Needless to say, I was encouraged by kindly criticism, for having chosen my profession in the teeth of opposition, I felt I had to succeed, and was extremely anxious to gain the approval of my father.

I entered Carey's to take a preliminary course of instruction preparatory to the Royal Academy Schools. These studios were well known in former days as Sa.s.s's School of Art, where many eminent artists had attended before they rose to fame. At the same time I studied at the Slade School, where Poynter was then professor. I then copied at the National Gallery the well-known picture of "A Tailor,"

by Moroni, selected by my father, who had a very high regard for that wonderful old master. Now that everything was running smoothly I was quite happy. I was at liberty to follow my own desires, with the thought of the future before me, which I faced with all the optimism of youth and an untroubled mind.

With these high hopes I was considerably enlivened by my first holiday in Scotland with a Scotch school friend. Dunlop and I started on tour from Edinburgh, where I was introduced to the Adams. Mr. Adam was a solicitor who, with all the security of a comfortable practice and successful life, was very anxious to bring up his son in his office; but Patrick dreamed of an artistic career, and had other ambitions. He read the lives of Constable, Turner, and David c.o.x, and, becoming inspired by the example of these great men, and by the works of Sam Bough (a painter of whom Edinburgh is proud), he rose at dawn to paint before going to his father's office, where he regarded the hours spent on his stool as so much waste of time, and longed for evening when he could return to his beloved pursuits again. When we met, our sympathies went out to one another, and we spent our time discussing art. Together we visited the local galleries and steeped ourselves in the beauty we found there.

At Holyrood Palace we were shown the room where the ill-fated Rizzio was murdered, and where the sad scene of love, pa.s.sion, and hatred was enacted in so small a s.p.a.ce, which was yet large enough to hold destinies between its walls. The blood-stain was pointed out to me, and I was informed at the same time that the episode of Mary Queen of Scots and the unfortunate Italian was the subject of E. M. Ward's picture of the year in the Royal Academy. (This painting, by the way, was purchased by the late Sir John Pender.) It is to be supposed that I appeared duly impressed.

When we left Edinburgh, my newly-found friend, Patrick Adam, suggested we should correspond about Art; but although he became a successful painter, and one of the foremost Scottish Academicians, I have never met him from that day to this.

During our visits to the picture galleries, my friend Richard Dunlop, who was a matter-of-fact Scot and not in the least temperamental or of an artistic turn of mind (but a splendid fellow for a' that), became distinctly bored, and after we had visited Mr. Arthur Lewis (who was a very keen sportsman and deer-stalker to the day of his death) and his wife, formerly Kate Terry, at Glen Urquhart, he retraced his steps and left me to go on alone. My continual eulogies of the beauties we saw, the exquisite colours and effects of landscape evidently became too much for him. I am glad to say that he still remains one of my best friends, and I always a.s.sociate him with our mutual and equally valued friend, Charlie Frith.

On the various boats in which I voyaged from time to time, I enjoyed watching the pa.s.sengers, and occasionally caricaturing people who amused me. There was one pale curate who looked as though he might have understudied Penley in _The Private Secretary_. He wore a long coat and broad-brimmed hat, and his smile was always dawning to order, whereupon charming dimples appeared in his cheeks. I watched him shedding the cheerful light of his fascinating smile upon the ladies, until gradually a change crept over him; the smile wore off, and presently the sea claimed him. I always think a man or woman should be economical with their expressions when they are apt to be victims of _mal-de-mer_, for so few smiles at sea last until the voyage is over.

About this period I was fortunate enough to be invited to Cheshire by some friends of my parents, to the house of Mr. and Mrs. George Fox, who lived at Alderley Edge. My host, who was a well-known _connoisseur_, possessed a remarkable collection of pictures. I remember one by Thomas Faed (called "G.o.d's Acre," representing two little children by their mother's grave). The painting was full of delicate sentiment, a qualification perhaps rather despised in these days; but the masterly loose handling and fine colour redeemed it from any such criticism from myself. I fear the picture would not realise anything like the considerable price given for it by my host, which, I believe, was over two thousand five hundred pounds.

[Ill.u.s.tration: MR GEORGE LANE FOX. 1878.]

[Ill.u.s.tration: LORD PORTMAN. 1898.]

[Ill.u.s.tration: DUKE OF GRAFTON. 1886.]

My first evening at the Fox's is never forgotten, for I made an amusing blunder in all the superiority and imagined importance of nineteen years.

Harry Fox, the son of the house, was then twenty-one. On that memorable evening I was sitting in the drawing-room when he entered, and, attempting to be friendly and conversational, I said to him--

"Well, are you home from school now?"

My friend, who married an equally fine horse-woman, was a splendid rider in those days (as he is now). He was always dapper in his appearance, and alert in his bearing. _My_ hunting days began when I visited Alderley Edge, and although I had ridden at Upton, Slough, I was somewhat of a novice at the riding with which I here intended to compete.

I followed the hounds upon a powerful weight carrier called the "Count," and became a very good acrobat when I was riding him. The horse over-jumped a good deal, but, growing accustomed to seeing me come over his ears, would wait until I got on to his back again. I jumped over everything, and because I had very little experience, I did not profit by the example of some of the finest riders when I saw them avoiding unnecessary obstacles.

One day I was riding the "Count" and when jumping a hedge, I lighted on my head. If you can think you have broken your neck, I did at that moment. Another rider following nearly landed on top of me.

"Are you hurt?" he called.

"Give me some brandy," I replied, stirring from what I had previously imagined to be my last sleep. Instead, he cantered on. It was enough: I could speak.

This callous behaviour roused me to such resentment that I tried to rise--at the crucial moment the "Count" stepped heavily upon my foot.

I swore violently, and, anger impelling me to action, I mounted him and rode away.

Riding one evening as the twilight was falling and the surrounding country growing faint in the failing light, I rode my horse into a bog. We soon found ourselves up to the knees and in an apparently inextricable position. The situation was growing unpleasant when the horse, instinctively recognising the danger, made a supreme struggle for liberty, and, after some exertion, we emerged and reached home safely.

I used to follow Mr. Brocklehurst, the then Master of the Cheshire Harriers, and old Mr. Cobbett (the son of the great William Cobbett) who dressed so exactly in the same fashion as his famous father, one could almost imagine he had left Madame Tussaud's, with his snuff-box, to take a day's hunting in Cheshire. Sir William Cobbett (the grandson) still adheres as nearly as possible to that old tradition of dress.

It was in Cheshire, at Alderley, that I met Edmund Ashton, an old Etonian and a jolly fellow, who became engaged to Fox's sister. The village was gay with decorations on the day of the wedding; on one triumphal arch the local poet had evidently exerted his muse, for in big letters shone the following couplet:--

On this day with joy and pride Edmund weds his youthful bride.

Under the hospitable roof of Mr. Fox, a trio of us (Will Jaffray, now Sir William, Harry Fox and I) formed a bond of friendship maintained to this day, and which has always been one of the pleasantest facts of my life.

About this time I settled to work in earnest and entered the R.A.

schools as probationer in Architecture, with drawings of a monument to a naval victory, after which I became a full student for a study made from the antique.

Old Charles Landseer (brother of Sir Edwin and "Tom" Landseer the engraver) was then keeper. He was a quaint old gentleman, but I fear his teaching didn't carry much weight. What I do remember about him was that as he stooped to look over one's work the evident dye that had once been sprinkled on the back of his head had remained there until it became solidified and resembled old varnish.

There was an old student too who bore somewhat the same appearance, and seemed privileged to remain for ever a student. In his case the rust seemed to have spread to his clothes, so that I can remember the peg on which he hung his coat was left severely alone, in fact, no other student would permit of his hat or coat being near it.

It is a shame to mention old George Cruikshank in the same breath, but while on the subject of hair dye he also toned his grey hair, but in a perfectly harmless manner. What was comic in him was that up to the last he wore a lock which, being suspended by a broad and very visible piece of elastic, was evidently in his mind quite a success.

Among the students whose names come into my head as being prominent students at the time were Ouless, Alfred Gilbert, Miss Starr, Swan, Cope, Waterlow, Hamo Th.o.r.n.ycroft, Percy Macquoid, and Forbes Robertson.

I can remember the latter coming up to me one day in the antique school, and evidently elated by the fact, saying--

"Ward, to whom do you think I have been introduced to-day?" And while I was waiting to consider an answer, he said--

"_The Great Man_ ... and this day is the happiest of my life."

I congratulated him.... I knew at once to whom he referred and what pleasure the meeting must have been to him, knowing the enthusiastic admiration in which he held Irving. He became a friend of Sir Henry's, and finally, fascinated by the stage and finding his dramatic talent stronger than his artistic apt.i.tude, clever as he was as an artist, he abandoned painting as a profession, and went on the stage. The Garrick Club, of which Sir Johnston is a member, possesses a portrait by him of Phelps as Cardinal Wolsey. The only regret is that so great an actor should be retiring from the stage, although he has indeed won his laurels. It is to be hoped that his clever brother Norman Forbes will carry on the family tradition for some time to come.

[Ill.u.s.tration: signatures]

Fred Walker, then one of the visiting artists at the R.A. schools, was a man who possessed great individuality, a highly strung and excessively nervous temperament, and, unfortunately, very bad health.

It was the custom of the students, with whom he was very popular, to give an annual dinner, and about this time the toast of the evening was "Fred Walker." When his health was drunk, I remember he got up to reply, and found himself from sheer nervousness quite speechless, whereupon he murmured a scarcely audible "Thank you," and collapsed into his seat again. Du Maurier drew the character of "Little Billee"

from this artist. He died young, and after his death his pictures fetched very high prices, especially some delicate and beautiful water colours. "The Haven of Rest," now in the Tate Gallery, is a poem on canvas, and it is also one of his most popular works, which will certainly live. Sir Hubert Herkomer was undoubtedly influenced by him in his earlier days.

Marks and Fred Walker were the first two Academicians who lent their names to poster designs, and they were very much "called over the coals" for it. Millais came in for a like share of condemnation when he sold his "Bubbles" to Pears' Soap. In these days of advertis.e.m.e.nt, when the h.o.a.rdings are covered with every type of art, and really great artists apply their talent to the demands of commercialism, the censure levelled at Millais, Walker, and Marks appears rather more like fiction than fact.

Another novelty of that period was the musical play which Arthur Sullivan pioneered so successfully. My first experience of that delightful form of entertainment was at the Bennett Benefit, given by the staff of _Punch_ to raise funds for the family of one of their then deceased contributors.

The musical version of _Box and c.o.x_ which was produced for the first time, was ent.i.tled _c.o.x and Box_ and attracted a good deal of attention. Sullivan, who had composed the music, conducted it himself; Sir Francis Burnand wrote the libretto, and Sir Henry de Bathe acted the part of the "Bouncer," with George du Maurier and Sir Spencer Ponsonby as the lodgers.

Another musical play, _Les Deux Aveugles_, followed, in which Sir Henry de Bathe and Du Maurier acted again with Arthur Cecil.

The _Punch_ staff performed in a play by Tom Taylor, ent.i.tled _The Wolf in Sheep's Clothing_, and the cast included the author, Mark Lemon, Tenniel, Shirley Brooks, Kate Terry, and Florence Terry (who took the child's part).

The production was a most artistic one, and attracted a very distinguished audience: everybody of any consequence in the world of art, literature, and the stage, flocked to see _Punch_ behind the footlights.

[Ill.u.s.tration: _From a life-size oil picture_ _painted by Leslie Ward, 1909_.

SIR WILLIAM JAFFRAY, BART.]

CHAPTER V

'SPY'

My coming of age.--The letter.--The Doctor's verdict.--The Doctor's pretty daughter.--Arthur Sullivan.--"Dolly" Storey.

--Lord Leven's garden party.--Professor Owen.--Gibson Bowles.