Forty Years Of Spy Part 8

--Arthur Lewis.--Carlo Pellegrini.--Paolo Tosti.--Pagani's.-- J. J. Tissot.--_Vanity Fair._--Some of the Contributors.-- Anthony Trollope.--John Stuart Mill.--_The World._--Edmund Yates.--Death of Lord Lytton.--Mr. Macquoid.--Luke Fildes.-- Small.--Gregory.--Herkomer.--_TheGraphic._--Gladstone.-- Disraeli, etc.

On my coming of age, Doctor Doran sent me the following advice, which at the first attempt I had some difficulty in deciphering. Later on, however, I soon discovered that it was intended, to complete the joke, that it should be begun at the end and from there read.

DORAN JOHN.

Yours truly ever,

Yourself find will you which in condition the see to surprised be will you, anything yourself deny never and advice my follow you if, fact in.

Everything in consideration first the yourself make.

Thing bad a always is which, behind be never then will you as others all before yourself put.

Difference the all makes which, it like you unless, lamb the with down lie or, lark the with rise don't. By done be to like would you as you to do others till wait. Own your as good as be cannot course of which, others of opinion the considering by distracted be not will you then as own your but advice n.o.body's take.

To-morrow till off put can you what to-day do never.

Life through guidance your for advice of words few a you give me let now.

Him cut to happened I although him for regard great a have and years for him known have I. Morning very this himself shaving saw I man a of photo the you send I herewith.

LESLIE DEAR MY.

On the morning of my birthday, which was to be celebrated by a dance, I felt so ill and consequently became so depressed, I was obliged eventually to pay a visit to the family doctor, who impressed me with the seriousness of my condition and prophesied all sorts of calamities after sounding my heart and feeling my pulse.

"You must be very--very careful," he said, shaking his head. "My dear boy, I'm sorry to say it; but you must not dance to-night."

I was overwhelmed.

"But," I expostulated, "I came to ask you to make me fit so that I might dance."

"You must give up dancing for a time," he said, with great firmness.

I sank into the deepest dejection; life seemed bereft of half its interest. When the evening drew on and the guests began to arrive, I saw my favourite partners carried off, and as I watched the crowd of dancers enjoying themselves my dejection grew deeper. Heaven knows what would have become of me had not my doctor's daughter arrived late, being a very pretty girl, and, I knew, one of the best dancers there, I threw discretion to the four winds, and went up to her.

"Don't tell your father," I said. "But will you have the next with me?"

She laughed and accepted. I danced every dance after that.

At the end of the evening, Arthur Sullivan played a "Sir Roger," with Chappell's man at the piano; I realized none of the dire effects I had expected, and the next day felt better than I had done for months.

The capriciousness of one's memory is extraordinary (at least in the light--or darkness--of one's usual forgetfulness). I remember my first dinner-party perfectly; and my kind host and hostess had on this occasion invited a particularly attractive girl for me to take down.

Most of the guests were elderly people, and some of them were hungry people also. I had received an invitation from my hostess for almost a fortnight previously, but on that occasion the dinner had been postponed, and their usual hour altered for the convenience of a guest. I, who had not been notified to that effect, arrived in consequence half an hour late, to find the guests still waiting; my inward embarra.s.sment was great when I faced the pairs of hungry and expectant eyes. There was one awfully fat parson who looked as though food came before Church matters. I remember even now his expression of intense relief. I hope he was satisfied. We had a most perfect dinner, and I took down my partner. I felt my hostess's eye upon me; I do not think the lady realized that the fault lay with herself and not with me.

My first dinner-party at home was spoiled for me by an accident. I sat next to Mrs. Edmund Yates, who was a beautiful woman, resplendent that evening in a gorgeous gown. Everything had up till now gone smoothly, and I felt that I was getting along nicely when my sleeve caught my gla.s.s and swept it over--as Fate would have it--Mrs. Yates' dress. I was terribly upset--so was she, and so was the liqueur.

Commissioned portraits were occupying most of my time in those days, and I exhibited (at the Royal Academy) one drawing of my brother Russell, and one of my sister Beatrice. The latter work was much admired by Mr. "Dolly" Storey,[2] who paid me the compliment of offering to buy it from me; but on hearing my parents wished to keep it in the family, he offered me a very good price for any other drawing of similar character.

Although I made a considerable number of portraits, I was always caricaturing the various personalities--interesting, extraordinary or amusing--who crossed my path.

At a garden party at Lord Leven's, in Roehampton Lane, I saw Professor Owen or "Old Bones" (as he was irreverently nicknamed), and, struck with his antediluvian incongruity amidst the beautiful surroundings of the garden, and the children there, I resolved to caricature him.

Impressing his strange and whimsical face upon my memory, I returned home and at once conveyed my impressions to paper. I "caught" him in his best clothes, with the tall white hat, which made a contrast to his florid face; it is hardly one's idea of a garden party "get up" as will be seen by the boots. I suppose some eccentricity must be forgiven in the light of his genius, for "Old Bones" was a man, and a scientist, of prodigious activity. There was no end to his works--especially their t.i.tles, of which, for instance, "On the Archetype and h.o.m.ologies of the Vertebrate Animals," is a fair example; while "Memoir on a Gigantic Sloth," has possibilities. He belonged to innumerable societies, geological, zoological, chirurgical, and so forth; and he was, as _Vanity Fair_ described him, "a simple-minded creature, although a bit of a dandy."

[Ill.u.s.tration: 1903 SIR WILLIAM CROOKES.]

[Ill.u.s.tration: 1904.

SIR OLIVER LODGE.]

[Ill.u.s.tration: SIR WILLIAM HUGGINS.

1903.]

[Ill.u.s.tration: PROFESSOR OWEN.

1873 _"My first" in "Vanity Fair_".]

A little before this, Mr. Gibson Bowles, then editor of _Vanity Fair_, had become dissatisfied with the artists who were working for him in the absence of Pellegrini, and, owing to a disagreement, was looking for a new cartoonist. Millais, remembering my ambitions in that direction (for when I saw the first numbers of _Vanity Fair_ I was greatly taken with Pellegrini's caricatures, and, having a book of drawings of a similar character, had thought that if only I could get one drawing in _Vanity Fair_ I should die happy), called to see my book of caricatures. This book contained drawings made at various times, from my early youth up to that period; and when Millais saw the sketch of "Old Bones," he was very taken with it.

"I like so much this one of Professor Owen," he said. "It's just the sort of thing that Bowles would delight in. Re-draw it the same size as the cartoons in _Vanity Fair_ and I'll take it to him."

I called with the cartoon, which was accepted--but was unsigned. I had invented a rather amusing signature in the form of a fool's bauble, but this did not meet with Mr. Bowles' approval. After a little discussion he handed me a Johnson's dictionary, in order that I might search there for some appropriate pseudonym. The dictionary fell open in my hand in a most portentous manner at the "S's," and my eye fell with the same prompt.i.tude on the word SPY.

"How's that?" I said. "The verb to spy, to observe secretly, or to discover at a distance or in concealment."

"Just the thing," said Bowles. And so we settled it, and since then, like the Soap man (this is not an advertis.e.m.e.nt), I have used no other (with one exception, of which I will tell later).

Becoming a permanent member of the staff of _Vanity Fair_ and my dream more than realized, I turned my attention to caricature whole-heartedly and with infinite pleasure.

On the publication of my first drawing, Pellegrini called upon Gibson Bowles (rather suddenly, considering his previous indifference and silence), to tell him in flattering terms what he thought of the caricature, and to inquire into the ident.i.ty of the artist. _I_ in my turn received the following letter from Mr. Arthur Lewis.

Thorpe Lodge, March, 1873.

MY DEAR LESLIE WARD,

I've just got my last week's _Vanity Fair_. I presume the admirable cartoon of Professor Owen is yours, as you said you'd some idea of doing him for a trial of your skill. I cannot refrain from sending you my congratulations on so successful a commencement. Without flattering, I can tell you that I think it almost (if at all) without exception the best of the whole series.

I hope we may have many more of such quaint yet kindly caricatures from your pencil.

Believe me, Sincerely yours, ARTHUR LEWIS.

I was extremely pleased to receive this flattering letter and encouragement from a man whom I admired; whose opinions, as those of an amateur artist of undoubted ability, were worth considering; and who was entirely in sympathy with my choice of a career. Mr. Arthur Lewis knew everybody in literary and artistic circles; at his house in Campden Hill all the most delightful artists and _artistes_ of the day came to amuse and be amused. There, in the garden, where one might imagine oneself miles away from London, Mrs. Arthur Lewis (Kate Terry of former years) entertained, and, in the summer time, gave charming garden parties.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THOMAS GIBSON BOWLES (TOMMY), _Founder of "Vanity Fair."_ 1905]

[Ill.u.s.tration: COLONEL HALL WALKER.

1906.]

[Ill.u.s.tration: COLONEL FRED. BURNABY.

1876.]

Before his marriage, Mr. Lewis was noted for his suppers at Moray Lodge, where he once entertained the Prince of Wales. It was from this house, by the way, that the Moray Minstrels derived their name.

On Sunday mornings he was pleased to paint, for as he was a very busy man, the week end was the only time he could spare for his favourite occupation. One of his pictures, after being hung on the line at the Royal Academy, was bought by a stranger from William Agnew for two hundred pounds. Lewis told me with great pride that he was prouder of that cheque than of any he ever received, and as a rich man he must have been the recipient of large sums.

It was at the Lawsons' house that I first met my fellow artist Carlo Pellegrini. Previous to our meeting, a mutual acquaintance had jestingly and rather fiendishly accosted Pellegrini one day with a remark concerning my work.