Forty Years of 'Spy'

"I don't 'arf like it," he began.

"What do you mean?" replied my friend.

"T'aint all right, you bet," he said, with a wink.

After some explanations, it transpired that the groom was trying to tell us that we had been hoaxed, and the gardener's boy was as well as we were and everybody concerned. I could not help laughing when I realized how completely we had been taken in. The elephant, the dogs, and all the menagerie, including the parrots, had been produced to make the uproar and trample down the bushes. The gardener had attended to the shooting, and all the servants were in the plot, and each had been carefully rehearsed (under threat of dismissal) by their mistress for the practical joke played upon her guest. The reporter, I may add, was the chef in disguise.

When I saw Lady Meux, who was pretending to be too ill and upset (owing to the shock to her nerves) to come down, I congratulated her upon her scheme, for I could not but admire the extraordinarily clever acting she had displayed for the furthering of her plot; the tears, the stage hysterics, and the way she had worked herself up into a frenzy until I could not tell whether it was assumed or real, were all marvellously clever. But when I asked her the reason of her plan, she told me her object was to frighten our friend, who was becoming addicted to the habit of taking more alcohol than was good for him, and by dint of doing so, she hoped to startle him into reconsidering his life, and by the means of a good shock, awaken his power of resistance to what was becoming a steady habit. I never discovered what our friend thought, and what the result was, but I know he was really frightened.

As well as her leanings in the direction of warrior heroes, Lady Meux had a keen sense of humour; she wished me to caricature one of the guests who arrived in the house-party after the tiger affair. One evening I was inspired, and did a really funny caricature of him, and thinking she would be pleased with it, as a surprise I placed it on the mantelpiece, hoping she would see it when she came down to dinner. As fate would have it, my subject came in first; and when I arrived a little later, it had gone, so I asked him if he had seen a caricature of himself that I had done at my hostess' special request; as it was not ill-natured, I had no hesitation in referring to it before him.

"Oh," he answered grimly. "I've put it where it deserved to go—in the fire!"

My friend, Charles H. F. Brookfield, was lunching with Whistler one day, when the artist complained of the scarcity of money and commissions, and Brookfield, remembering Lady Meux had said she would like her portrait painted, said, "Cheer up, Jimmy; I've an idea."

With his usual cleverness and tact, he persuaded the lady that here was a genius waiting to do her justice, and the affair was arranged.

When Whistler saw Lady Meux in her pink satin, he was certainly enchanted, but her sables inspired him with a desire to paint her again, and her diamonds enhanced another dress so greatly that his enthusiasm grew keener still, and with great skill he persuaded his sitter to allow him to embark upon three pictures or even more.

Brookfield was so amused at the progress of the pictures which Whistler painted at the same time, that he (Brookfield) made a clever little sketch and caricature of the artist, his hair flying about in his wild enthusiasm, attacking the pictures with an enormously long brush. Two or three years ago, when some of Whistler's sketches were up for auction, this little drawing was sold at Christie's as a genuine Whistler for twenty pounds.

A host of amusing stories come to me with the mention of Brookfield, some of which he told me himself with an incomparable drollery that was entirely typical of the man, and others which are told of him by his friends.

When he contemplated going upon the stage as a young man, many of his friends remonstrated with him and endeavoured to persuade him to abandon his decision. A near relation also wrote begging him not to embark upon such a career, terminating his letter with a final appeal, "I beg of you," he wrote, "not to go upon the stage—in the name of Christ."

"I have no intention of acting under any other name but my own," wrote the irrepressible young man in return.

When he had been upon the stage some time, he met by chance one of the friends who had ranged himself on the side of the opposers.

"Hullo, Charlie," he said, rather condescendingly. "Still—er—on the stage?"

"Oh yes," replied our friend. "And you—still in the Commons?"

I am indebted to a mutual friend, Mr. William Elliot, for the following story of Brookfield in later years.

My friend met him one day with his wife in Jermyn Street; the next time he saw him Brookfield remarked—

"It was so lucky I met you the other day, for it enabled me to tell my wife something I have always been too shy to tell her before—that I have become a Catholic." (Mrs. Brookfield had always been a Papist.)

"What nonsense," replied my friend. "How could my meeting you and your wife start you on a confession of that nature?"

"Very simple," said "Brooks." "The moment you had gone I said to Ruth, 'What a pleasure it is to meet Willie Elliot—always the same—bright and agreeable. All these years that I have known him I have only one thing against him!'

"'What is that?' said Mrs. Brookfield.

"'He's a heretic!'" replied "Brooks."

A very typical story is told of how he wrote to the editor of The Lancet suggesting that they should publish a Christmas number, and offering to write a humorous story entitled "My first Post-Mortem!"

Mrs. C. H. E. Brookfield is the author of several interesting books, and I must not forget to mention Mrs. Brookfield, the mother of my friend, whose personality and exquisite charm of manner were so delightful. I had not the pleasure of her acquaintance in earlier days, but, judging from portraits, she must have been extremely beautiful, although it is strange that she should have been the original of heroines in Thackeray's novels, the meek and mild "Amelia" of "Vanity Fair" among them.

The Lotus Club was now a novelty, and I joined it, as did several of my friends; and many an amusing evening was spent there. The representatives of the Gaiety of that day, Nellie Farren, Kate Vaughan, Kate Munroe, and Amalia were among the attractive actresses who frequented the club. There were dances twice a week, and I well remember dancing with Nellie Farren, who was the best waltzer of them all. Kate Vaughan was delightful, but not such a good partner, although, of course, her stage dancing was the absolute "poetry of motion." Many were the pleasant hours I spent at that jolly club—and I was young.

In 1876 the Beefsteak Club was founded by Archibald Stuart Wortley. I was elected one of the original members. As a young man, I appreciated the Beefsteak Club for what it was then—a gay and jolly place, more or less Bohemian. In later bachelor days much of my time in the evenings was spent there, and my constant attendance brought me into contact with many of the most interesting and entertaining men of the day.

Being a one-room club and also restricted to three hundred members (the admittance of visitors being prohibited), it was always unique, the conversation varying according to the different groups sitting side by side at the dinner-table, and the members being selected pretty equally from sailors, soldiers, actors, diplomats, legislators, sporting men, artistic and literary men, and so on.

At one period, Friday nights were especially popular, and I think that was because a member named Craigie (a retired army man) made a point of never missing them. He was a great favourite with all, invariably occupied the same seat, and by report missed only one Friday evening during his membership. I remember that upon entering the Beefsteak Club one Saturday evening, I was shown the chair in which Craigie always sat. The seat was in ribbons.

It seems that on the only occasion that he was absent from his place on a Friday a large stag's head fell plump on to it, piercing it through and through.

What luck for our friend!

It was a 13 pointer, and happened on a Friday night too, so the tables were turned against the old superstition.

Craigie's cheery laugh has, I regret to say, long been missed. Now he is no more, so Friday nights have lost their special interest. The Beefsteak is no longer the same late "sitting up" club, although it still remains delightful, and while we regret the absence of the retired editor of Punch (Sir Francis Burnand), we hail the frequent appearance of his successor (Sir Owen Seaman).

Just before my marriage, I was very much gratified by the extremely kind way in which my friends "clubbed" together and presented me with a handsome canteen of silver (quite an unprecedented occurrence, by the way, in the Beefsteak Club). The presentation on that occasion was made by Comyns Carr, who made one of his very appropriate and humorous speeches. A friend writes to me, "Do you remember in your reply to Carr's speech you started on a quotation from Shakespeare, 'froze up,' and Biron got the book and read the passage? It was the end of 'Much Ado,' where Benedick says, 'a college of wit-crackers cannot flout me out of my humour. Dost thou think I care for a satire or an epigram?… in brief since I do purpose to marry I will think nothing to any purpose the world can say against it,'—a happy quotation. Wit-cracker for Joe Carr was admirably apt." I was also much indebted to my friend Frederick Post for his pains in helping to select the gift.

The premises previous to this were in King William Street, over Toole's Theatre, which was pulled down when the buildings of Charing Cross Hospital were extended. By an odd series of coincidences, all my addresses seem to be either in a King or a William Street, or the two combined. They were—

My Studio                       William Street, Lowndes Square.

Orleans Club                    King Street, St. James.

Fielding Club                   King Street, Covent Garden.

Beefsteak Club                  King William Street, Strand.

My Insurance Office             King Street, City.

Vanity Fair Offices

  (at one time)                 King William Street.

One evening at the Beefsteak Club, I watched George Grossmith chaffing Corney Grain.

"Oh, Dick," he was saying, pointing a derisive finger at Dick's waistcoat, "you're putting it on!"

"You little whipper-snapper, how dare you!" said Corney Grain, smiling down at his friend.

When they had gone, it amused me to sit down at the writing table and make a quick caricature while they were fresh in my mind. A member, observing my preoccupation, jokingly asked me why I was so busy, and if I usually spent so long over my correspondence. Whereupon I showed him the drawing which represented the two humorists as I had watched them, a tall Corney Grain waving aside with a fat and expansive hand, a minute and impish Grossmith.

He handed it round to the members gathered by the fire, who, having seen the two men in a similar position shortly before, were much amused.

"If I were you I'd draw it larger and have it reproduced—it's bound to be popular," he remarked.

Taking his advice I went home and sat up all night making a more careful drawing from my sketch, which I elaborated with colour afterwards. I offered the drawing to Vanity Fair which, under the rule of a temporary editor (in the absence of Gibson Bowles) was refused. This gave me an opportunity of selling it privately to Rudolph Lehmann, who paid me twice as much as a previous bidder had offered for it. I had several reproductions made by the Autotype Company which I coloured myself, and eventually was £250 in pocket. I have an autograph book full of the signatures and letters of distinguished people who became owners of these prints, including those of King Edward and the Dukes of Edinburgh and Teck. Thus I had to thank the short-sighted editor for my success. I quote the following from George Grossmith's amusing reminiscences, "Piano & I."

"I allude to the permission by Mr. Leslie Ward, son of E. M. Ward, R.A., the famous artist, to publish the portrait which appears in this book. Most people are under the impression that it was one of the cartoons in Vanity Fair—it was nothing of the sort. It was a private enterprise of 'Spy.' The first issue was tinted by the artist, signed by him and by Corney Grain and myself. Those copies are now worth twenty or thirty times their original value. The origin of the picture was this. Dick Grain and I were most formidable rivals and most intimate friends. Hostesses during the London season secured one or the other of us. The following words are not absolutely verbatim, but as nearly as possible as I can get to the fact.

"Mrs. Jones: 'Are you coming to my party next Wednesday, Mrs. Smith, to hear Corney Grain?'

"Mrs. Smith: 'Indeed I am, and I sincerely hope you are coming to my party on Thursday to hear George Grossmith. Oh, Mrs. Robinson, how are you … etc.'

"Mrs. Robinson: 'Delighted to meet you both. Are you coming to my afternoon on Saturday?'

"Mrs. Smith and Mrs. Jones, together: 'Indeed we are, who have you got?'

"Mrs. Robinson: 'Oh, I have engaged Corney Grain and George Grossmith!'"

Corney Grain grew so weary of signing my cartoon, which was sent him by persistent admirers, that he charged ten shillings and sixpence for every print upon which he placed his autograph, and the proceeds went, I believe, to the Actors' Benevolent Fund. The coloured copies were frequently mistaken for the original drawing, and at the Edmund Yates sale one of the reproductions fetched £18 owing to that mistaken impression.

Corney Grain, in return for my caricature, had a friendly revenge in some verses which he sent to my mother on the back of a New Year card. I produce them here with apologies for myself—

LINES ON LESLIEIf ever he manages to catch a train,It goes where he doesn't want to go.It starts at three or—thereabouts,But—really—he doesn't quite know.If he's due down south, he's up in the north,Say in Scotland—eating porridge—If he's bound for Chester—or Bangor—say,You'll find him safe in Norwich.At junctions he's always left behind,For he quite forgets to change,And he's shunted into sidings dark—"I thought 'twas rather strange!"REFRAIN.'Twill constant change affordTo travel with Leslie Ward,Wherever he may roam, tho' he's quite at home,He's always all abroad.If he leaves the train for a cup of tea,The train goes on without him;He's left his ticket and purse in the rack,And he hasn't a penny about him.He forgets the name of his hotel,Tho' he's often stayed there before,He thinks it's the Lion or the Antelope,Or the something Horse or Boar.But he's sure it's the name of an animal,That you sometimes see at the Zoo!Which gives you a pretty wide field of choiceFrom a Rat to a Kangaroo!REFRAIN as before.If he's due on a visit on Monday, say,His coat is being repaired!On Tuesday he's awfully sorry, you know,But his shirts weren't properly aired.On Wednesday he was going to start,But he'd lost his mother's dog!On Thursday he really meant to come,But he lost his way—in a fog!On Friday the cab was at the door!But his boots would not come on—But on Saturday he does arrive—And—finds all the family gone!!REFRAIN as before.R. Corney Grain.

I am afraid there is something of truth lurking in that poem, for I am reminded to tell a story against myself. One bitterly cold winter's night I was returning from my club, I arrived at my front door, and failed to find my bunch of keys. I searched my pockets without success, and at last assured that I was indeed unable to get in, I retraced my steps and wondered in the meantime what I should do. It was one-thirty on a winter's morning, I was in dress clothes, and my feet becoming colder and colder in the thin pumps that but half protected them; snow lay upon the ground and the outlook was the reverse of inviting. I bethought me of the Grosvenor Hotel, so hurrying back, I called in there and explained the situation to the porter, who informed me that a bed there for the night was impossible as I had no luggage with me. I expostulated and offered to send for my clothes in the morning, but he refused to admit me. My feelings as I paddled back in the slush in the direction of my studio were unmentionable, especially as I discovered I had only a half-crown in my pocket. Under my arm I held the Christmas number of Vanity Fair which seemed to grow heavier and heavier, and a fine sleet began to fall. Presently I met a policeman to whom I appealed in my trouble. He was very sympathetic, and appeared to have hopes of obtaining shelter for me.

"Anything will do," I said, shivering with cold. "Have you a cell vacant at the station? I'd rather spend the night there than walking about in the snow."

He smiled. "Oh," he said, "there's a mate of mine who lives close by."

We found the house and rang the bell. Presently the wife appeared at the window and called out, "What on earth do you want waking me up this time of the night?"

The constable began to explain, but the snow and the sleet came with an icy blast, and with a shudder the woman shut the window with a bang that had an air of finality about it.

We turned away (I was disconsolate), and walked along the road undecided, until we came to a night-watchman's shanty, where I saw the welcome glow of a fire and an old man in occupation. The policeman, who was evidently a man of resource, said:—

"I've an idea—we'll go to that chap and perhaps he'll put you up for a while."

He explained my sad case to the night-watchman, who was only too glad to admit me to a share of his hut and fire; endeavouring to make me quite comfortable, he piled sacks of cement by the fire and arranged a coat for my eider-down, which was white with cement, as was everything in the place. In spite of my discomfort, I longed to sleep, but my queer old host, excited perhaps at the unexpected advent of a nocturnal visitor, embarked upon a stream of conversation of his former life spent in the Bush. It seemed to show a distinct ingratitude to sleep, and I tried to listen, but the flow of talk lulled me, and in spite of myself I fell into a deep slumber. It seemed only a few minutes after, when he woke me and informed me that it was time to turn out and six o'clock. I rose, and putting my hand into my waistcoat pocket with the intention of rewarding the watchman for his kindness—I found my latch key! Afterwards I endeavoured to persuade my quondam acquaintance to accept the remuneration of my only half-crown, but he refused it, saying, "Keep it, sir; you may want it, for a cab," so I presented him with the bulky Christmas number of Vanity Fair.

Going by the next evening, I looked into his shanty to give him his tip, and found him deeply engrossed in the volume, and, on close scrutiny, found he was not reading indiscriminately, but beginning at the beginning (as one would a novel), preparatory to going right through, and when I asked him if the literature was to his taste, he said—

"Oh, sir; I've only got to the fifth page!"

I have always felt a trifle embarrassed over the latch-key story, especially when Charlie Brookfield used to tell it at the club with embellishments of a witty order.

An old member of the club was rather given (owing to loss of memory) to telling the same story rather too often, but as he was at the end of his life and had been so popular, few avoided him, remembering his brighter days. Up to the last he was courtly and charming, but, after telling a story, he would explain: "That reminds me of another story!" Whereupon he would repeat in exactly the same words the one he had just told. That recalls an only half-intentional score of mine off Brookfield. Brooks had one day a new audience, and was proceeding to regale it with lively tales. Before beginning he said to me, "Don't you listen; you know all my stories." Now he did tell some that I knew; but his comic chagrin was tremendous when, meaning really to make an inquiry, and only slyly to insinuate my foreknowledge, said: "Hullo, Brooks; have you seen Sir Henry lately?"

About this time the Fielding Club opened, and was ably managed. A good number of interesting men belonged, including Sir Edward Lawson, Montagu Williams, Irving, Serjeant Ballantyne, Toole, and hosts of others. Toole used to come to the club and play cards; I remember his usual expression and comic way of saying, "Cash here forward," when he was winning. He was inimitable, for his stock phrases were so entirely his own.

There was a regular coterie that played poker there. Alfred Thompson, Johnnie Giffard, Corney Grain, Tom Bird, Henry Parker, myself, and others were devoted to the game. One member especially was extremely lucky. He possessed a thorough knowledge of the game and his opponents, and he had the most impassive face I have ever seen. No trace of any expression other than that of calm impersonal enjoyment ever escaped him. He was never known to get up from the table without winning, and he made a regular income out of his "coups" at poker; but as he cared nothing whether he won or lost, he finally ceased to play, finding he had gained so much from his friends.

The club continued to be quite delightful until a number of the "crutch and toothpick" element joined to watch the well-known "actor chaps," as they called them, and with their entrance the club lost all its charm and pleasant Bohemianism. Irving, among others, became aware of the observing eye of these inquisitive youths, and discontinued going to the club; others followed by degrees, and gradually the club lost its popularity.

The idea of the Lyric Club, of which I was elected an honorary member, was suggested by a small and defunct Bohemian club of that name. It was opened on far more ambitious lines, however, having for its chairman the distinguished sportsman and patron of the drama, Lord Londesborough, who was well supported by a representative committee. All went well for some time, and the entertainments, for which a spacious theatre had been erected, were splendidly managed by Luther Munday.

On the opening night there was a reception that went with a flourish of trumpets, and shortly after Lord Londesborough gave a dinner at which I sat next to Irving. Irving naturally gave life to the affair, and I can remember a cigar that he gave me—I think the largest and best I ever smoked.

These occasions were followed up by regular receptions when theatrical performances frequently attracted the members. "The divine Sarah," Marie Tempest, Hollmann, and such geniuses brought large audiences, and frequently these evenings were varied with the Guards' Band. Everything was done, in fact, to make the club a success.

Now there was another idea, which, I conclude, emanated from the more sporting members of the committee. It was, to take a branch club at Barnes, where there was a handsome and suitable house and grounds well adapted for the purpose. The place at last decided upon was not only well adapted for cricket, lawn tennis, and other out-of-door games, but, being so near London, was of easy access. The terrace facing the river was also a capital place from which to see the Oxford and Cambridge Boat Race, and a steamer from Westminster was hired to take the members down. Naturally, perhaps, the most crowded meeting held there was on the occasion of a final in the Army and Navy football match, when many distinguished visitors were present.

As with the Orleans Club, Twickenham, this club was but a flash in the pan. There came a day when it could no longer be kept up, and so it was with that in Coventry Street (or Piccadilly East, as it was called). Both branches of the Lyric Club, in fact, came suddenly to grief, owing to a great misfortune which it is better not to recall.

First of all held on Sunday nights at the Grosvenor Galleries, the Gallery Club was quite a place to belong to, and for some time was decidedly select in its members. It was also at the time quite a novelty, the best of music being heard and the best of musicians giving their services. The same may be said of the entertainers, and their entertainments. Smoke and talk prevailed during the intervals, and so the evenings passed off cheerily.

When these Galleries of the "Greenery Yallery" period closed their doors, we removed to the rooms of the Institute of Painters in Water Colours where the receptions were held. I forgot here to mention that occasional Sunday nights were graced by the presence of lady guests. Paderewski played on one of these occasions to a crowded and very appreciative audience.