Chapter VII: More Men of Mark

"Why dost thou lead these men about the streets?"

For the egotism which is bound to occur in a book of this sort it is useless to offer excuses or apology; it must have its sway.

My wife one day on returning from an afternoon party, to which I was unable to go, in answer to my question: "Who were there?" humorously replied: "Oh, ladies and other dukes." The phrase came to stay--being often used by us. In writing further of departed guests--"Shadows of the things that have been"--it will constantly be on my tongue.

[Sidenote: Prince Francis of Teck]

I enjoyed the acquaintanceship of Prince Francis of Teck, who was certainly a man of mark, at a social club as well as at the Middlesex Hospital, of which he was the energetic chairman. Having been a member of the weekly board for more than thirty years, I ought to know something of the value of his services and devotion to the welfare of that institution. {117} My wife first met the Prince in the Engadine, long before he was our guest; in fact, when he was a boy on a visit to St. Moritz, in the company of his mother, the Duchess of Teck, his sister, Queen Mary, and other members of his family.

The Prince was a good soldier, and bore himself well, with an air of command. He served with distinction in Egypt and South Africa.

He died at forty, or thereabouts. I saw him in the Welbeck Street nursing home before he succumbed to that enemy, even of the robust, pneumonia, and was one of the deputation from the hospital bidden to Windsor, where he was buried.

I now find myself up against a duke. There is no need to dwell at any length on the name of his late Grace of Beaufort, beyond saying that he was a great lover of the stage and gave us his friendship. (I mean the grandfather of the present Duke.)

When it became known that my wife and I had decided to abandon the old Prince of Wales's Theatre, and had a lease of the Haymarket, a movement was set on foot, in which the Duke took a prominent part, to present us with a "testimonial." That sort of thing was always obnoxious to me; and, happily, {118} the intention came to my ears in time for me to bring it to a prompt end.

Referring to our farewell night at the Haymarket Theatre, later on, the Duke wrote to my wife:

"Do you know, I feel it to be too melancholy an occasion to assist at. I should hate it all the time. Some day, when you both play for a benefit or a charity, I hope to be there to welcome you. Let me say how very much I regret your determination to retire from management. What a loss I feel it, and how sure I am the general public share that feeling."

Another duke!--but merely a viscount when he sat at our table--Viscount Macduff, a close friend of Horace Farquhar, whose name reminds me of his amusing brother Gilbert, generally known as "Gillie" Farquhar. Gillie, when it was rumoured that he intended to go on the stage, was angrily sent for by Horace, his elder and prosperous brother, who loudly expostulated on such a step being taken, but learned from Gillie that he was quite in earnest. Horace then thundered: "Of course you will take some other name. What do you mean to call yourself?" Gillie quietly replied: "I have thought of calling myself Mr. _Horace_ Farquhar!"

When we first knew Macduff we were neighbours, {119} and constantly saw him lead his father, the old and infirm Earl of Fife, into the garden of Cavendish Square, where tea was taken across the road to them.

I was invited to dine at No. 4 one Sunday evening, but had to be elsewhere with my wife, so asked leave to join the party later, as I knew it would not be an early one. When I entered the room a young man was standing in the middle, giving an imitation of myself. When he had finished I was made acquainted with Herbert Tree.

[Sidenote: Lord Londesborough]

Lord Londesborough, the first earl, was also a keen playgoer. For years he and Lady Londesborough showed us thoughtful kindness. Our theatre did not seem to be complete if they were not present on a "first night."

With reference to the farewell performance of _Caste_, which had an added interest from Hare's coming to us, from his own theatre, to play his original part, Lord Londesborough wrote: "The demonstration was most thoroughly well deserved, for there is no one to whom the stage, and therefore the country, owes more than to you and to Mrs. Bancroft. It is always satisfactory when the public shows its appreciation of those who do their work, and make their mark, without beat of drum and flourish of trumpets."

{120}

He was a great "whip" and a prominent member of the Coaching Club. I was of his joyous party to the Derby for a number of years, until his sight failed him through an accident while shooting; and I remember his telling my wife, in the later years of his life, that the remaining eye was saved by a consultation held at Lord's between C. I. Thornton, W. G. Grace and myself. I was fond of cricket in those days, and became a member of the M.C.C. before it was necessary to be proposed in boyhood.

On one occasion I drove with our kind friend to Ascot. While seated in a prominent position on the front of his coach, helping a group of gorgeously-dressed ladies to lobster salad, I felt someone touching my toe; on looking down I saw a well-known "nigger," who for years frequented the race-courses. He held up his tambourine to me and called out, with a grin: "Now, Mr. B, don't forget the perfession!"

These Men of Mark who gave me the joy of their friendship are more numerous than I had looked for, and the names of those left to me must not be dwelt upon. I cannot ignore, however, the delightful and unique dinners enjoyed in Whitehall with the late Lord Onslow, when Members from both {121} Houses streamed in and sat, informally, at separate tables, reinforced by men prominent in other walks of life. As an example, I once was placed in the company of the Archbishop of Canterbury and Mr. Balfour, as he then was. Onslow was a delightful host and a delightful guest. I have never forgotten his saying to me that very few men, even eminent men, had any idea who their great-grandfathers were.

[Sidenote: Lord Rowton]

Few more attractive men have graced a table than Lord Rowton: we knew him first as Montagu Corry. Later on he became a next door neighbour: our No. was 18, his 17. In his courtly way he said to my wife we ought to change houses, so that he might address her as "sweet seventeen," and not as his "dear neighbour." It is, to my pen, difficult to describe his pervasive charm, which I am sure was as manifest in simple homes as at Balmoral. He always appeared to be gay, never boisterous, and his devotion to his great chief, Disraeli, must have been priceless.

I was told by an eminent authority for many years at the bar, my friend Sir Edward Clarke, that in his early days he "read" in chambers where "Monty" Corry was his companion. The career of my informant speaks for his diligence; and he assured me that Corry {122} chiefly passed his time in making rhymes on the names which appeared in _The Times_ of the day in the column restricted to the announcements of "hatches," "matches" and "despatches"!

Two other things about this dear man occur to me. He told me, after the great fancy-dress ball given at Devonshire House on a State event, that he was at the head of the staircase when Irving arrived, and was struck with the impression that the actor alone of all the distinguished crowd wore his robes (he went as a cardinal) as if they were his daily garb, and not obviously hired from a costumier's store, or made for the occasion.

My last remembrance of Rowton is on leaving a club with him one night to walk home; he suddenly stood still on the way and, after a pause, said, as if dreaming of secrets under mental lock and key: "I seem to have passed the whole of my life in holding my tongue."

[Sidenote: "Jacky" Fisher]

At the hospitable board of mutual friends we first met Sir John and Lady Fisher, as they then were. The great Admiral took my wife down to dinner, and from that evening was her good friend and mine. Others at the table, I remember, were the scientist Lord Kelvin and Canon Ainger, the Master of the Temple. {123} Fisher accepted an invitation to dine with me in these words: "On the 25th, with pleasure. Yours till hell freezes, J. F." His bad language was really only a not very bad habit--his bark was infinitely worse than his bite; in fact, he was a deeply religious man, as a beautiful letter he wrote to my wife when Lady Fisher died would testify. He knew much of the Bible, and quotations from it were as often on his lips as were his stock phrases. A friend of mine told me that he was once as astounded to hear the old Sea Lord preach a sermon in the Duke of Hamilton's private chapel as he was by its excellence. Whenever he caught sight of me, no matter where, Lord Fisher would call out, cheerily, "How's the vintage?"

When Queen Alexandra shared King Edward's throne, Lord Fisher paid Her Majesty a pretty compliment when offering his congratulations on her sixtieth birthday. "Have you seen, Ma'am," he asked, "the paper which says: 'Her Majesty is sixty years old to-day; may she live till she looks it!' The words were his own, but he thought it would please the Queen more to believe that the compliment had been paid to her publicly. Soon afterwards, the Queen cut out from an illustrated catalogue the figure of a little girl, stuck on the top of it a portrait of her own head, and {124} wrote underneath it: "May she live till she looks it!" and sent it to Lord Fisher.

This reminds me of a compliment that I will dare to mention, paid to me by Alfred Sutro on my eightieth birthday, when he ended a charming letter with these words: "But then, my dear B, you are not really eighty, you are only forty for the second time."

We did not know that dandy of the Senior Service, Lord Alcester, until he had retired upon his laurels and left the planks of an ironclad for the pavement of St. James's Street, of which his lavender kid gloves seemed to be a daily part, and had earned for him his gorgeous nickname, the "Swell of the Ocean."

It was as Beauchamp Seymour that he so ably served his country, the height of his career being the brilliant success of his bombardment of Alexandria, which gave him his Peerage, and doubtless paved the way to our occupation of Egypt. It is interesting to know that two of his captains at the time were named John Fisher and Charles Beresford.

The first Admiral Sir Edward Inglefield was our neighbour fifty years ago, and many a nautical salute have we exchanged "over the garden wall." As a "handy man" I never met his equal. If a pane of glass in house or conservatory was broken he replaced it; if {125} the kitchen clock stopped he soon made it go again; if a chimney took to smoking it soon gave up the habit through his means.

On the other hand, Lady Inglefield used to say that the punctuality with which she heard our wheels at night, when we returned from work, regulated her movements.

[Sidenote: Sheridan's Granddaughter]

At a garden party given by them we met the celebrated Mrs. Norton, the granddaughter of Richard Brinsley Sheridan, famous alike for her poetry and novels, and for her unhappy relations with her mean and cruel husband. She was still a beautiful woman in the sixties, and it was easy to believe that she was the granddaughter of the lovely Elizabeth Linley. Time had then all but obliterated the old and untrue scandal that she had sold to _The Times_ the news of Peel's conversion to Free Trade, and his intention to get the Corn Laws repealed. George Meredith's novel, _Diana of the Crossways_, had (though wholly against the author's will) done something to revive the false report that, for her own financial ends, Caroline Norton had wormed the secret out of Sidney Herbert; the truth being that Delane had been told it by Lord Aberdeen himself, who intended him to publish it.

On one occasion, when Sir Edward was in command of one of our fleets, he condemned {126} a man to receive so many strokes from the lash, and was on deck to see the sentence carried out. When the delinquent approached he made certain signs known to Freemasons. "Oh," said the Admiral, "a Mason, eh? Well, I doubt if you're better at that job than as a seaman. Go down and take your punishment."

[Sidenote: Garnet Wolseley]

Having written of Lord Fisher, a great sailor, I will now turn my attention to a great soldier, whom we first knew, fifty years ago, as Sir Garnet Wolseley. We became friends and later on were neighbours.

To my regret, I only had a club acquaintance with Lord Roberts, who was too true a gentleman ever to murmur: "I told you so--why did you not listen to me?" The same with Lord Kitchener; we only knew him as a fellow-guest at other people's tables. It was a Frenchman who wrote this tribute on his sad end, which staggered the country: "Great England's valiant soldier needed a nobler tomb than a hole in the ground, and he had the noblest of all tombs. God ordered his funeral; the waves sang his requiem; the organ-pipes were rocky cliffs; his pall was the black sky, foam the flowers, and the lightning his funeral torches."

Wolseley was, I repeat, a great soldier. One of those leaders whom men will follow--even {127} unto death. These words were written before the powerful biography written by two friends of mine, Sir Frederick Maurice and Sir George Arthur, was published. I think he saw service even before the Crimean War, where, as little more than a boy, he became Captain, and was almost cut to pieces by bullets. Then came Lucknow and service in many lands. He was a Lieutenant-Colonel when twenty-six; and throughout his long career honours of all kinds poured on him. He became Commander-in-Chief, but was not destined to have realised the wish expressed to my wife--"I hope I shall never die in a bed." There was something about him, about that slight cheerful figure, and that glowing face, that outspoken talk, that was very helpful and strengthening: he seemed in some way to shed happiness round him.

Among the accumulated correspondence we found waiting after a holiday in 1882 was a cheery letter from Wolseley, postmark Alexandria, August 18th, in which he wrote: "The 'army' keeps arriving daily, and I hope very soon to be in a position to bring Mr. Arabi to book." The realisation of this prophecy, and the curious incident of an atmospheric phenomenon caused by the comet of that year, prompted some verses, that were sent to the hero of the achievement and thus {128} acknowledged from the War Office: "I am very glad Bancroft induced you to send me your lines on Tel-el-Kebir, for I like them extremely. The word-painting is admirable, and the whole incident is told most feelingly and well. I shall put the little poem away among my treasures. Many, many thanks for it." I wonder where it is now. He was a shockingly bad speller--double pp's and double ll's were sure to be found where they were not wanted.

[Sidenote: A rebuff]

I was told of a terrible rebuff Wolseley brought upon himself on an occasion when he took Madame Melba down to dinner, not having, most unfortunately, caught her name when presented. He neglected her at table and devoted himself to a charming lady on his other side, whom he knew well. After a time he asked--as was rather his habit--too loudly, "Who is my other neighbour?" "Surely you know Madame Melba," was the answer. "Only heard of her: never met her before: did not catch her name: when I brought her down she conveyed nothing to me." At last he turned to the great songstress and addressed some casual remark to her. Melba quietly asked: "To whom am I speaking?" He answered: "General Wolseley," and received the reply: "I am afraid the name conveys {129} nothing to me." I hope Dame Nellie Melba will forgive me for repeating the story.

Writing of Wolseley reminds me of another, his comrade, Sir Redvers Buller, for years, with Lady Audrey, our friend and neighbour. Buller was a man of unflinching courage and dogged bravery: it was said that he had won his Victoria Cross three times over.

He invited me to join a congratulatory dinner party to be given by him, at a military club, in honour of Wolseley having been made a Field-Marshal. All the guests turned up except Wolseley, who had received a late summons from Windsor, commanding him to dine at the Castle, as Her Majesty wished to present the _bâton_ to him in person on that very evening.

A long spell of years has passed since my wife and I were guests at what was then Thomas's Hotel, in Berkeley Square, now converted into flats, and met Evelyn Wood when he was about thirty, having already won the V.C. in the Indian Mutiny, after beginning his adventurous career as a midshipman and being wounded in the Crimea. We lost sight of him for a long while, and he must have become a Field-Marshal when he dined with us, as he often did, until increasing deafness made him cautious of accepting such invitations. He amused us once by {130} threatening to recite the Lord's Prayer in an alarming number of languages if provoked.

Another Field-Marshal and V.C. whom we knew was the hero of Ladysmith, Sir George White. I met him first on board a P. & O. steamer when he was Governor of Gibraltar. We walked many a mile together on the deck of the _Arabia_. Both he and Lady White were very kind to me when I landed from his launch for a short stay on the Rock, and enabled me to be present at a memorial service for the Duke of Cambridge. When his own time came White was Governor of Chelsea Hospital. His body was taken across London, for burial in his native Ireland, to such a tribute of affection and regard from his comrades and the people as is rarely given.

I first knew the popular old soldier and father of the charming Lady Burnham and Lady Somerleyton, Sir Henry de Bathe, in the early days of my membership of the Garrick, and was so struck by his appearance that I did my best to suggest it in a part I played soon afterwards--I suppose with a measure of success, for when I stepped upon the stage Lady de Bathe (now the Dowager, still, happily, strong and well), who was seated in the stalls, exclaimed audibly, "Why, it's Henry!"

My wife was so impressed by a dramatic {131} story the old general told of his Crimean days, that she often repeated it.

[Sidenote: A convict from Eton]

One evening, in the severe winter time, it was de Bathe's duty to direct the clearing of the dead and wounded after a deadly encounter with the enemy, the brunt of which had been borne by men drawn from the French convict settlements, who were thrust into the hottest places when trying work had to be done. The searching party came across one poor fellow who was grievously wounded but still alive: de Bathe had him placed upon a stretcher, lifted his head, and poured brandy into the soldier's mouth. The man took his hand and pressed it, murmuring in English, "Thank you, de Bathe." Thunderstruck, he stooped down and asked how a Frenchman knew his name and could also speak such perfect English. The wounded man smiled and whispered, "Eton!" as he fainted; de Bathe accompanied the stretcher to the French lines, saying that he would return as soon as his duty would allow him. He did so, but the man was dead; de Bathe lifted the sheet from his face and gazed upon it earnestly without recognising the lost creature, once his school companion, then known only as a French convict with a fictitious name.

I remember being once so fortunate, when {132} the old general dined with me, as to place him between Sir William Howard Russell, the war correspondent, and Dion Boucicault, the dramatist, and to learn that all three of them in boyhood's days had been at the same school together in Dublin.

Lord Rathmore--better remembered and thought of by me as David Plunket--was a fascinating creature. What otherwise could he be with such youthfulness, brightness, wit--such qualities as earned for him the friendship of the sphinx-like Disraeli?

Our acquaintance with him began many years ago at Homburg, where we had a happy time, and continued until 1915, when, with his company and that of other pleasant people, my wife and I passed a holiday at the old Queen Hotel, on The Stray, at Harrogate. He was a delightful guest, an arresting personality at any table, and one of the most gifted orators--I can use no smaller word--I have listened to; his highly polished sentences being rendered even more attractive by his sometimes pronounced stammer, which often added charm to his brilliant flow of language. David Plunket's many friends at his favourite club, the Garrick, where he was beloved, missed him greatly and mourned his loss.

Lord Glenesk, always a great supporter of {133} the drama, gave us his friendship for many years. As Sir Algernon Borthwick, he was, to our great delight, at Balmoral when we were commanded by the late Queen to act there. From his house in Piccadilly, we saw both joyful and mournful processions. In a letter to my wife he wrote: "You were the first to teach the school of Nature, and not only by your own bright impersonations, but also by your influence over all those with whom you were brought in contact, to prove that English art is second to none."

Acquaintance with the first Lord Ashbourne, so long Lord Chancellor of Ireland, began years ago in the Engadine, and I recall happy times spent there and by the Lake of Como in his excellent company.

[Sidenote: Edward Carson]

We were dining with him one evening when my wife asked who was a young man at the farther end of the table. "Oh," said her host, "his name is Carson. He is a fellow-countryman of mine, who has just been called to the English Bar, where he means to practise." "And where he will go far, if I am any judge of a face," was my wife's reply. Lord Ashbourne brought the "young Irishman" to her afterwards, and so an affectionate and enduring friendship with the brilliant advocate, the valiant patriot, Lord Carson, had its birth.

{134}

I was one of four who made up a table with Lord Ashbourne--who was gay and amusing--to play bridge at the Athenæum on the day before he was stricken.

I first met Edward Lawson, afterwards Lord Burnham, on the morning of my wedding day, which chanced to be his birthday. My wife had made his acquaintance before, as also that of his sage old father, who founded the fortunes of the great newspaper, of which three generations have now been justly proud.

I gratefully remember that it is to the senior of the trio the stage owes much of its present recognition by the press. To digress for a moment, it was well that Clement Scott, young and enthusiastic, was given his head, and for a long while--years, in fact--his virile pen was devoted to the service of the drama.

Lord Burnham continued in his father's footsteps, as, in his turn, his own son has done. I remember hearing Burnham say, when asked if there was any particular advantage in being very rich: "Only one; you can afford to be robbed."

I was indebted to his constant kindness and hospitality, especially at Hall Barn, for little short of fifty years, until the war broke his splendid spirit and claimed him as its victim.

Of my friend since his boyhood, the present {135} Viscount, I will only say, although I can hardly believe it, that I have given him a sovereign when he went back to Eton!

[Sidenote: Alfred Lyttelton]

My first acquaintance with Alfred Lyttelton was as a spectator at Lord's, in the field, and in the courts. Before I knew him I had the privilege of two well-remembered talks with Miss Laura Tennant, whose beauty and charm left a lasting impression. His career, political and otherwise, is too well known to need a word from me. The widespread popularity he enjoyed began early. He was captain of both his school and university elevens, and held the tennis championship without a break for many years.

A personal note I can strike with this most lovable man is through going with him in Paris to see one of the earliest performances of _Cyrano_ by Coquelin. He also did me the honour to take the place of Sir Henry Thompson as my seconder at the Athenæum.

Alfred Lyttelton was spared the agonies of the Great War and the bewildering sense of uncertainty as to what will result from it in this much-altered world. On the day he was buried, in July, 1913, the Oxford and Cambridge match was being played at Lord's. At the solemn hour the game was stopped, and the great assemblage stood uncovered as they {136} thought of him. Later, on the same day, Mr. Asquith said of him in the House of Commons that he, perhaps of all men of this generation, came nearest to the ideal of manhood which every English father would like to see his son aspire to and attain.

It is among my happy memories to have been many times the guest of that prince of hosts, Sir Henry Thompson, extending over twenty years. No dinner parties were more justly celebrated than the "octaves," generally eight guests and himself, he arranged with so much thought and knowledge.

He was an exceptional, an extraordinary, man, in addition to his skill as a great surgeon. He had talent as a painter, had pictures hung in both the Academy and the Salon; he wrote novels, and his knowledge of old Nanking china, of which he owned a fine collection, was that of an expert; and he was founder and president of the Cremation Society. He introduced me to motoring, when it was in its infancy. He was an enthusiast in astronomy, having a private observatory erected by himself. He gave a valuable book on this subject to my wife with the inscription: "Homage from an Astronomer to a Star of the First Magnitude."

[Sidenote: Public servants]

Other names crowd my mind: Sir Frank {137} Lascelles, so long our Ambassador in Berlin, and Sir Rivers Wilson, also a distinguished public servant--delightful hosts, delightful guests--both great gentlemen, and both devoted to cards as an amusement. The former cursed them (never his partner) when they persistently went against him; the latter caressed them, however badly they treated him.

Of Schomberg McDonnell, known better to his big circle of friends as "Pom," I recall one personal incident. He was the first to congratulate me on my knighthood, through being at the time Lord Salisbury's private secretary, a post which he had the courage to give up to take his part in the South African War, where he did good service with the C.I.V., and was rewarded on his return by being reinstated. He again served his country in the Great War and died from his wounds, beloved and regretted.

I must in these names include that of a friend of many years, Sir Thomas Sutherland, so long the chairman of the P. & O. Company. To the kindness of his invitations to be a guest on trial trips of ships of that great fleet I owe the happiest "week-ends," in wonderful company, I have ever spent.

"Mr. Alfred," as Alfred de Rothschild was generally spoken of, was once our guest; {138} we were often his in Seamore Place. I was invited to join a week-end party, when I might have seen the wonders of his country home, with its circus and performing animals, but I could not go. Being delicate and of a highly nervous temperament, he must have been a mine of wealth to members of the medical profession. He was a great lover and patron of the theatre. I remember a peculiar incident concerning him when we revived Robertson's comedy _School_ at the Haymarket. Sometimes for several nights running, sometimes twice in a week, he took a large stage box, occupied it for not more than half an hour, sat alone to see the second act of the comedy, and then went.

[Sidenote: Burton and Stanley]

The two famous travellers and explorers, Burton and Stanley, were old friends of ours. I couple their names because it so chanced that we saw the most of them, and more intimately, together with Lady Burton and Lady Stanley, in hotels--one in Switzerland, the other in Italy--when we were all holiday making.

Burton's early career was that of a wild, untamed gipsy spirit. His childhood was passed in France and Italy, when his mastery of tongues began. At Oxford he acquired Arabic, having turned his back on Latin and {139} Greek. He told me that, eventually, he conquered well over thirty languages--I forget the exact number--as well as made progress towards interpreting what he called the speech of monkeys. We first met him at the table of a dear friend, Dr. George Bird, who asked how he felt when he had killed a man. Burton replied that the doctor ought to know, as he had done it oftener.

Stanley's fame was chiefly established by his "finding" of Livingstone, when he was only about thirty, the search having occupied eight months.

Of the two, Burton was the easier to get on with, being full of talk and anecdotes. Stanley was reserved, and it often took my wife some time to draw from him stories, full of interest, about the King of Uganda and other persons, and incidents of his courageous travels.

[Sidenote: Labouchere]

Our acquaintance with Henry Labouchere dates back to the time when he built the Queen's Theatre in Long Acre, where St. Martin's Hall formerly stood, and of which his wife was the manageress. Henrietta Hodson was a clever actress, whom, in the early days of the old Prince of Wales's Theatre, we introduced to London. She afterwards played Esther Eccles in _Caste_ with the first complete company which toured the provinces.

{140}

Labouchere's varied career, after he left Eton and Cambridge, began in diplomacy. Among many similar stories I have heard of him in those days, is one of a pompous visitor who, calling at the embassy in Washington, and not liking the look of so youthful an attaché, said abruptly: "Can I see your boss?" Labouchere calmly replied: "With pleasure, if you'll tell me to what part of my person you refer."

After giving up diplomacy he entered Parliament; at one time represented Northampton with Bradlaugh. I think it was then he became known as "Labby," and a sort of licensed clown. He was also prominently associated with journalism. His "Letters of a Besieged Resident," sent over from Paris by balloons, were so sensational as to increase the circulation of a daily paper by more than double.

We knew him best on the Lake of Como, at Cadenabbia, a place he loved, which my wife said ought really to be renamed Cade_labbya_. I remember his suddenly turning to her one morning and saying that he would rather be deformed than unnoticed.

On the night that our Haymarket career commenced London was fog-bound. The density lasted for days, being unique in its horrors, as records of the time can tell. {141} Labouchere was at the theatre and emerged with the rest of the audience into dreadful gloom. This is the story of his reaching home. He ran heavily against a man, who asked him in what direction he wanted to go. Labouchere replied, "Queen Anne's Gate." The questioner said that he also was going that way, in fact, that he lived hard by, and would take him there safely if he chose to go with him. Labouchere had some fears as to being trapped, but decided to risk it and be wary. The two plodded along together arm-in-arm; they met with one or two minor difficulties; but presently the cheerful stranger, who evidently was of humble station, stood still in the pitch darkness and said: "Here we are; what's your number?" Labouchere told him, and his companion answered: "Then we must cross the road." They did so, the man groped about a door with his fingers and said: "That's your house; you're all right now; try your latchkey."

Labouchere, before rewarding his friendly guide, in amazement asked how he had found his way so accurately on such a night. The simple answer was: "I'm blind!"

He ended his days at his villa in Italy. When I read his name in the Honours List as Privy Councillor, I sent him a telegram: {142} "Labouchere, Florence. Congratulations. Bancroft." His reply was to the effect that I had puzzled him dreadfully, as he had no idea to what I referred until he received _The Times_ on the following day.

Oscar Browning--or shall I say "O.B."?--was an odd-looking creature. We made his acquaintance in our haunt for many years, the Engadine, when my wife christened him "The Wicked Monk." For my part, I never felt quite certain how much of him was "Jekyll" and how little there was of "Hyde."

Some time afterwards he sent word to me at the theatre that he was in the stalls and would like to introduce me to a young friend who was his companion. I arranged that he should do so at the end of the play, when they were brought behind the scenes, and O.B. made me known to Mr. George Curzon, who had recently left Eton, and whose friendship, if I may use the word, I claim the privilege of having since enjoyed, in the great position to which Browning had no doubt foreseen that his pupil would attain. Our last meeting was when Lord Curzon presided at the dinner given to another old friend of mine, T. P. O'Connor, with a charm only equalled, in my experience, on somewhat similar occasions by Lord Rosebery and Lord Balfour.

{143}

[Sidenote: Comyns Carr]

I think it was when I first met Comyns Carr--"Joe"--early in the seventies, that I heard him rebuke a pushing young man as "a pantaloon without his maturity and a clown without his colour"--the sort of thing that he fired off throughout his life, as if he were a well-charged satirical machine-gun.

He had been called to the Bar, but was then on the eve of his marriage with the attractive Miss Strettell, the daughter of a delightful old clergyman whom I knew as the chaplain at St. Moritz. Carr did not stick to his first choice of a profession, which I always regarded as a pity, but drifted into journalism instead. He was, in his day, attached to many newspapers. Then, fostered by his love and knowledge of art, came a long career when Sir Coutts Lindsay, our old friend and guest, reigned at the Grosvenor Gallery, with Carr as Director. It was famous for Sunday afternoon parties, which were unique. The robes of Royalty rubbed against the skirts of Bohemia. "Ladies and other dukes" were plentiful, as were the followers of every art, and all were happy. Then he wrote plays; next managed a theatre.

I often think he was right when he said to me: "My dear B, the first duty of wine is to be red." Most of the witty things he uttered {144} have no doubt appeared in print; perhaps the following gem has not. An old and well-known friend, who dyed his hair and beard so unnatural a black that even the raven's wing had no chance against it, was lunching, on a hot day, in the revealing sun's rays, with some club friends, of whom one was Comyns Carr, and presenting a sad picture of the struggle between the ravages of time and the appliances of art. He left the table early, and his departure was followed by remarks. "How dreadful--what a pity!" "Can't somebody advise something?" Some one turned to Carr, who had remained silent, and asked him what he thought. Joe replied that of all his friends and acquaintances the old fellow was the only one who really was as black as he was painted.

Carr's gift of eloquence was naturally sought at public banquets, where his speeches took high rank. But was it not, after all, the old story of "a rolling stone" which left him best remembered by his brilliant tongue?

[Sidenote: Cecil Clay]

I could go on writing of other Men of Mark to whom I have had the good fortune to play the host, and tell again of the great goodness shown to followers of the stage by members of the healing art, and by lights in the law; but let me bring this chapter to its close by a reference to Cecil Clay, who wrote _A Pantomime {145} Rehearsal_ and, with those who acted his amusing play, gave the old generation much pleasure. He was beloved in every circle that he moved in, and I never heard an unkind word pass his lips or saw an unkind look upon his face. He went so far once as to reproach a fellow-member of one of his many clubs who swore at the matches because they would not strike. "My dear fellow, don't be angry; pray remember they are the only things in the country that don't!"

I have asked Owen Seaman to allow me to reprint some lines which appeared in _Punch_, written, I feel sure, by the pen of Charles Graves.

"Athlete and wit, whose genial tongue
Cheered and refreshed but never stung:
Creator, to our endless joy,
Of priceless _Arthur Pomeroy_.
Light lie the earth above his head
Who lightened many a heart of lead;
Courteous and chivalrous and gay,
In very truth no common Clay."

[Sidenote: The Sickles tragedy]

I have alluded to an early visit to New York, when I was a lad of seventeen. During my stay what was known as "The Sickles Tragedy" occurred in Washington; the details of which have lingered in my mind ever since. Many years afterwards my wife {146} and I were at an evening party given by the Dion Boucicaults to a handsome and distinguished-looking American, with one leg and a crutch; the other leg he had lost, valiantly, on the field of Gettysburg. His name was Daniel Sickles. My interest was at once aroused. He was, or had been, United States Minister to Spain, being no less eminent in diplomacy and the civil service than as a volunteer soldier and general. At one time the tragedy of his life might have robbed his country of his great abilities. He had married, some six years before, a beautiful girl of sixteen, Italian by origin, and they were living in Washington, where Sickles held a Government appointment, when he learned from an anonymous letter that his young wife was false to him, clandestinely meeting at a certain house hired from an old negro woman by her lover, named Philip Barton Key, a widower nearly twice her age, a Government lawyer, and the son of the author of "The Star-Spangled Banner." Sickles had the house watched, and found that the news was true. Charged with the offence, his wife confessed all, and explained the system of signals by which, from an upper window, she and Key, watching through an opera-glass from his club, arranged their meetings. Sickles demanded her wedding-ring, told {147} her to leave his house and return to her parents. Soon afterwards, looking out of his window, he saw the seducer walking towards the house and make a signal with his handkerchief. He went out, and coming up with Key at the street-corner, accused him to his face and shot him. Key attempted to defend himself, but Sickles fired twice more, and then, while Key was on the ground and still breathing, put his revolver to his own head. Twice it missed fire. Sickles then walked away and gave himself up to the police. The case aroused intense excitement, not only in America but in England. The trial lasted some weeks, and so strong was public opinion in the prisoner's favour that he was acquitted, and set free to do his country services in the future. I have been told that, in years after, husband and wife came together again. It is certain that all through the affair, Sickles treated her with the greatest consideration, even allowing her to keep their eldest child, who, grown into a beautiful girl, was present with her father when we met at the Boucicaults' and who soon afterwards was our guest.

Of the distinguished Americans who have been sent to our country as Ambassadors from their own land I have met Mr. Lowell, Mr. Phelps, Mr. Bayard, Mr. Choate, Mr. Page, and {148} Mr. Davis. It is a privilege to have known such men; a greater privilege, in the case of Mr. Choate, to have been his host. I don't know whether a charming little story has been in print before--very likely it has--but I can answer for its exactitude as I now tell it, and where the incident occurred.

On one of his visits to us the subject was started--I think by Bishop Boyd-Carpenter--of changing one's identity. My wife turned to her chief guest and said: "Tell us, Your Excellency, who you would rather be if you were not Mr. Choate." The Ambassador, slightly rising from his chair, bowed across the table to his wife, who was at my side, and at once replied: "Mrs. Choate's second husband."

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