Chapter IX: Part I: By Frederick Keppel

Many treatises have been published on Seymour Haden the artist, but not one, as yet, on Seymour Haden the man. This is as it should be; because no one can write freely and frankly on the personality of a famous man while that man is still living, and Sir Seymour lived until the year 1910, when he died at the great age of ninety-three.

I met him often every year for about thirty years, and I first made his acquaintance when he lived in his very handsome house in the aristocratic region known as Mayfair, in the west end of London. His house adjoined the residence of the Lord Chief Justice of England.

The doctrine held by the ancients that the Goddess of Fortune was stone-blind has much to warrant it. Let us take the case of three contemporary nineteenth-century etchers, all three being men of genius. I mean the two French masters, Charles Meryon and Jean-François Millet, and the Englishman Seymour Haden. The two French etchers lived in dire poverty and often had to go hungry because they had not the means to pay for a meal; while, to their English contemporary, “the lines were fallen in pleasant places” and he never knew the wants that pinch the poor.

Born in 1818, in his father’s fine house in Sloane Street, London West, Francis Seymour Haden had the advantage of coming of a good and well-known family, in easy circumstances, and the further advantage of having received an excellent university education, so that he found himself, from the first, the social equal of many of the best in the land, and he never had to invade and overcome that formidable social barrier which in England so sternly divides the “somebodies” from the “nobodies”; and during his long and active life he certainly did nothing to diminish or discredit the high social standing to which he was born and bred.

This being so, he remained to the end of his life an ideal Tory aristocrat, a condition which might be compared to that of the Bourbon kings, who “never forgot anything and never learned anything.” In maintaining any opinion which he had formed, or inherited, he was as immovable as the rock of Gibraltar, and it made no difference to him if later evidence showed that his earlier opinions were wrong.

From the engraving by C. W. Sherborn

Size of the original engraving, 6 × 3½ inches]

From his etching from life, done in 1862

Size of the original print, 7¾ × 10⅝ inches]

I well remember hearing that man of genius, Henry Ward Beecher, say in a sermon: “Talk of the sin of Pride--we haven’t half enough of it!” Be that as it may, Seymour Haden was always a proud man, and this innate pride sometimes rendered him intolerant of the opinions of other good men whose ideas were also entitled to due respect. Indeed, I have never known a man who set a higher value on himself. Nothing was too good for him--whether it might be his collection of the best prints by older masters, his house and its appointments great and small, or the instruments which he used when he practised surgery,--everything must be of the very best. This determination of his was, within limits, a noble one, although it sometimes made him intolerant of other men who were unable to rise to his high ideals.

In this ingrained pride and self-esteem of Seymour Haden’s he was far too proud to be vain. I do not think he had any vanity at all. In this respect he differed, “as far as the east is from the west,” from his illustrious brother-in-law, Whistler. The latter’s lifelong habit was to pose and to perform like an actor on the stage--whether his audience consisted of many auditors or of only one; while Haden, though an eminently well-bred gentleman, cared nothing whatever about the impression he might be making on his auditors--so long as his actions were approved by himself. On such occasions all went charmingly until some other person uttered a heterodox opinion on art, or politics, or any other subject; but when that happened Sir Seymour’s indignation would burst forth like a raging volcano.

On one such occasion, while I was a guest in his country house, I infuriated him--though with no evil intention. It was at the time when the patriot Charles Stewart Parnell was making such a brave struggle in the House of Commons on behalf of Home Rule for Ireland, I expressed my admiration for Parnell, when Sir Seymour got very angry and so made all the company uncomfortable. Thus far I did not blame myself; but a year later I certainly was ashamed of my own indiscretion. I had quite forgotten about the outbreak of the former year and I again expressed my warm sympathy with the cause of Irish Home Rule. It was just at the beginning of dinner at Sir Seymour’s hospitable table, but no sooner had I mentioned the subject than he flung down knife and fork, marched out of the dining-room, banged the door behind him, and tramped up-stairs to his bedroom. That sweet woman, Lady Haden, said to me very quietly, “We shall see no more of Sir Seymour to-night,” and next morning, before my host appeared at breakfast, his very tactful wife, laying her hand gently on my arm, said to me, “Mr. Keppel, in conversing with my husband, pray avoid the subject of Home Rule in Ireland.” Most readers would think that the little incident ended here; but it didn’t. Presently Sir Seymour came down to breakfast and carried in his hand a large and handsome book which he presented to me. On the fly-leaf I read a long and most kindly dedication written by himself; and so _that_ was the end of the incident. I remember that when I received this _amende honorable_ my first impulse was to recall a characteristic Irish adage which says: “First cut my head, an’ then give me a plasther!”

From the drawing by Alphonse Legros, done in 1895]

From the etching by Percy Thomas

Size of the original etching, 6⅝ × 10½ inches]

Lady Haden was, in a very quiet and refined way, a remarkable woman. She was daughter of an American army officer, Major Whistler, and she bore the Puritan Christian names of Deborah Delano. In more than one of Sir Seymour’s etchings her first name is quieted down to “Dasha.” She was half-sister to the great Whistler, who was the issue of her father’s second marriage, and she clung to her “brother Jimmie” to the end of her life. All the art which was inherent in the Whistler family manifested itself in Lady Haden’s music. She was a marvelous reader of piano music, and when Sir Seymour got possession of the fine old Elizabethan mansion of Woodcote Manor in Hampshire, Lady Haden, perceiving that there was no musical skill among the young men of the neighboring village of Bramdean, organized a band or orchestra for these rustics. To one she taught the violin, to another the flute, to another the trombone, etc. After about two years of drilling I had the opportunity of hearing her band performing in the school-house at Bramdean, and they played respectably well, while the sweet old lady conducted the music with her baton. Toward the end of her life she became totally blind, and after that I never was more affected in my life than when, at Woodcote Manor, I saw her grope her way to her piano and heard her play, superbly, some great compositions by Beethoven and Chopin.

At Woodcote Manor Sir Seymour enjoyed his life thoroughly (except when something went wrong and made him angry). The mansion stood in its own park and there was a beautiful old garden inclosed with high stone walls. One summer when his long hedge of sweet pea was in full bloom he took me to see it and told me that he had thought out a new and interesting botanical fact, on which he had written a paper for the learned Royal Society, and that he intended to send it to them in London and to invite some eminent botanists of the Society to come to Woodcote and see the phenomenon for themselves. His theory was that garden flowers always had a tendency to return to the original color of the same blossoms in the wild plant, especially when the garden plant grew tall, and then he showed me that, in his hedge of sweet pea, the purple blossoms at the top were much more numerous than the flowers of pink or blue or white which were lower down, thus proving that when a garden sweet pea grew tall the blossoms returned to the original purple color of the wild pea.

I had always been somewhat of a horticulturist myself and so I said to him: “It is evident that the plants here bearing purple flowers grow taller than the others; but you must remember that any single plant of sweet pea can give you nothing but one and the same color in its blossoms.” Sir Seymour sent for his pig-headed old Hampshire gardener, put the question to him, and although the old man was greatly in awe of his master he gave his decision on my side and against Sir Seymour. “You are a pair of fools,” was the old gentleman’s angry answer, and he started to leave us. But I overtook him and said: “Now, Sir Seymour, it is not fair to me to leave this little scientific question undecided. Pray come back for a few minutes and let me cut two or three of your plants at the roots, disentangle them from the hedge, and show you that although they mingle when growing close together yet you never get more than one colored bloom from one plant.” To this he consented, and of course my demonstration showed that his theory was wrong; but his anger against me lasted till bedtime, and it was only next morning that he said to me: “Keppel, you made me angry yesterday about those sweet peas,--but, all the same, I am glad you saved me from making a damned fool of myself before the Royal Society.”

Sir Seymour’s anger on this occasion was mild compared with the rage he flew into with his gardener when, after the master had been absent for a day in London, he returned and found that his man had spent a laborious day in scraping off the beautiful green moss which adorned the trunks and larger branches of the old apple-trees in the garden. I was with Sir Seymour when he made the distressing discovery and I heard the furious sound of the vials of wrath which he poured on the stupid old man’s head. After Sir Seymour had gone the poor gardener said to me: “And that’s my thanks for having worked hard to make his old apple-trees look neat and tidy!”

Besides being a fellow of the Royal College of Surgeons, Sir Seymour Haden was a member of the most exclusive club in London--if not in the world--the Athenæum. It generally took from fifteen to twenty years for any candidate to be elected. Sir Seymour had to wait eighteen years. The usage of this club is to hang on the wall a large sheet of paper setting forth the name and the qualities of the candidate, and any member who approved of this candidate would sign this paper. Whether many of these eminent persons had much idea of the quality of a fine etching is quite another matter, but Sir Seymour’s nomination sheet at the club was crammed with signatures of eminent men advocating his election. Among these signatures are those of Robert Browning, Anthony Trollope, Matthew Arnold, Dr. Tait, Archbishop of Canterbury; Huxley, the great scientist; Lord Chief Justice Coleridge, and Sir E. J. Poynter, now President of the Royal Academy of Arts. Besides the signatures of these famous men who had “achieved greatness” other signers of this Athenæum document had been “born great,” including several hereditary peers; and--to finish Shakespeare’s sentence--the gentleman chiefly concerned never waited to have “greatness thrust upon him,” for he was always quite willing to meet greatness half-way.

The Athenæum Club is so desperately exclusive that no member can bring in an outsider except to a little sentry-box inside the main portal, which room is only large enough to accommodate two persons. On one occasion when I was visiting Sir Seymour I did one of the few deliberately wicked things that ever I did in my life. As I stood in the little sentry-box I perceived His Grace the Archbishop of York entering with a friend at the front door of the club. The two walked straight to the glass door of the little sentry-box where I was, and the eminent prelate said to his friend, in a loud authoritative voice: “We can sign the documents here in a moment.” Then it was that “Satan entered into me.” I knew that this was my only chance ever to make a British archbishop wait till I was “good and ready,” and so, although I had finished my business with Sir Seymour, I began talking and talking about his friends in Paris and what they were doing, until I kept the very impatient archbishop striding up and down before the little door for more than ten minutes, and twice when I caught his eye he looked at his watch, glared at me, and exclaimed, “Dear me, how tiresome!” (It will be remembered that in genteel English parlance the word “tiresome” means “annoying” or “provoking.”) At last, when I could talk no more, Sir Seymour rose from his chair, opened the door, and met the raging Dr. Maclagan outside. “Oh, Archbishop,” said he, “I do hope we have not kept you waiting,” and His Grace made answer in a very fretful voice, “Well, in point of fact, Sir Seymour, _you have!_” I cannot claim that this prank of mine did me any credit, but in my boyhood days in England my family and I had suffered from the pomposity of English prelates.

Etched in 1863. On the left is Lindsay Row, in which Whistler’s house is indicated by a small stellated mark above the chimney. To the right is old Chelsea Church and Battersea Bridge

Size of the original etching, 6⅞ × 13 inches]

A view of the Thames at Battersea, etched in 1863, looking out of Whistler’s window

Size of the original etching, 5⅞ × 8⅞ inches]

The feud between Seymour Haden and Whistler was known throughout Europe. Whistler loathed Haden and Haden detested Whistler. But Sir Seymour drew a distinction between the man whom he abominated and the artist whom he greatly admired. This admiration led him to make a notable collection of Whistler’s prints. On one occasion Sir Seymour said to me that if he were forced to part with his Rembrandt etchings or with his Whistlers he would find it hard to determine which master’s works he must let go. Later on I repeated this saying to Whistler and that modest gentleman calmly remarked: “Why, Haden should first part with his Rembrandts, of course.”

Among the historic questions which can never be definitely determined is the one--whether Seymour Haden was the man who kicked Whistler down-stairs or whether it was Whistler who administered this violent treatment to Haden. I have heard the story from both, and each of these eminent men stoutly maintained that _he_ had been the kicker and his adversary the kicked one.

As president of the Royal Society of Painter-Etchers Sir Seymour did a great work in maintaining sound doctrine in etching. Nothing was admitted which was “commercial” in character, and etchings which were done after paintings by other hands were rigorously ruled out.

The membership comprised foreign as well as British artists, and membership was eagerly sought for,--so much so that many famous etchers never were elected, although they tried hard to be.

The members often had to complain of the masterful ways of their president; he ruled them with a rod of iron, but still the malcontents were forced to endure it,--well knowing that no other man could give to the Society the prestige and authority that Seymour Haden gave to it.

In all other art exhibitions a good thing, done by an outsider, is accepted and welcomed, but the Royal Society of Painter-Etchers exhibits nothing except the work of its own members.

We have seen that Sir Seymour Haden, in spite of his good qualities--and his great qualities--was a man of a domineering and disputatious nature. I know of no figure in dramatic literature whom he resembled so closely as Sheridan’s _Sir Anthony Absolute_. Both of these _Sirs_ were of a violent and masterful temper, and yet both of them were good men.

Etched from an upper window in Mr. Haden’s house in Sloane Street. In the mid-distance is the suburb of Brompton

Size of the original etching, 4¼ × 10¼ inches]

“Thomas Haden of Derby, my grandfather, was, under a polished exterior, one of the most determined men I have ever known, and one of the bravest. He would have made a hero of romance if he had had the chance. At the age of eighty-five he defended his home against the whole mob of Derby, keeping them at bay all night.”

Seymour Haden.

Size of the original etching, 13⅞ × 9⅜ inches]

Besides Seymour Haden’s signal achievements as etcher and as surgeon, and his zeal as an angler, he, like some other good men, had a special hobby which he rode for years, and which he often ventilated in the London _Times_. His theory was that no corpse should be buried in a solid wooden coffin, but that it should be inclosed in a loose wicker case, where the earth could come in direct contact with the dead body. He contended that such contact would very quickly turn “earth to earth.” One of his demonstrations was practised on the dead body of a large old sow that died in his farm-yard. (The animal’s name, I remember, was Mary Jane.) Sir Seymour had Mary Jane buried in the garden, in a shallow grave, and he had a covering of not more than three inches of earth laid over her. Then every visitor to Woodcote Manor had to visit the grave and to use his olfactory organs over it. I myself had to do this on two occasions and I must say that I detected no foul odor whatever.

For more than twenty years I enjoyed a peculiar privilege in connection with Woodcote Manor. The old couple, used to the stir and bustle of London, where they had “troops of friends,” sometimes found themselves somewhat lonely in the solitude of Hampshire, and so it happened that for more than twenty years I was given _carte blanche_ to invite to Woodcote any person I pleased. I was very particular as to the persons whom I thus invited; but the people so invited were charmed with their visit, whether it lasted for three days or for two weeks, and the English know very well how to make a guest comfortable.

In the park at Woodcote Manor there is an etched tablet, nailed to the trunk of an ancient hawthorn-tree. It reads:

A loyal friend through weal and woe,
At last, stern death o’ertakes him:
Here sleeps my loving, wise old crow,
Till Gabriel’s trumpet wakes him.

I wrote this epitaph at Lady Seymour Haden’s request. She gave to my dear old pet crow a resting-place when he died. That crow was more like a friend than a pet. On Atlantic steamers he would fly about among the sea-gulls, and in London I used to open the windows and he flew where he pleased, but I was always sure that he would come back to me.

* * * * *

The present article is already so long that I must not prolong it further; but in a later number of THE PRINT-COLLECTOR’S QUARTERLY I intend to give an account of Sir Seymour Haden’s visit to the United States.