SOME NOTABLE "FIRST NIGHTS 167 rose above it. Then that wonderful scene with lago, where the wretch is crawling on the ground : Salvini raised his foot as if to crush his head, then suddenly SALVINI stopped and, remembering his dignity, he courteously offers his hand to the traitor to rise. Strange to say, Salvini was not introduced into this country by any theatrical manager. He was brought here by Mapleson of opera fame, which gave the humorists that evening some ground for chaff and calls 168 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS for a song when the stage was not occupied by the great tragedian himself. Salvini took London by storm, but so fickle is the public taste that when the grand actor next visited England he played to eight pounds ! Among those pieces which I had to sketch for the press was Tom Cobb, one of Mr. W. S. Gilbert's wittiest pro- ductions. It was of the Dickens, mid-Victorian order of plays, plenty of strongly- drawn character impe- cunious Bob Sawyers and others in Bohemian London life. E. W. Royce, I remember, and Miss Lytton. It is strange nowadays that such plays as Tom Cobb, Our Boys, and of more recent date Trelawny of the Wells, plays dealing with the artistic, professional, and theatrical life of our fathers, are not appreciated as they should be by the rising generation. In Pinero's clever production Trelawny of the Wells, Mr. Dion Bouci- cault, as the old Whig Vice-Chancellor, puts round his neck the chain worn by Kean in one of his finest im- personations, in truth a touching scene. The youths in the stalls tittered. They little saw the pathos. It was specially pathetic, as this chain was the actual one that really was worn by the great Kean. A play of the same class was another I had to illustrate when I was a young artist Wig and Gown, by James Albery. It was produced by Johnny Toole at the Globe Theatre and was not a success. I remember on the first night Toole felt this. The house, strange to say, was not crammed. The critics were there in those days they were not so numerous as now and they were satisfied with one seat instead of, as now, two or three ; but the public were absent, and, as I say, the piece was falling flat. Toole represented a briefless barrister of the mid- Victorian era Micawberlike surroundings, including a SOME NOTABLE "FIRST NIGHTS" 169 numerous family ; one of these, to add to the realism, had brought into the theatre a bag of nuts, which the children crunched and dropped about the stage. These poor Toole, as the barrister, crushed under his feet as he ran about the stage. He ended by stopping the play to lecture the children for turning his scene into a monkey house in the Zoo. Poor Toole never really held London. Towards the end of his career, The House Boat was cer- tainly a success, but for many years he played to ridi- culously poor houses in London and made his money in the pro- vinces. One of the funniest first nights the editor of Punch and I at- tended was the debut of the " greatest tra- gedian America has ever produced," Misther M'Cullough, begorrah ! who ap- peared as Virginius at Drury Lane. M'Cullough was a huge, strong-lunged, mouthing actor, who filled the Drury Lane stage with his massive figure, and the house with his tremendous voice. But the fun came when no less a person than Sir Augustus Harris danced on to the stage, in a curly wig, flowing blue toga, pink tights, and gilt-edged boots as Burnand said, " rather suggestive of an over- grown Cupid who has given up his wings as childish, and who has taken lessons from a Parisian ballet- master." SIR AUGUSTUS HARRIS AS A CUPID. 170 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS Harris was all the time fancying himself in the part, a youthful, Roman young man of the H arristoci&cy the pun is Burnand's. Poor Harris a genius as a theatrical manager, who rose to do great things was the worst possible actor. The aesthetic craze was just then fair game, and I per- petrated a skit for Punch showing " The Cheap ^Esthetic Swell," ? ow 'Any goes in for the " intense 'eat." Twopence I gave for my sunshade, A penny I gave for my fan, Threepence I paid for my straw foreign made I'm a Japan-jEsthetic young man ! This parody of Gilbert reminds me that it is in the same volume (1881) that Gilbert and Sullivan's successful operas (which have since been the delight of theatre-goers the world over) are first mentioned in the pages of Punch. It is no secret that Sir Francis Burnand never forgave Sullivan for having Gilbert in place of Burnand for his librettist. Burnand and Sullivan had done Cox and Sox (a parody of Sox and Cox). Then Gilbert stepped in with The Trial by Jury, and exit Burnand. Gilbert, however, was not a parodist, but an originator. Patience is not a copy of anything. The Colonel in which Burnand " took off " the aesthetic craze and was so successful at the old Prince of Wales that it was not taken off until he (F.C.B.) and Edgar Bruce made a huge pile out of it was a parody of the play The Serious Family. The original cast included that inimitable actor Charles Coghlan, representing a Colonel from America, who was very much Coghlan and very little of an American. Miss Myra Holme afterwards Lady Pinero was the charming heroine : and Amy Roselle SOME NOTABLE " FIRST NIGHTS " 171 (one of the original " Two Roses "), then Mrs. Dacre, played the Society lady, and with her husband com- mitted suicide in Australia a few years later. Edgar Bruce subsequently played the Colonel in London, and Charles Collette played the same character in the provinces as well as London. Young Buckstone was capital as the aesthetic artist. It ran so long the com- pany produced an evening paper to pass the " waits " in the green room, the only instance, I should imagine, of journalistic enterprise behind the scenes. I was a great deal at the theatre, for, after the play had run a considerable time and Edgar Bruce came into it, he and Burnand decided to add fresh interest by advertising, and I was selected to do a huge poster one of the largest ever painted. I carried it out in the manner of a Burne-Jones decorative pageant, and the players came to my studio and sat to me in their stage costumes. So large was the work I had the canvas stretched on a frame in my studio and was obliged to have the window removed to get it out when completed. I never got anything for it like another poster of mine, " I used your soap two years ago," the editor of Punch got the one, and the proprietors of Punch were paid through advertisements for the other. The most elaborate practical joke, extending over years, figures in one of my earliest recollections of London, the author and principal player of which was that prince of practical fun, the late E. A. Sothern, the original Dundreary, and the first and most polished player of David Garrick. Strange to say, Sir Charles Wyndham's David Garrick, familiar to playgoers of later date, was second performer in playing that joke. I was just old enough to enjoy the David Garrick of 1 73 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS Sothern, which, comparing it to Wyndham's, resembles a Gainsborough portrait compared to one painted by Herkomer. The secret of Art is to conceal Art. Herkomer, a great painter, was a mannerist, and in his pictures the personality of the painter is not con- cealed. In Wynd- ham's Garrick the actor was still the actor, but Sothern was the gentleman playing the actor. In all other Gar- ricks I have seen the actor is playing the gentleman. In playing the practical jokeWynd- ham was also a very good second to Sothern, and in no joke better than in this one, played, by the way, upon another volatile comedian, a very long way in talent behind either of those two great comedians whom I have mentioned. I refer to the late Edgar Bruce, who played " The Colonel," and who died a few years ago in perfect ignorance, I believe, that the following practical joke had made his life a success. I have no sympathy with jokes, " practical " or MY POSTER FOR " THE COLONEL." SOME NOTABLE "FIRST NIGHTS 173 otherwise, which end in giving pain, but in some scenes of this joke I was a mere spectator at a distance. It began at a Saturday evening house dinner in the Junior Garrick, a theatrical club long since defunct. Edgar Bruce, who was a good-looking but excitable and am- bitious actor, with a very light and airy style, and of a nervous and inquisitive nature, was present. A stranger was seated near to Sothern. " Who is he ? " asked Bruce of every one, and of Sothern in particular. " Sh-h-h ! Wait and see," mysteriously whispered Sothern. " I'll introduce him after dinner. You wait : most important." The dinner proceeded, Sothern apparently paying the greatest deference to his guest his guest was probably Mr. Brown, of Oldham, or any very ordinary individual. Sothern was inspired, however, to make him an ambassador from the Czar of Russia, or some such potentate. The club was at the corner of Adam Street and Adelphi Terrace, and at that time Atten- borough's most famous pawnbroking shop was close by, at the Strand corner of Adam Street. To send a message from Sothern and borrow some foreign orders, Russian, if possible, was easily accomplished during the dinner. After dinner the " Ambassador " was formally intro- duced by Sothern, who explained to all present (all of whom were in the joke except Bruce) that the Czar had determined, regardless of cost, to have a series of English comedies performed at St. Petersburg, by the best actors and actresses of England. Already hearing of the fame of many he had, through his special Ambassador, sent greetings to those at present selected. Those selected were formally mentioned and presented, Bruce excepted ; 174 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS and the curtain fell on the first act of the comedy, Bruce in the centre, the picture of despair. The second act was a letter to Bruce from the Czar (really sent from Russia), explaining that the Czar had selected him to be the manager of the whole company, and enclosing him a Russian order of merit. One stipula- tion was made, however : that Bruce must know the Russian language. The more famous Bruce of spider fame was eclipsed in perseverance by Edgar of that (adopted) name and in tackling the fearsome Russian tongue. The next act consisted of a series of pretty scenes : Edgar in a boat on a Thames backwater, alone, struggling with Russian, and Bruce in the land of despair, still wrestling with the Slavonic lingo triumphant at last, alas ! merely to be crushed again. The next scene was an interior in which I played a super's part. The studio of that talented and hand- some artist Valentine Bromley (the Forbes Robertson's brother-in-law), in Hart Street, Bloomsbury, in which was being held a " Smoking Evening," popular in those days ; artists, authors, and other Bohemians ; music, smoking, and drinking, supplemented later by the actors arriving in force. Bruce is there, as usual talking of Russia, the Russian language, and the coming great event the tour of the picked comedians of England, personally conducted, by himself. Sothern is present, so is Wyndham. Soon after midnight the fun begins, the studio is crowded and the smoke is thick, the chatter deafening, when above all rises the penetrating voice of Charles Wyndham. What does he say ? Why does Bruce start forward ? Why is he so agitated and pale ? EDGAR BRUCK STUDYING RUSSIAN. i'75 176 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS The Russian tour is at the bottom of it, jealousy, hatred, and malice. There is a scuffle high words which nearly lead to blows. Friends separate Wyndham and Sothern, and they leave swearing eternal hatred, and others join in the melee. The leading actors of England are hopelessly riotous. The tour to the Czar is in jeopardy. The next scene is in Wyndham's bedroom later, the same morning. Bruce arrives at the break of morn with Sothern, whom he has waked out of his sleep and made to dress, and brought in a cab to shake hands and " make friends " with Wyndham. So far so good. All except poor Bruce are getting some fun out of the joke, but the authors are troubled how to end it. It has gone so far that Bruce must not discover the truth, or the last act would be bound to take place in Colney Hatch, and it therefore must end in a practical way. A letter arrives from Russia regretting that the Czar has been through political reasons compelled to abandon the projected tour. Poor Bruce ! Well, he was given the management of the Haymarket Theatre as a recompense ; he made money, retired, lived and died happily, I believe in ignorance that he owed his good fortune to a practical joke ! My first efforts in Punch were confined to the three P's Parliament, Pictures, and the Playhouse. I was then the regular theatrical artist for Punch, and in that capacity saw many interesting first nights. The first night I represented Mr. Punch as a " Special Artist " at the theatre was shortly after I began to draw for that paper. The piece was Anne Mie ; the theatre, the Prince of Wales (the old " Dust Hole," subsequently SOME NOTABLE "FIRST NIGHTS" 177 " the golden dust hole of the Bancrofts "). But there was very little gold dust, I fear, extracted from that play. It was made ridiculous by a very clever lady and really fine actress, Miss Genevieve Ward famous in many parts, but particularly in Forget-Me-Not a lady who, in every sense, " fills the stage " with her fine presence, splendid elocution, and intense acting. The old Prince of Wales little play-box of a theatre the Bancrofts' money-box was not a large stage to " fill," and when Miss Genevieve Ward entered as Anne Mie, wearing a little Dutch cap and short padded Dutch skirts, with bare arms and an arch, skittish look, supposed to represent a beautiful young ravishing maiden of seventeen summers, my editor, seated next to me, saw that the burlesque-writers' occupation, like Othello's, had gone. It was drama and burlesque rolled into one. I made a cruel, a very cruel sketch at the critical moment of the play, when with fine histrionic force Miss Ward threw herself down on her face on the stage. The house had become unmannerly just before by laughing at Anne Mie sitting on the knee of Edgar Bruce, who vainly tried to dance the coy little Anne in the playful way befitting a dollish Dutch child. But the audience really became solemn for the acting was excellent when Anne Mie went down. Well, my sketch was something like this, " ANNE MIE FAILS A LITTLE FLAT." 12 178 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS and under it I wrote, " About this time Anne Mie falls a little flat. Annie Mie has a slight difficulty in rising again in public estimation." The editor and I visited the Alhambra to see a new ballet as if such a thing can be described as " new." Plum puddings, of course, are new every year, but they are made of the same ingredients ; one ballet is as much like another as one plum pudding resembles another plum pudding. Curiously enough, the first ballet the editor and my- self saw " in the interest of Mr. Punch " was a steaming hot affair, its success depending on a curious novelty a volume of steam, leapt over by the principal dancer with the aid of a rope, rising right across the stage. Burnand suggested that this vapour ascended from a steam-laundry somewhere below. While the ballet was in full swing, the designer came into our box, a rather foppish old beau, who interested me immensely, for I had heard a great deal of him and seen much of his work. This was Alfred Thompson, at one time quite a celebrity in London as a caricaturist, satirical writer, playwright, ballet producer, and Bo- hemian of the foppish, waxed-moustache, ex-military, hat-on-one-side style of old-young man about town. Burnand, who knew him well, chaffed him about the steam effect. " My young friend Furniss and I have decided to support the show by getting our wives to send our weekly washing and mangling to be done a la Alhambra. You ought, my dear Alfred, to publish a list of laundry prices on the back of the programme, and, by the way happy thought ! engage Johnny Toole to appear up a trap in the scene with his old gag ' I am so 'appy ! ' " SOME NOTABLE "FIRST NIGHTS " 179 Burnand was also facetious when the composer of the music, Jacobs, came in to see us, and asked him if his beautiful dress shirt was not dressed in the " Alhambra Laundry." Jacobi was a great personality for many years at the Alhambra. When conducting he did not turn his back on the audience, but on the orchestra he was conducting, and faced the stalls. A first night of great importance was the pro- duction of the then Poet Laureate's play, The Cup, at the Lyceum. It just came at the right moment, for the aesthetic craze was then at its height, and this play was aestheticism or nothing. One test of a play is the number of its revivals. The Cup was never revived again, either as a compliment to Tennyson or to Irving. It was a very picturesque series of tableaux in the style of the greenery-yallery Burne-Jonesy production, Miss Terry as Camma might have walked out of a mangle or a Burne-Jones picture. She lay on a couch a good deal of the time, playing a harp shaped like a goose. Irving as Synorix, in a tiger skin and bangles, a wreath on his head and a weakness in his knees, might, but for the latter failing, have represented a tamer of wild beasts. There were no beasts, however, but a number of wild JACOBI. i8o MY BOHEMIAN DAYS dogs led in by Terriss as Sinnatus. They all went to the dogs in a short time, and as Burnand wrote : " So there is an end of one, two, and three Terriss and Irving and Ellen An interesting experiment was tried at the Lyceum when Othello was produced on May 2nd, 1881. Booth, the American tragedian, had not been a great success in England, his stagey, old-fashioned style failing to impress the British public as it had the American. An idea struck Irving or rather Irving's manager that it would be a draw in London to work up this Anglo-American combination of " stars." It was arranged that Irving and Booth should alternate the leading parts, a happy idea that doubled their audience, for if one saw Booth as Othello, one would go a second time to see him as lago. Irving never did anything finer than lago, for his peculiar mannerism suited the part exactly, nor perhaps anything so badly as Othello. Booth was not good as lago, particularly after Irving ; but his Othello, though not to be mentioned in the same day as Salvini's, was respectable compared with Irving's. Irving's lago impressed the audience from the first moment he entered on the first night, and his success was assured. His " business " was elaborate and novel. As he stood by a sundial with a huge bunch of hothouse grapes in his hand, eating them one by one, lustily, with a foxlike expression, it struck one the real lago was there ! One of my earliest theatrical recollections in London was being invited to the Twelfth Night gathering known as " Cutting the Baddeley Cake," in old Drury Lane Theatre. IRVING AS IAGO. 181 1 82 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS An obscure actor, Baddeley, an ex-cook, chef to the famous Lord North ; also employed by Samuel Foote, in whose house no doubt he was inspired to emulate the great actors of the day. Eventually he did gratify his ambition, but so as to rid himself of the flavour of the kitchen, he tra- velled as valet to a gentleman, and it is on record that Baddeley first ap- peared as an actor at Smock Alley Theatre, Dublin. Foote, it is said, was present when he made his first appearance, and noticing the new actor wore a sword exclaimed, " Ha, Baddeley, I am heartily glad to see you in the way of complete trans- migration you have turned your spit into a sword already." He returned to London to become a member of the better-known playhouse, Drury Lane, there to gain certain applause for his acting of Frenchmen and Jew characters. And he left behind him a curious will which has made his name more familiar to the play-going public to this day than any actor with the exception of Kemble, Kean, Macready, IRVING AS OTHELLO. SOME NOTABLE "FIRST NIGHTS'* 183 and Phelps, who have made Old Drury famous. Baddeley did not forget his first profession nor his last in this provision in his will : " One hundred pounds Three per Cent. Consolidated Bank Annuities, which produce 3 per Annum, to purchase a Twelfth-Cake, with wine and punch, which the ladies and gentlemen of Drury Lane Theatre are requested to partake of every Twelfth Night in the Green-room." As I say, I recollect being present, in my early days in London, at the carrying-out of this unique request. The small gathering was in the green room. The Clown, Pantaloon, Harlequin, Columbine, and Sprite were in their " make-ups," as they ran off the stage at the fall of the curtain. Some of the others were also in costume, but the majority had changed into their ordinary clothes. Manager Chatterton made a few re- marks about the ex-cook's goodness of heart. It was an unassuming, Bohemian, motley gathering on the Twelfth Night. The Columbine cut the cake, and the Clown made a serious speech. Punch, wine, cake and all soon disappeared, the little Fairies finishing their slice as they hurried away to their homes through the snow. The next Baddeley Cake celebration I was invited to, a few years afterwards, was held on the stage. More guests were present. The " sherry wine " was super- seded by champagne, but the punch-bowl was flowing over and the cake was conspicuous. The Clown and his associates, and the little Fairies and Sprites were there. The pantomime Prince, now in petticoats, made a speech 184 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS standing on a chair. I recollect being rather startled in the middle of the speechifying by seeing a huge knife thrust through the scenery close to me, and in a circular direction cut away a large hole, through which a hand appeared, and before any one could prevent it a number of bottles of champagne had disappeared. I read afterwards that a party of visitors spied some champagne in a corner, and appropriated the lot for their table, but discovered to their chagrin when they tried to open them that they were " property bottles " made and painted for one of the scenes in the pantomime. The mention of a prince recalls to my mind a curious incident I came across in an old book. On Twelfth Night, 1802, a real prince, the Prince of Wales, afterwards George the Fourth, took part at the annual cake-cutting introduced by Sheridan. It is said that the Prince " delighted everybody with his affability, his gentlemanly manners, and his witty remarks." Sheridan, looking at the cake and noticing a large crown with which it was surmounted, playfully said, " It is not right that a crown should be the property of a cake : what say you, George ? " The Prince merely laughed ; and Sheridan, taking up the crown, offered it to him, adding, " Will you deign to accept this trifle ? " " Not so," replied His Highness : " however it may be doubted, it is nevertheless true that I prefer the cake to the crown, after all." "And so, declining the crown, he partook of our feast with hilarity and condescension." The last Baddeley Cake celebration I attended was about as unlike the previous ones, and about as unlike anything Baddeley intended, as one could possibly con- ceive. It was a tremendous banquet. The largest set scene of the pantomime was used ; tier over tier of tables SOME NOTABLE "FIRST NIGHTS" 185 rising high up into the wings, crowded with everybody who was anybody in society, law, art, trade, of high or low degree. Ladies in gorgeous costumes, gentlemen in immaculate evening dress ; a splendid band discoursing sweet music, but, alas ! one could not find the Columbine or the Sprite, the Fairies, or the other " ladies and gentlemen of Drury Lane Theatre," who were in Baddeley's will " requested " to partake of 3 worth of Twelfth Cake with wine and punch in the green room of the theatre. Shade of Baddeley ! Sir Augustus Harris uncon- sciously recalls your impersonations on that historic stage, as he bids this tremendous living advertisement for himself, using your name merely as an excuse, to partake of a supper that even you, Baddeley, would have failed to understand, when you wielded your chef's ladle, or later the theatrical sword. In place of your cake, Mayonnaise de Homard, Petits Pates des Huitres, Cotelettes de Homard a la Cardinal, Aspics de Crevettes, Croquettes de Volaille et Langue, Petites Bouches a la Monglas, Mauviettes en Casses aux fines Herbes, Aspics de fois Gras, Petits Pates de Ris de Veau, Rissoles de Gibier a la Lyon, Aspics de Poulet aux Truffe, Anchois Sandwiches, Jambon Sandwiches, Faisan Sandwiches, Charlotte a la Parisienne, Gelee Macedoine des Fruits, Creme de Framboises, Gelee Pouche a la Remain, Bavaroise de Vanille, Patisserie Franchise, Chartreuse d' Apricot, Gateau de Savoy decore, and Meringues a la Chantilly. Champagne galore, Han et Cie., Cuvee Reserve 1883. A ball followed, a motley throng of peers and legislators, soldiers, sailors, lawyers, authors, artists, critics, journal- ists, bewitching actresses, and ladies of Society com- i86 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS bined to make one of the most brilliant spectacles ever seen. It was kept up till the early morn, hours after those " ladies and gentlemen of Drury Lane Theatre " had gone to sleep in their humble homes, some perhaps supperless, after a thought for Baddeley as he had thought for them. Strange, should his ghost have walked that night, to find his name on every invitation card, and yet only in the mind of one or two in that pandemonium of music, feasting, and dance. CHAPTER XIV SIR HENRY IRVING Irving as a model Art and the drama Don Quixote His horse and what came of it Dressing-bag Thompson Appreciation Imita- tions of Irving A practical joker Mr. Gladstone at the Lyceum Buckstone > OMETHING of an apology is, perhaps, expected from me for adding my little stock of reminiscences of our greatest actor to the huge list of those already published I think I may say, however, that I had exceptional oppor- tunities of knowing him. I may also claim that I give correct version of the stories connected with Irving, which occasionally crop up in a more or less garbled form. He and I were very old friends, and I made a careful study of him in fifty of his best-known characters, one of these sketches he approved of. Let me my recollections with a quotation from a letter 187 Every begin i88 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS which I sent to The Daily Telegraph, apropos of the republication in that journal, two days after Irving's death, of my sketches of him in the character of Robes- pierre : " SIR, The republication of my sketches of Irving as Robespierre recalls to mind the pleasant circumstances under which I carried out this commission for you. As you state, it was Sir Henry's special desire that I should make the drawings. He was tired rehearsing, and so as not to add to his fatigue he made an appointment with me to sketch him when in his rooms in Bond Street, resting. * You know me well enough, my dear Furniss, to sketch me as Robespierre or in any other character if you see the costume.' " I was rather surprised that, so far as I have seen, no artist's name appears in all the appreciations of Irving published since his death. Yet Irving, to my mind, was essentially the artist-actor. A deaf man, if artistic, could enjoy and understand the subtlety of Sir Henry Irving's wonderful performances, simply through watch- ing his artistic manner. " In 1887, when I removed my * Artistic Joke ' from the Gainsborough Gallery, in Bond Street, fcnd re-opened it in Manchester shortly afterwards, I found that Irving happened to be playing in that city in Faust. The Manchester Art and Literary Club gave a supper in his honour, and, hearing that I was in the city, they very kindly invited me. To my surprise and embarrassment, I found myself placed at the table at the left of the chair- man, and regarded as the second guest of the evening. " After supper Irving delivered, in his easy manner, one of those graceful speeches in which no one sur- SIR HENRY IRVING 189 passed him. I was then called upon to follow upon * Art/ and, unprepared, I was somewhat at a loss to connect * Art ' and * The Drama.' However, I advanced a favourite point of mine, which is that artists derive much benefit from the theatre, whither they go to learn. I reminded my listeners that a hundred years ago Royal Academicians used to meet at their Royal Academy, where a model was placed in front of them, in order that they might discuss the different attitudes and move- ments of figures and their drapery. This their successors no longer meet to do, and I pointed out that among the reasons which have led them to discontinue the practice was the fact that they can now sit in the stalls of the Lyceum Theatre and get a lesson in motion, attitude, and the movement of drapery, from such a master of those arts as Irving.'* In fact, no actor ever came nearer to the combination of the artist and the actor than Sir Henry Irving. It struck me as I was making the remarks noted above, that Irving was probably thinking of the caricatures I had perpetrated of him. But although there is no deny- ing the fact that he was very sensitive to caricature, he knew that I was a genuine admirer of his genius, and that, in common with all artists, I knew him to be a true artist also, and his poses and the management of his hands and drapery were well worth studying by the brethren of the pencil and the brush. He was as much a friend to the workers in the studio as he was to those on the stage, and it is therefore sad to think that he fared so badly at the hands of the artists both painters and sculptors. The late Edwin Long painted a very poor picture of Irving as Hamlet. Millais' 190 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS portrait exhibited in the Academy, and since then hanging over the fireplace in the strangers' room in the. Garrick Club, gives one no idea of strength, and Irving had a strong face. And as he frequently sat under this portrait, it was easy to contrast the original with the picture. A caricaturist is one who emphasises all the bad qualities in the sitter and avoids all the better ones. Is it libellous to say that a certain R.A.'s portraits are clever, simply for the reason that he is most uncompromising ? He paints the Jew picture-dealer, cunning, leery ; the turn of the thumb, the whole attitude is that of a Jew in burlesque. Yet who can say it is not true to life ? The wife of the vulgar business profiteering man, as he depicts her, with diamonds in her hair, on every finger, round each wrist, is true to nature. Yet the nature seems more vulgar on canvas than in real life. The artist who can paint the truth and " show up " his sitters, as caricatures do, is daring ; but he is, in his art, essentially a caricaturist. Still, when he paints a portrait of a great artist, and not merely of a successful man or woman in trade, he ought to bring out the best points of his sitter. His portrait of Irving, a greater artist himself than all the Academicians English, Dutch, or Yankee ought to have been the tribute of one artist to another such a portrait, for instance, as that of Mrs. Siddons by Reynolds. But what was that portrait ? The head of a drunken, fifth-rate, broken-down mummer. I caricatured it mercifully in Punch as our own Irving with a bad cold in his head. Anyway, it was certainly quite unworthy of the artist painter or of the artist actor. This Irving himself felt, and felt bitterly. He made no secret of the fate of this portrait. For one evening, at SIR HENRY IRVING 191 a dinner of distinguished people, he informed the guests what had befallen it. Irving had a clever trick, which I frequently saw him practise, of getting the " ear of the table." Say he was at one end, I the farthest away. He would wait his oppor- tunity, and then raising his voice say, " Furniss, I was just telling my friend on my right that " ; " Furniss, I was just saying that " and so on. All conversation stopped ; and those between Irving and myself were obliged to listen ; which meant that the whole table was attentive. On the occasion in question he said : " I was reminded, by seeing Furniss down there, of a curious thing " (of course he was not, and the " curious thing " had nothing to do with me ; but he had the ear of the table). But to return to the fate of the portrait. " I have been asking my friend next to me," he said, indicating the President of the Royal Academy, and addressing the company in general, " whether any man has a right to destroy the work of a great artist, should that artist produce a portrait which may be regarded as a libel. Some of you have seen a portrait of me by X , who I believe is a great painter, exhibited in the Academy a few seasons ago. That portrait I looked upon with indignation. To-day this very morning in the process of packing (I am leaving my old rooms off Bond Street), I came across it. I called in my old servant-man and asked him what he thought of it. Would he have it ? No ; he declined. So I took a long sharp knife and I cut that portrait into long strips, and my man threw them into the fire. Now, was I justified in that act ? That is what I want to know." It is a thousand pities that this clever artist did not 192 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS rise to the occasion and hand down to posterity a really fine portrait of Irving. This unfortunate one was only a head. He could have painted the head again, and some model could have sat for the figure. Irving knew all about such studio matters, as the following anecdote shows. It so happened I sat at supper next to Irving on the night of the greatest prize-fight of our time. Strange to say, it was a supper at the Garrick Club given by an artist to those who supported his election to the club. The fight I had been to was that famous encounter at the National Sporting Club between Slavin and the black pugilist, Jackson. Irving was deeply interested in my account of the fight I had just seen. I told him of the fine effort of the defeated but plucky white man, Slavin. As an artist I could not but admire the grand physique of the ebony-skinned gladiator. "Yes," said Irving, "he must be a splendid fellow. You know, we actors have taken credit for a physique not our own witness the pictures of the last generation and those before. Then the actor sat only for the head ; a prize-fighter posed for the figure, and, strange to say, the favourite model of the last generation was a coloured fighter." With the exception of Hamlet, no part has ever been the making of an actor. An actor must make the part. But with Hamlet it is different. No one who can act at all entirely fails as Hamlet. We have had bad Hamlets and good Hamlets : but no actor can be bad enough to utterly destroy the play. For the part of the Prince of Denmark is infallible. When well played it has been the making of the actor, and none has it ever ruined. c^vy 9 IRVING AS HAMLET. 193 194 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS On the other hand we can never say of any actor : " Ah, what a Hamlet he would make ! The part was written for him," as one can say of Romeo and Falstaff, and of dozens of other characters. There is always a Romeo to be selected from the young actors, and a Falstaff among our older friends. Mark Lemon was an instance of the latter. He was Falstaff in real life ; he had, therefore, only to walk on to the stage and speak his lines. Nevertheless, he was by no means a success ; perhaps not any more successful as Falstaff than Sir Herbert Beerbohm Tree was as Hamlet. Yet if a man brought up in a public-house, and eventually becoming an associate of wits, should suggest Falstaff, surely, on the other hand, an unlimitedly resourceful and surpassingly weird tragedian a consummate comedian and a foreigner to boot should be an ideal Hamlet. But he was not. He looked the part to perfection; he moved in the part faultlessly; but the performance can never be recorded among his successes. The same actor, however, made an ideal Falstaff ! No one would ever select Sir Henry Irving to play Falstaff, but every one selected him to play Don Quixote. The part was written for him, and he looked the character to perfection. But one great difficulty that presented itself was the finding of Don Quixote's horse sufficiently quaint, starved, and aged. Irving had not himself thought much about it, but as the time for the production drew near he realised with anxiety that he had to appear attired in armour, astride his charger. He consulted his trustworthy lieutenant, Mr. Bram Stoker. " Bram, what about the horse, eh ? " " Oh, that's all right. I have found the very one for SIR HENRY IRVING 195 you in a field between Sunderland and South Shields. It's on its way." The rehearsals went on. Irving bestrode a common or prompter's chair, and waved his umbrella in place of his spear. But horse- riding particu- larly in front of the footlights is a feat not to be performed with- out practice. " Bram, where is that horse ? " " I've just got a telegram, sir ; it is on its way ; it will be at Euston before we reach Act II." No horse ar- rived. Irving was getting more and more un- IRVING AS DON QUIXOTE. easy. " Bram, where is that horse ? I had better hire one somewhere in London." " It's coming. Hire one in London ! Why, there is not one in the whole of London to suit the part. Wait till you see this one. It will be a gigantic success. You can count its ribs, and its bones stand out like hat-pegs. It's ewe-necked and has a head like a camel." I 9 6 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS " But where is it ? I must see it to-day." Bram rushed from the stage, and nearly upset a messenger rushing on with a telegram. The telegram ran : " Horse and man have arrived at Euston and started for theatre." Mr. Bram Stoker handed the telegram to his chief. Mr. Loveday called out Act II ; Sir Henry disappeared to his dressing-room to have his armour put on, and before all this was completed Mr. Bram Stoker returned. He rushed on to the stage with reddened face and glisten- ing eye, his whole appearance denoting tragic disappoint- ment. " Stoker, where is that horse ? " " Oh, it's all up with it." " What, not here ! Where is it ? " " It arrived it left Euston " " Yes, yes ; I know. I saw the telegram. But where is it ? " " Well, the man and the beast got as far as Bow Street, then the police stopped them. The horse was ordered to be shot, and the man has been sentenced to a month's hard labour for cruelty to animals ! " The painstaking Mr. Stoker's trouble was therefore lost, and stage realism suffered a blow. The substitute was a cab-horse, which, strange to relate, had to be made up for every performance to look a " bag of bones " : ribs painted and hollow flanks artistically suggested. Irving had as Sancho Panza Sam Johnson, a right good actor. I shall never forget that comedian's trouble in managing his mule at rehearsal. I recollect that excellent actor well. As I have said in an earlier chapter I first saw him in pantomime, when I was a little boy in knickerbockers ; perhaps my first SIR HENRY IRVING 197 and therefore happiest pantomime. In that produc- tion, Aladdin, Sam Johnson had to manage a mule or a donkey. But the donkey in that case was from the ordinary pantomime paddock, and consisted of two acrobats with a donkey skin over them. Mr. Johnson did not, I remember even now, seem a bit more at home on the pantomime mule than he did, later in his career, on the real one. In the meantime he had played many parts, from the First Gravedigger in Hamlet to the part of Stryver in the adaptation of Charles Dickens's " Tale of Two Cities," entitled The Only Way. The little incident related above recalls another that happened a few years afterwards, when Irving produced Sardou's Robespierre. It was then necessary to have a horse to pull on a cart crowded with country folk, in the beautiful rustic scene with which the play opens. This time Irving did not trust to wasters from the north, or risks with the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals. He discovered that the white horse ridden by another celebrated actor in a popular play which had just completed its run was, in technical phraseology, " resting " ; so it was brought on to the stage of the Lyceum at rehearsal for Irving's inspection. The following conversation took place between Sir Henry and the man with the horse : " My good man, is this horse docile ? " " Lor' bless you, Sir 'Enry, it's as quiet as a lamb." " And accustomed, I hear, to the stage, eh ? " " Yes, sir ; it's the very 'orse as 'as been such a success in Mr. Tree's great production at his grand theatre." " Ah, quite so, quite so. Mr. Tree found it a good actor, eh ? " " I should think he did. Why, when Mr. Tree was 198 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS haranguing the audience, why this 'ere 'orse yawned, it did." " Ah, I see, it's a good critic too." Sir Henry never forgot an old friend ; and many and many a kindly act of princely generosity is known. Shortly after Irving went into management at the Lyceum, he was walking down the Strand, when he was accosted by an out-at-elbow, broken-down tragedian : " What ? Harry, my hearty ! How is my old pal Harry ? Why, the boys tells me, Irving, that you are now an actor-manager running the Lyceum. Who ever would have thought of this, in the old stock days at Edinburgh and Liverpool, eh ? " " Ah, my dear fellow, quite so quite so," said Irving, shaking the stranger by the hand. " But you have the advantage of me. Who are you ? " " Who am I ? Why, Roscius Shakespeare Thompson ; you remember R. S. Thompson Rocy, your old pal." " Ah, of course ; now I do recall you, Thompson. You are Dressing-bag Thompson, aren't you ? " " Why, of course I am ; * Dressing-bag Thompson.' Fancy, Harry, your remembering that after all these years ! " Years before Thompson had received from a rich old lady admirer an inveterate theatre goer a mag- nificently equipped dressing-bag, which the impecunious Bohemian never failed to carry about with him when he was on tour. " What are you doing, Thompson ? " " Walking gent ; examiner of public buildings ; any- thing you like but acting. Ah, Harry, the profession isn't what it was in the palmy days of stock companies. They're all burst now, and shop-boys become " actors," SIR HENRY IRVING 199 and tour in pieces written by clerks, and run by American Jew company - promoters. The ' legitimate/ " said Thompson, thumping himself on the chest, " are no longer appreciated. By the way, Harry, what can you do for one of the right sort ? " " Come round to the Lyceum ; we'll consult Bram Stoker. . . . Here, Stoker, allow me to introduce Mr. Thompson ' Dressing-Bag Thompson.' Is our com- pany full ? We'll put him on the list and chance a suitable part turning up." Then, turning to Thompson, he said : " What about salary, eh ? Twelve pounds a week, eh ? " " From you, Harry, as an old pal, I will accept that retainer. I like to help an old friend ; so consider my services are yours at the honorarium mentioned." " That's all right, Thompson ; you will be paid weekly and advised when the next play is to be read. Good-bye, Thompson. How is your mother ? All right, eh ? Of course ! Bram, just pay Mr. Thompson his first week's salary in advance." The next play was read in due course. " Dressing-bag Thompson " sat with the rest of the company while the characters were distributed, but no part fell to him. " Henry, Henry, where is my part ? " he cried. " Eh ? Ah, yes, my dear fellow," said Irving, walking up to him. " The play, you see, is by a modern author, one of those fellows who don't appreciate legitimate actors. Better luck next time ! You get your twelve pounds a week, I hope ? How is your mother ? Good- bye, old chap." Again the time came round for another reading this time a revival of Shakespeare. Thompson rose and asked once more where his part was, Irving approached him 200 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS kindly, but " Dressing-bag Thompson " greeted him with : " No, no, Harry ; no excuse this time, old chap. The immortal bard is no new author, he's legitimate. Where is my part ? " " Ah, my dear fellow," said Irving, putting his arm into Thompson's and drawing him to one side. " You get your salary, eh twelve pounds a week ? " " Yes, yes ; but where's my part ? This is not a modern author." " No, no ; of course. But, ' Dressing-bag Thompson,' you know we're obliged to respect the dead." I was once sketching Irving in a new piece at a dress rehearsal for one of the illustrated papers. At the same time an artist hailing from the Emerald Isle, with the strongest brogue I ever heard, appealed to me as a friend of Irving to allow him to see that actor in his dressing- room for the purpose of getting more detail of the costume. This Irving kindly assented to ; and after some time the Irish artist returned full of admiration. " Begorrah, sorr, Irving's a wonderful man intoirly. Oi hadn't bin spakin' foive minuets whin he axes me, 4 Whin, thin, did you lave Oireland ? ' Begorrah, he's a wonderful insoight into cha-r^^-ter to till Oi was Oirish afther only foive minuets' talk ! " Irving appreciated any little attention or compliment. I came across a letter from him acknowledging one of my books, which is reproduced on the opposite page. I have drawn more caricatures of Irving and have given more imitations, but, being as unlike the actor as any man could be, I had to depend on voice alone. So much so that, once at a garden-party at a house in the country, a young lady afterwards famous as a singer gave an imitation of Miss Ellen Terry as Juliet in the LYCEUM THEATRE. x^>3^^0 ^ yS^ *r ^ Xx t s&*-* ta -