Forty Years Of Spy Part 18

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, d.i.c.k," he was saying, pointing a derisive finger at d.i.c.k'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. d.i.c.k 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 Sat.u.r.day?'

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

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

[Ill.u.s.tration: GEORGE GROSSMITH. CORNEY GRAIN.

"_Gee Gee_." 1888.]

Corney Grain grew so weary of signing my cartoon, which was sent him by persistent admirers, that he charged ten s.h.i.+llings 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 LESLIE.

If 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 afford To 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 choice From 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 s.h.i.+rts 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 a_t the door_!

But his boots would not come on-- But on Sat.u.r.day 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 a.s.sured 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, s.h.i.+vering 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 ingrat.i.tude 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 embarra.s.sed 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 impa.s.sive 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.