"You've just missed dear Daniel," said Hall. "He floated in through the window, round the house and out again, and I don't doubt we shall see the day when he will float round St. Paul's."

Mrs. S. C. Hall (very Irish), who had a great personal reputation as a writer, was most attractive and altogether a very interesting woman, being a spiritualist and a philanthropist. She founded the Hospital for Consumptives in the Fulham Road, and persuaded her great friend Jenny Lind to sing at charity concerts to gain funds for her inst.i.tution. My father painted both of them, and the portrait of Mr.

Hall is now in the possession of the latter's family.

Ruskin was on very friendly terms with them, and it was the Halls who introduced us to the Virtues, who were the proprietors and publishers of the _Art Journal_. James Virtue, who was a fine oar and President of the London Rowing Club, was one of the most cheerful men one could wish to meet; and as hostess, his wife, who, I am happy to say, is still living, was equally delightful. His brother William Virtue afterwards saved my life--but that is antic.i.p.ating events somewhat.

Mr. and Mrs. Tom Taylor were another interesting and talented couple who were friends of my parents. Tom Taylor was the art critic of the _Times_, and at one time editor of _Punch_. He was also the author of several popular plays, of which _Still Waters Run Deep_ and the _Ticket of Leave Man_, in which Henry Neville played the hero, are perhaps the most widely known. In conjunction with Charles Reade he wrote some amusing comedies; as well as writing in prose and verse for _Punch_ he compiled some interesting biographies, of Reynolds, Constable, David c.o.x, and C. R. Leslie, R.A. At dinner his appearance was remarkable, for he usually wore a black velvet evening suit. A curious trait of the dramatist's was his absent-minded manner and forgetfulness of convention. Sometimes when walking in the street with a friend he would grow interested, and, to emphasise his remarks, turned to look more directly into the face of his companion, at the same time placing his arm around his waist. In the case of a lady this habit sometimes proved rather embarra.s.sing!

Mr. Tom Taylor was a man of unbounded kindness in helping everybody who was in need of money or in trouble; his generosity probably made him the object of attentions from all sorts and conditions of people, a fact very soon discovered by his domestics, for one day Mr. and Mrs.

Taylor returned from a walk to be met by a startled parlourmaid who announced the presence of a strange-looking man who was waiting to see them. Her suspicions being aroused by his wild appearance, she had shown him into the pantry, fearing to leave him in the drawing-room.

On repairing to the pantry with curiosity not unmixed with wonder, they discovered ... Tennyson ... quite at home and immensely tickled by his situation.

Mrs. Tom Taylor was descended from Wycliffe, and in her early youth lived with her two sisters with their father, the Rev. Mr. Barker (who was quite a personality), in the country. Laura Barker was brought up in circ.u.mstances very similar to the Bronts. She was extremely talented, and began her musical career at the age of thirteen, when her great musical gifts brought her to the notice of Paganini.

Paganini, after hearing her play, was much astonished at her power in rendering--entirely from ear--his wonderful harmonies upon her violin.

General Perronet Thompson, on another occasion, was so pleased with her performance that he encouraged her talent by presenting her with a "Stradivarius." Later she became an art critic in Florence, and the composer of many popular songs. When she married Mr. Tom Taylor she continued to publish her talented songs under her maiden name.

A well-known composer, whose name is probably merged in memories of the near past, is Sam Lover, who will be remembered as the writer of "Molly Bawn," "Rory O'More," "The Four-leaved Shamrock," and many others. His career was a strange and varied one. Beginning life as an artist, he won his way to fame in Dublin, where he became a very popular miniature painter, and many famous men of the day sat to him.

His roving taste, however, led him gradually to abandon art for literature. In this again he was successful, and came to London, where he contributed to most of the magazines of the day, and wrote several novels. After more successes he began to compose the songs so well known to-day. About the same time he wrote ballad poetry, but finding the output a strain, he prepared a series of entertainments which he ent.i.tled "Irish Evenings," in which he embodied songs and music of his own composition. These entertainments became exceedingly popular, and the reputation he acquired led him to extend his horizon to America.

On returning, he turned his experiences to account, and finally changed his profession and sailed away to become an English foreign consul in foreign lands. Before he left England he said to my mother, "Mrs. Ward, if I return, I know I shall find you as young as when I leave you!" He has not returned, but his words come back to me, for indeed she seems to have discovered the secret of eternal youth.

Felix Moscheles the painter, was a constant visitor at our house, and he was the son of old Mr. Moscheles the great composer and pianist and friend of Mendelssohn. Felix Moscheles was a chum of Du Maurier when both lived in Paris, and he wrote a biography of this eminent _Punch_ artist and author of "Trilby." Inheriting some of the remarkable gift of his father (quite apart from his talent as a painter) Felix played the piano, but he was astonishingly modest about his undoubted talent and would only play very occasionally. He is an old man now, but active still, for I heard his name not long ago in connection with a Peace Society. Moscheles' niece, Miss Roche, who is Mrs. Henry d.i.c.kens, the wife of the eminent K.C. and eldest surviving son of Charles d.i.c.kens, inherits the musical talent of her family, and is also well known in musical circles.

_ propos_ of the d.i.c.kens family, I remember an incident in connection with one of Mr. Philip Calderon's pictures, when I was going through the Royal Academy (then in Trafalgar Square). I noticed an old Darby and Joan looking carefully through the catalogue for the t.i.tle of a picture by the artist representing a nude nymph riding on a wave of the sea, surrounded by a friendly crowd of porpoises disporting themselves gaily around her.

"Ah," said the old gentleman, "here we are.... 'Portrait of Mrs.

Charles d.i.c.kens, Junior!'"

Sir Theodore and Lady Martin (_ne_ Helen Faucit) used to visit my parents. Sir Theodore was knighted when he had completed the Queen's book, and his wife, when she left the stage, dined more than once at her Majesty's table.

When I was still at school, Garibaldi visited England, and after being universally fted in London, and honoured with a banquet by the Lord Mayor, suddenly announced his intention of returning to Italy. The cause of the resolution was the subject of much controversy at the time, as he would, by his departure, cancel many engagements and upset the preparations the provinces had made to receive him. Garibaldi embarked for Italy after a sojourn of seven weeks in England, accompanied by the Duke and d.u.c.h.ess of Sutherland in their yacht.

His son, Minotti Garibaldi, came to our house, and his visit recalls an amusing episode in connection with one of my father's pictures. An eccentric old art critic, a low churchman, who, as such, cultivated a modesty in dress and a deep humility of demeanour that consorted oddly with his rubicund feature (which had roused our housekeeper to remark "Mr. So-and-so, 'e's got a nose to light a pipe"), was calling upon my father to view his picture of "Anne Boleyn at the Queen Stairs of the Tower." Anne Boleyn is represented in the picture as having sunk down from exhaustion and fear on the lower step leading to the place of execution. After remarking upon the masterly manner of the painting, the old man paused, and looking up under his eyes he placed a thoughtful finger upon his forehead and said in mournful accents, "_The hutter 'elplessness_!" A little later young Garibaldi called and was introduced to our pious critic, who, not quite knowing what to say, but feeling he should rise to the occasion, made a spasmodic attempt at tact and e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed "_'Ow's yer pa?_"

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE MARQUIS OF WINCHESTER, 1904.]

The late Lord Crewe comes to my mind now as one of my parents'

friends; he cultivated the society of artists and ... bishops! He was very absent-minded, and there is a story told of him, which, although far-fetched, is very typical. Suddenly recollecting his duties as host of a large house party, he approached his guests one afternoon and asked them if they would care to go riding, and finding several agreeable, made arrangements with each one to be at the hall door at 2.30, when he would supply them with an excellent white horse. At the appointed hour, guest after guest arrived booted, breeched, and habited, until nearly the whole party had a.s.sembled. They waited, and finally had the satisfaction of seeing Lord Crewe ride away, quite oblivious, on the white horse.

My parents, after staying there some time, arrived home to find a letter inviting them to Crewe Hall and written in a way that suggested an absence of years. Lord Crewe's extraordinary absent-mindedness was proverbial, and, since he was not aware of it, caused him to be considerably taken advantage of. He used to dine at the "Athenum,"

and usually at the same table. Another member came rushing in one day to obtain a place for dinner for himself. All being engaged, the waiter was obliged to refuse the extra guest, when the flurried member pointed to an empty seat.

"Oh, sir," said the waiter with apologetic deference, "That's Lord Crewe's."

"Never mind," said the urgent would-be diner. "Tell him when he comes--that he's dined!"

It is to be supposed the waiter found his deception worth while, for when Lord Crewe arrived, he was met with surprise and quiet expostulation.

"You dined an hour ago, my lord," said the unscrupulous waiter.

"So I did," murmured the poor victim, as he retraced his steps.

I once remember his coming all the way from Crewe to dine with my people. After dinner my sister Beatrice, who played the violin, performed her latest piece for his benefit. Lord Crewe, evidently tired after his meal, went to sleep and slept soundly until the finish, when he awoke suddenly, applauded loudly and eulogised her talent at some length.

Marks, the R.A., paid a visit to Crewe Hall; after which he composed some very tuneful and witty songs of "the n.o.ble Earl of Crewe," which set forth that gentleman's idiosyncrasies at no small length, much to the amus.e.m.e.nt of all who heard them.

I wonder how many people nowadays remember Fechter the actor. I often saw him when I was a boy, and thought his acting splendid. His love scene with Kate Terry in the _Duke's Motto_ took London by storm. He had a marked foreign accent that did not interfere in the least with the clear elocution that he owed to Bellew's instruction. Fechter was born in London and educated in France as a sculptor, but his inclinations tended towards the stage; he made his dbut at the Salle Molire, and achieved success as Duval in _La Dame aux Camellias_.

After acting in Italy, Germany, and France, he came to England and won his laurels upon our stage. In conversation he was brilliant, and in appearance gave one the impression of strength both physically and mentally; I think his face is to this day more deeply impressed upon my mind than that of any other actor I remember excepting Irving. My father painted his portrait in the costume he wore in Hamlet and many years after my mother presented the picture to Henry Irving; but she still has the dress which Fechter gave her when leaving England.

Charles d.i.c.kens thought highly of him, as the following letter will show.

3, Hanover Terrace, Thursday, Twenty-fifth April, 1861.

MY DEAR WARD,

I have the greatest interest in Fechter (on whom I called; by the way, I hope he knows), and I should have been heartily glad to meet him again. But--one word in such a case is as good, or bad, as a thousand....

I am engaged on Tuesday beyond the possibilities of backing out or putting off.

With kind regards to Mrs. Ward, in which my daughter and Miss Hogarth join,

Very faithfully yours, CHARLES d.i.c.kENS.

Irving (when comparatively unknown to the London public) I first saw in _Lost in London_, and not long afterwards when he played "Macbeth,"

I could not resist caricaturing him.

Sothern I remember, of course, in "Lord Dundreary;" and Lytton, his son, also a successful actor in comparatively late years, and a playfellow of my brother Russell.

W. S. Gilbert came often to our Sunday "evenings" at Kent Villa. Years after, I recollect a story he told in the Club against himself. He was at the Derby, and crossing over from the stand, he got amongst the crowd who hustled and jostled him without the slightest regard for his comfort. He remonstrated with them, and receiving a good deal of impertinence in consequence, he lost his temper. When he at length emerged from the crush, he discovered his watch, a unique repeater and gold chain worth about two hundred pounds, had disappeared. The five minutes' talk proved to be one of the most expensive he had ever indulged in.

Although my father was interested in all sorts and conditions of men, historians, as I have remarked before, possessed a supreme attraction for him, and he sought the society of such men, as they in their turn sought his, whenever opportunity presented itself. William Hepworth Dixon, the historian, became friendly with my father shortly after our arrival at Kent Villa, and in the company of Douglas Jerrold was frequently at our house.

Mr. Dixon wrote a series of papers in the _Daily News_ on the "Literature of the Lower Orders," which were precursors of Henry Mayhew's inquiries into the conditions of the London poor. He took a great interest in the lower cla.s.ses and was instrumental in obtaining a free entry for the public to the Tower of London. Afterwards he became chief editor of the _Athenum_. As a traveller he visited Italy, Spain, Hungary--all Europe, in fact, as well as Canada and the United States, where he went to Salt Lake City and wrote a history of the Mormons. He finally met with a riding accident in Cyprus which made him more or less of an invalid afterwards. His extraordinary reluctance to enter a church is one of the idiosyncrasies that returns to me; this must have puzzled my father, who was a very religious man and a constant church-goer.

Lord Stanhope (formerly Lord Mahon) was another historian, and an intimate friend of my father's. When the first Peel Ministry was formed in 1834, Lord Mahon appeared as Under-Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, and during the last year of the Peel Ministry he held the office of Secretary to the Board of Control and supported the repeal of the Corn Laws. He subsequently pursued a somewhat wavering course, voted with the Protectionists against the change in the Navigation Laws, and lost his seat for Hertford at the general election of 1852. Afterwards his lordship devoted most of his life to historical research and wrote among other works "A History of the War of the Succession in Spain." His portrait is amongst the many my father painted of men distinguished in their studies; Bulwer, Thackeray, Lord Macaulay, Hallam, d.i.c.kens, Collins, were also subjects for his brush.

Sir Charles Dilke (the Dilkes were then proprietors of the _Athenum_) once came to dine with us, and was mortally offended because a foreign amba.s.sador was given precedence, as is etiquette as well as politeness to a stranger amongst us. He took my sister down, and sulked and grumbled to her all dinner time, venting on our high-backed antique chairs his annoyance at what he imagined to be a serious slight to his dignity and position.

I went with my father to Charles d.i.c.kens' last reading. He was an amateur actor of high repute, and his rendering of the famous novels was exceedingly dramatic. Wilkie Collins once wrote a play, called _The Lighthouse_, for some private theatricals in which d.i.c.kens acted.

My father designed the invitation card, and the original drawing was sold at the d.i.c.kens' sale at Christie's, where it fetched a high price. At the last party given by Miss d.i.c.kens before he died, I was introduced to the great author, and curiously enough, he said, "I am so pleased to make your acquaintance, and I hope this will not be _your last visit_." That evening Joachim gave us an exhibition of his incomparable art. Lord Houghton, who was as absent-minded in his way as his brother-in-law, Lord Crewe, was one of the guests. He fell asleep during Joachim's recital, and snored. As the exquisite chords from the violin rose on the air, Lord Houghton's snores sounded loudly in opposition, sometimes drowning a delicate pa.s.sage, and at others lost in a pa.s.sionate rush of melody from the player, who must have needed all his composure to prevent him waking the slumbering lord.

About that time I made several slight caricatures of d.i.c.kens, which have been not only exhibited, but published.

[Ill.u.s.tration: LORD HOUGHTON. 1882.]

[Ill.u.s.tration: FRED ARCHER. 1881.]

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE DUKE OF BEAUFORT.]