Part 7

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."