Forty Years of 'Spy'

It is an age of reactions. Just as the pre-Raphaelite movement "revolted" against the academic art preceding it, so the photographic idealism of pre-Raphaelitism was superseded by a reaction in art resulting and undoubtedly profiting by its really fine example. I will not go as far as to say Whistler gained by the pre-Raphaelites; but his art assuredly became all the more conspicuous by contrast, and perhaps his school is indirectly responsible for the latest reaction in favour of raw colour. In the "back to the land" style of painting which we find in favour with a few modern artists, abnormal looking women are painted with surprising results, and these artists seem to delight in a sort of blatant realism that becomes nauseous. With passionate brutality they present their subjects to us, and their admirers call the result "life." Let us have truth by all means, and let us not, on the other hand, lapse into the merely pretty; but let the truth we portray be imaginative truth allied to beauty.

That reminds me of the "plum-box" artist, who used to go round to country houses when I was a boy, with a completed painted picture of what was then considered the ideal and fashionable face, which consisted mainly of big eyes, veiled by sweeping lashes, a perfect complexion, a rosebud mouth, and glossy curls. The artist (one feels more inclined to call him the "tradesman") then superimposed the features of his sitter upon this fancy background, and the result invariably gave great pleasure and satisfaction.

Nowadays it has become the fashion or the pose of the moment to decry the works of the Victorians as old-fashioned, and in many cases with undoubtedly good reason; but unfortunately the best work is often included in the same category. In the rage for modernity, culminating in "post-impressionism," "futurism," and other "isms," in art, literature, the stage, and, I believe, costume, the thorough and highly conscientious work of some of our greatest men has become obscured; they are like the classic which nobody reads, and they stand unchallenged, but unnoticed except by the very few. Perhaps their genius will survive to-day's reactionary rush into what is sometimes described as individualism, and the worship of personality before beauty, which, if carried to excess as it is to-day, seems to verge into mere charlatanism. We are a little too near the great ones to see them clearly, and perhaps they can only be judged by their peers. Sometimes I see the casual onlooker glance at, sum up, and condemn, pictures which I know represent the unfaltering patience of a lifetime, combined with a passionate idealism of motive. The abundance of art schools, the enormous reduction in prices, the overwhelming commercialism which sets its heel upon the true artist, to crush him out of existence unless he compromises with art, all combine to render the art and artist in general widely different from the men of my early days. True, the Victorian came at a great moment, and now more than ever, if I may misquote: "art is good … with an inheritance."

Among the innumerable artists I knew during my later school-days, Maclise stands out a massive figure and a strong personality. He reminded me in a certain grand way of a great bull; his chin was especially bovine; it was not exactly a dewlap or a double chin, but a heavy gradation of flesh going down into his collar. In the National Portrait Gallery there is a portrait by my father of Maclise as a young man.

His work is to me typical of the man: he was a magnificent draughtsman, a cartoonist of fine ideas. In the National Collection at Kensington there are some beautiful pencil drawings by him of various celebrities of the day, and they are perfect in line and study of character. In the Royal Gallery of the House of Lords may be seen his "Battle of Waterloo" and "Death of Nelson," which are extremely masterly in drawing and composition. But in my opinion he lost his charm of line when he attempted paint, for his colouring is unsympathetic and the effect is hard. His crudity of colour is not so noticeable, however, in the frescoes as in his oil-paintings.

Sir Edwin Landseer was an artist who, like Maclise, received large sums for his pictures. He was considered one of the greatest painters of the day, but I am afraid it is no longer the fashion to admire him, although his best works must always hold the position they have deservedly won. I wonder how many people remember that the lions in Trafalgar Square were designed by our great animal painter.

"The Sleeping Bloodhound" stands out amongst Landseer's pictures as a masterpiece. It was painted in two hours from the dead body of a favourite hound.

It is curious that in many instances, especially of early work, his colour was very rich, and that in his later work his feeling for colour seems to have weakened.

Tom Landseer no doubt contributed largely to his brother's reputation by his masterly fine engravings of Sir Edwin's pictures, which were sometimes unsatisfactory in colour and gained in black and white.

Herbert, whose name was prominent through his fresco of "Moses breaking the Tablets," was quite a character in those days. I remember he always spoke with what appeared to be a strong French accent, although it has been said he had never been abroad in his life. The story went that, going to Boulogne he stepped from the boat … slipped … and broke his English. Later in life he worked himself "out," and his Academy pictures of religious subjects became very grotesque and quite a laughing-stock. I am afraid this type of work needs a watchful sense of humour and a powerful talent to preserve its gravity.

Mulready was an artist whose character showed in strong contrast to that of Herbert. He was the dearest of old men; I can see him now with his superb old head, benevolent and yet strong. He painted that indisputably fine picture, "Choosing the Wedding Gown," now in the National Collection at the Kensington Museum. Although the subject will not be viewed with sympathetic interest by many of the present generation, its worth is undoubted. His work is completely out of date, but I remember one curious fact in connection with his crayon drawings, which hung upon the walls of the Academy Schools; when Leighton visited there, he had these drawings covered over, because they were extremely antagonistic to his own teaching.

David Roberts, who was then considered the greatest painter of interiors, began life as a scene painter, as did Stanfield who was his contemporary and a very powerful sea painter. Both men were Royal Academicians, as was Edward Cooke, an artist of less power than Stanfield, but of not much less distinction, imbued with the spirit of the old Dutch painters of sea and ships. He lived to a ripe old age with his two sisters, but perhaps the youngest in appearance and manner of the four was his wonderful old mother, who died when she was close upon a hundred.

Then there were Burgess and Long who painted Spanish subjects. Long was best known, however, by his picture of the "Babylonian Marriage Mart," and Burgess as a young man sprang into fame with his picture called "Bravo Toro." Like almost every other artist, Long took to portrait painting, and his pictures became a great financial success; but his portraits were not for the most part successful from an artist's point of view.

Most of the well-known artists of the day visited my parents, and amongst them I remember Sydney Cooper, David Roberts, C. R. Leslie, Peter Graham, Stanfield, Edward Cooke, Frith, Millais, etc., etc. Stephens, the art critic of the "Athenæum," came with his intimate friend, Holman Hunt; he assisted the famous pre-Raphaelite in painting in the detail in some of his pictures, such as the Moorish temple in "The Saviour in the Temple." Later, he wrote the catalogue of "Prints and Drawings" at the British Museum. The last time I met Mr. Stephens, he told me the greatest pleasure he could possibly have was to go round London with my father, for there was not a place of interest of which he could not tell some anecdote of historical or topical information; and as an antiquary of some merit, the art critic was evidently in a position to give his appreciation with the authority of knowledge.

I think my father's closest friend was John Doran. To quote Mr. Edge:—" … Doctor Doran, known as the 'Doctor,' having graduated in Germany as a 'Doctor of Philosophy.' He was a delightful raconteur, a brilliant conversationalist, a man to put the shyest at his ease. He, too, studied history and wrote some of the most delightful biographies in the English language. The painter (my father) and the Doctor took many an excursion together to old-world places celebrated for memories quaint, tragic or humorous, and their rambles were perpetuated in their pictures and books."

Doran began his literary career by producing a melodrama at the Surrey Theatre when he was only fifteen years of age, and continued up to his death to produce a series of interesting works, although he did not write for the stage after his early success. He was editor of Notes and Queries and the author of "Table Traits and Something on Them." Perhaps his best-known work was "Her Majesty's Servants." Among his later works, "Monarchs Retired from Business," and "The History of Court Fools" occur to my mind simultaneously.

The three following anecdotes from Dr. Doran's journal, will appeal on the strength of their own dry humour and at the same time give the reader a glimpse of the character of my father's Irish friend:—

October 18th, 1833. In an antiquated edition of Burnet's "History of His Own Times" it was stated that an old Earl of Eglinton had behaved so scandalously that he was made to sit in the "Cutty Stool" (or stool of repentance at kirk) for three Sabbaths running. On the fourth Sunday he sat there again, so the minister called him down as his penance was over. "It may be so," said the Earl, "but I shall always sit here for the future … it is the best seat in the kirk, and I do not see a better man to take it from me."

December 9th, 1833. Colonel Boldero told us after dinner a good story of Luttrell that Rogers told him the other day. He was about to sit for his picture, and asked Luttrell's advice as to how he should be taken. "Oh," said Luttrell, "let it be as when you are entering a pew—with your face in your hat."

December 5, 1833. Heard also at dinner a story of "Poodle" Byng. Dining once at the Duke of Rutland's, he exclaimed on seeing fish on the table, "Ah! My old friend haddock! I haven't seen that fish at a gentleman's table since I was a boy!" The "Poodle" was never invited to Belvoir again.

Mr. and Mrs. S. C. Hall, also well-known writers of the day, were constant visitors at our house. S. C. Hall was said to have suggested the character of Pecksniff to Dickens, perhaps because he interlarded his conversation with pious remarks, which may have sounded singularly hypocritical to many people. As a child I regarded him with terror, because whenever he called he would come to our nursery and behave in a manner he probably thought highly entertaining to children, which consisted of pulling awful faces. His mass of white hair, bushy eyebrows and staring eyes gave him an ogreish look, and added to my fears when he shook his fist at me in mock horror. Then he would tickle me as hard as he could; and as I hated this form of play, his exertions only moved me to tears, so that when I heard him coming I invariably hid myself until his departure.

Mr. Hall began life as a barrister and turned to literary work, establishing the Art Journal, and carrying it on in the face of very discouraging circumstances. Eventually he was successful, and his work had an extensive influence, I suppose, on the progress of British art. As a writer his output was enormous; he and his wife published between them no fewer than two hundred and seventy volumes. As an ardent spiritualist he was very interested at that time in a medium who, I am afraid, was an atrocious humbug. One Good Friday my father called, to find Mr. Hall in a state of great excitement.

"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 institution. 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 anticipating 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 Cox, 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 embarrassing!

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 circumstances very similar to the Brontës. 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 entitled "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 Dickens, the wife of the eminent K.C. and eldest surviving son of Charles Dickens, inherits the musical talent of her family, and is also well known in musical circles.

À propos of the Dickens 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 title 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 Dickens, Junior!'"

Sir Theodore and Lady Martin (née 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 fêted 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 Duchess 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 ejaculated "'Ow's yer pa?"

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 assembled. 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 "Athenæum," 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 noble Earl of Crewe," which set forth that gentleman's idiosyncrasies at no small length, much to the amusement 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 début at the Salle Molière, 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 Dickens 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,