Part 8

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.

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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.

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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.

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[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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VIII

THE STAGE

"Of all amusements the theatre is the most profitable, for there we see important actions when we cannot act importantly ourselves."--MARTIN LUTHER.

I

When I was nineteen I ran away from home to become an actor, and have been stage-struck ever since.

[Sidenote: Charles Mathews]

Of eminent Victorian leaders of my calling the first to be our guest, in very far-away days, was the accomplished Charles Mathews, the most conspicuous comedian of his time. The memory of childhood's play-going days tells me that I once saw Madame Vestris, his first wife, a beautiful and accomplished woman, in one of Planche's extravaganzas called _The King of the Peacocks_, at the Lyceum Theatre. I first met Charles Mathews in 1863, as a star in the theatrical firmament when I was a struggling young actor in Dublin, where I had the great advantage of playing with him in a round of his favourite comedies for a whole {150} month; during which I hope I learnt something from his delightful personality of the beautiful art of acting.

Among other accomplishments, he was an amusing after-dinner speaker. When presiding at a theatrical charity banquet, with his own charm of manner, he began: "Douglas Jerrold once said to me that he did not despair of living to see the day when I should be trudging up Ludgate Hill, with an umbrella under my arm, to invest my funds in the Bank of England. I am sorry to say that the great humorist did not live to see that vision realised. The only step I have advanced towards it is, that I have bought the umbrella."

When Mathews left England for a tour in Australia, a banquet was given in his honour at which he presided; himself proposing the toast of his own health in these words: