An Autobiography

I can never forget the hearty, well-mannered welcome the French gave us, lay and clerical. The place itself was lovely and the weather kind. It is good to have had such an experience as this in our weary world. The Bishop of Salford, the future Cardinal Vaughan, led us, and our clergy mustered in great force. The dear French people never showed so well as during their welcome of us. It suited their courteous and hospitable natures. Most of our hosts were peasants and owners of little picturesque shops in this jewel of a little town. We two were billeted at a shoemaker’s. The urbanity of the French clergy in receiving our own may be imagined. I love to think back on the truly beautiful sights and sounds of Paray, with the dominant note of the church bells vibrating over all. They gave us a graceful send-off, pleased to have the assurance of our approval of our reception. Many compliments on our solide piété, with regrets as to their own “légèreté,” and so forth. “Vive l’Angleterre!” “Vive la France!” “Adieu!”

CHAPTER VIII

“THE ROLL CALL”

I HAD quite a large number of commissions for military water-colours to get through on my return home, and an oil of French artillery on the march to paint, in my little glass studio under St. Boniface Down. But after my not inconsiderable success with “Missing” at the Academy, I became more and more convinced that a London studio must be my destiny for the coming winter. Of course, my father demurred. He couldn’t bear to part with me. Still, it must be done, and to London I went, with his sad consent. I had long been turning “The Roll Call” in my mind. My father shook his head; the Crimea was “forgotten.” My mother rather shivered at the idea of the snow. It was no use; they saw I was bent on that subject. My dear mother and our devoted family doctor in London (Dr. Pollard[4 - Whose son, Mr. Alfred Pollard, C.B., became the head of the British Museum Printed Book Department.]), who would do anything in his power to help me, between them got me the studio, No. 76, Fulham Road, where I painted the picture which brought me such utterly unexpected celebrity.

Mr. Burchett, still headmaster at South Kensington, was delighted to see me with all the necessary facilities for carrying out my work, and he sent me the best models in London, nearly all ex-soldiers. One in particular, who had been in the Crimea, was invaluable. He stood for the sergeant who calls the roll. I engaged my models for five hours each day, but often asked them to give me an extra half-hour. Towards the end, as always happens, I had to put on pressure, and had them for six hours. My preliminary expeditions for the old uniforms of the Crimean epoch were directed by my kind Dr. Pollard, who rooted about Chelsea back streets to find what I required among the Jews. One, Mr. Abrahams, found me a good customer. I say in my Diary:

“Dr. Pollard and I had a delightful time at Mr. Abrahams’ dingy little pawnshop in a hideous Chelsea slum, and, indeed, I enjoyed it far more than I should have enjoyed the same length of time at a West End milliner’s. I got nearly all the old accoutrements I had so much longed for, and in the evening my Jew turned up at Dr. Pollard’s after a long tramp in the city for more accoutrements, helmets, coatees, haversacks, etc., and I sallied forth with the ‘Ole Clo!’ in the rain to my boarding house under our mutual umbrella, and he under his great bag as well. We chatted about the trade ‘chemin faisant.’”

I called Saturday, December 13th, 1873, a “red-letter day,” for I then began my picture at the London studio. Having made a little water-colour sketch previously, very carefully, of every attitude of the figures, I had none of those alterations to make in the course of my work which waste so much time. Each figure was drawn in first without the great coat, my models posing in a tight “shell jacket,” so as to get the figure well drawn first. How easily then could the thick, less shapely great coat be painted on the well-secured foundation. No matter how its heavy folds, the cross-belts, haversacks, water-bottles, and everything else broke the lines, they were there, safe and sound, underneath. An artist remarked, “What an absurdly easy picture!” Yes, no doubt it was, but it was all the more so owing to the care taken at the beginning. This may be useful to young painters, though, really, it seems to me just now that sound drawing is at a discount. It will come by its own again. Some people might say I was too anxious to be correct in minor military details, but I feared making the least mistake in these technical matters, and gave myself some unnecessary trouble. For instance, on one of my last days at the picture I became anxious as to the correct letters that should appear stamped on the Guards’ haversacks. I sought professional advice. Dr. Pollard sent me the beery old Crimean pensioner who used to stand at the Museum gate wearing a gold-laced hat, to answer my urgent inquiry as to this matter. Up comes the puffing old gentleman, redolent of rum. I, full of expectation, ask him the question: “What should the letters be?” “B. O.!” he roars out – “Board of Ordnance!” Then, after a congested stare, he calls out, correcting himself, “W. D. – War Deportment!” “Oh!” I say, faintly, “War Department; thank you.” Then he mixes up the two together and roars, “W. O.!” And that was all I got. He mopped his rubicund face and, to my relief, stumped away down my stairs. Another Crimean hero came to tell me whether I was right in having put a grenade on the pouches. “Well, miss, the natural hinference would be that it was a grenade, but it was something like my ‘and.” Desperation! I got the thing “like his hand” just in time to put it in before “The Roll Call” left – a brass badge lent me by the War Office – and obliterated the much more effective grenade.

On March 29th and 30th, 1874, came my first “Studio Sunday” and Monday, and on the Tuesday the poor old “Roll Call” was sent in. I watched the men take it down my narrow stairs and said “Au revoir,” for I was disappointed with it, and apprehensive of its rejection and speedy return. So it always is with artists. We never feel we have fulfilled our hopes.

The two show days were very tiring. Somehow the studio, after church time on the Sunday, was crowded. Good Dr. Pollard hired a “Buttons” for me, to open the door, and busied himself with the people, and enjoyed it. So did I, though so tired. It was “the thing” in those days to make the round of the studios on the eve of “sending-in day.”

Mr. Galloway’s agent came, and, to my intense relief, told me the picture went far beyond his expectations. He had been nervous about it, as it was through him the owner had bought it, without ever seeing it. On receiving the agent’s report, Mr. Galloway sent me a cheque at once – £126 – being more than the hundred agreed to. The copyright was mine.

The days that followed felt quite strange. Not a dab with a brush, and my time my own. It was the end of Lent, and then Easter brought such church ceremonial as our poor little Ventnor St. Wilfrid’s could not aspire to. A little more Diary:

“Saturday, April 11th.– A charming morning, for Dr. Pollard had a fine piece of news to tell me. First, Elmore, R.A., had burst out to him yesterday about my picture at the Academy, saying that all the Academicians are in quite a commotion about it, and Elmore wants to make my acquaintance very much. He told Dr. P. I might get £500 for ‘The Roll Call’! I little expected to have such early and gratifying news of the picture which I sent in with such forebodings. After Dr. P. had delivered this broadside of Elmore’s compliments he brought the following battery of heavy guns to bear upon me which compelled me to sink into a chair. It is a note from Herbert, R.A., in answer to a few lines which kind Father Bagshawe had volunteered to write to him, as a friend, to ask him, as one of the Selecting Committee, just simply to let me know, as soon as convenient, whether my picture was accepted or rejected. The note is as follows:

‘Dear Miss Thompson, – I have just received a note from Father Bagshawe of the Oratory in which he wished me to address a few lines to you on the subject of your picture in the R.A. To tell the truth I desired to do so a day or two since but did not for two reasons: the first being that as a custom the doings of the R.A. are for a time kept secret; the second that I felt I was a stranger to you and you would hear what I wished to say from some friend – but Father Bagshawe’s note, and the decision being over, I may tell you with what pleasure I greeted the picture and the painter of it when it came before us for judgment. It was simply this: I was so struck by the excellent work in it that I proposed we should lift our hats and give it and you, though, as I thought, unknown to me, a round of huzzahs, which was generally done. You now know my feeling with regard to your work, and may be sure that I shall do everything as one of the hangers that it shall be perfectly seen on our walls.

I am tired and hurried, and ask you to excuse this very hasty note, but accept my hearty congratulations, and

    Believe me to be, dear Miss Thompson,
    Most faithfully yours,
    J. R. Herbert.’

I trotted off at once to show Father Bagshawe the note, and then left for home with my brilliant news.”

While at home at Ventnor I received from many sources most extraordinary rumours of the stir the picture was making in London amongst those who were behind the scenes. How it was “the talk of the clubs” and spoken of as the “coming picture of the year,” “the hit of the season,” and all that kind of thing. Friends wrote to me to give me this pleasant news from different quarters. Ventnor society rejoiced most kindly. I went to London to what I call in the Diary “the scene of my possible triumphs,” having taken rooms at a boarding house. I had better let the Diary speak:

“‘Varnishing Day,’ Tuesday, April 28th.– My real feelings as, laden like last year, with palette, brushes and paint box, I ascended the great staircase, all alone, though meeting and being overtaken by hurrying men similarly equipped to myself, were not happy ones. Before reaching the top stairs I sighed to myself, ‘After all your working extra hours through the winter, what has it been for? That you may have a cause of mortification in having an unsatisfactory picture on the Academy walls for people to stare at.’ I tried to feel indifferent, but had not to make the effort for long, for I soon espied my dark battalion in Room II. on the line, with a knot of artists before it. Then began my ovation (!) (which, meaning a second-class triumph, is not quite the word). I never expected anything so perfectly satisfactory and so like the realisation of a castle in the air as the events of this day. It would be impossible to say all that was said to me by the swells. Millais, R.A., talked and talked, so did Calderon, R.A., and Val Prinsep, asking me questions as to where I studied, and praising this figure and that. Herbert, R.A., hung about me all day, and introduced me to his two sons. Du Maurier told me how highly Tom Taylor had spoken to him of the picture. Mr. S., our Roman friend, cleaned the picture for me beautifully, insisting on doing so lest I should spoil my new velveteen frock. At lunchtime I returned to the boarding house to fetch a sketch of a better Russian helmet I had done at Ventnor, to replace the bad one I had been obliged to put in the foreground from a Prussian one for want of a better. I sent a gleeful telegram home to say the picture was on the line. I could hardly do the little helmet alterations necessary, so crowded was I by congratulating and questioning artists and starers. I by no means disliked it all. Delightful is it to be an object of interest to so many people. I am sure I cannot have looked very glum that day. In the most distant rooms people steered towards me to felicitate me most cordially. ‘Only send as good a picture next year’ was Millais’ answer to my expressed hope that next year I should do better. This was after overhearing Mr. C. tell me I might be elected A.R.A. if I kept up to the mark next year. O’Neil, R.A., seemed rather to deprecate all the applause I had to-day and, shaking his head, warned me of the dangers of sudden popularity. I know all about that, I think.

“Thursday, April 30th.– The Royalties’ private view. The Prince of Wales wants ‘The Roll Call.’ It is not mine to let him have, and Galloway won’t give it up.

“Friday, May 1st.– The to-me-glorious private view of 1874. I insert here my letter to Papa about it:

‘Dearest – , I feel as though I were undertaking a really difficult work in attempting to describe to you the events of this most memorable day. I don’t suppose I ever can have another such day, because, however great my future successes may be, they can never partake of the character of this one. It is my first great success. As Tom Taylor told me to-day, I have suddenly burst into fame, and this first time can never come again. It has a character peculiar to all first things and to them alone. You know that “the élite of London society” goes to the Private View. Well, the greater part of the élite have been presented to me this day, all with the same hearty words of congratulation on their lips and the same warm shake of the hand ready to follow the introductory bow. I was not at all disconcerted by all these bigwigs. The Duke of Westminster invited me to come and see the pictures at Grosvenor House, and the old Duchess of Beaufort was so delighted with “The Roll Call” that she asked me to tell her the history of each soldier, which I did, the knot of people which, by the bye, is always before the picture swelling into a little crowd to see me and, if possible, catch what I was saying. Galloway’s tall figure was almost a fixture near the painting. That poor man, he was sadly distracted about this Prince of Wales affair, but the last I heard from him was that he couldn’t part with it.

Some one at the Academy offered him £1,000 for it, and T. Agnew told him he would give him anything he asked, but he refused those offers without a moment’s hesitation. He has telegraphed to his wife at Manchester, as he says women can decide so much better than men on the spur of the moment. The Prince gives him till the dinner to-morrow to make up his mind. The Duchess of Beaufort introduced Lord Raglan’s daughters to me, who were pleased with the interest I took in their father. Old Kinglake was also introduced, and we had a comparatively long talk in that huge assembly where you are perpetually interrupted in your conversation by fresh arrivals of friends or new introductions. Do you remember joking with me, when I was a child, about the exaggerations of popularity? How strange it felt to-day to be realizing, in actual experience, what you warned me of, in fun, when looking at my drawings. You need not be afraid that I shall forget. What I do feel is great pleasure at having “arrived,” at last. The great banker Bunbury has invited me and a friend to the ball at the Goldsmiths’ Hall on Wednesday night. He is one of the wardens. Oh! if you could only come up in time to take me. Col. Lloyd Lindsay, of Alma fame, and his wife were wild to have “The Roll Call.” She shyly told me she had cried before the picture. But, for enthusiasm, William Agnew beat them all. He came up to be introduced, and spoke in such expressions of admiration that his voice positively shook, and he said that, having missed purchasing this work, he would feel “proud and happy” if I would paint him one, the time, subject and price, whatever it might be, being left entirely to me. Sir Richard Airey, the man who wrote the fatally misconstrued order on his holster and handed it to Nolan on the 25th October, 1854, was very cordial, and showed that he took a keen pleasure in the picture. I told him I valued a Crimean man’s praise more than anybody else’s, and I repeated the observation later to old Sir William Codrington under similar circumstances, and to other Crimean officers. One of them, whose father was killed at the assault on the Redan, pressed me very hard to consent to paint him two Crimean subjects, but I cannot promise anything more till I have worked out my already too numerous commissions, old ones, at the horrible old prices.

Sir Henry Thompson, a great surgeon, I understand, was very polite, and introduced his little daughter who paints. Lady Salisbury had a long chat with me and showed a great intelligence on art matters. Many others were introduced, or I to them, but most of them exist as ghosts in my memory. I have forgotten some of their names and, as some only wrote their addresses on my catalogue, I don’t know who is who. The others gave me their cards, so that is all right. Horsley, R.A., is such a genial, hearty sort of man. He says he shouldn’t wonder if my name was mentioned in the Royal speeches at the dinner. Lady Somebody introduced me to Miss Florence Nightingale’s sister, who wanted to know if there was any possibility of my “most kindly” letting the picture be taken, at the close of the exhibition, to her poor sister to see. Miss Nightingale, you know, is now bedridden. Now I must stop. More to-morrow…’

I remember how on the following Sunday my good friend Dr. Pollard, who lived close to my boarding house, waylaid me on my way to mass at the Oratory, and from his front garden called me in stentorian tones, waving the Observer over his head. On crossing over I learnt of the speeches of the Prince of Wales and the Duke of Cambridge at the Academy banquet the evening before, in which most surprising words were uttered about me and the picture.

“Monday, May 4th. – The opening day of the Royal Academy. A dense crowd before my grenadiers. I fear that fully half of that crowd have been sent there by the royal speeches on Saturday. I may say that I awoke this morning and found myself famous. Great fun at the Academy, where were some of my dear fellow students rejoicing in the fulfilment of their prophecies in the old days. Overwhelmed with congratulations on all sides; and as to the papers, it is impossible to copy their magnificent critiques, from The Times downwards.

“Wednesday, May 6th. – The Queen had my picture abstracted from the R.A. last night to gaze at, at Buckingham Palace! It is now, of course, in its place again. Went with Papa to the brilliant Goldsmiths’ Ball, where I danced. I was a bit of a lion there, or shall I say lioness? Sir William Ferguson was introduced to me; and he, in his turn, introduced his daughter and drank to my further success at the supper. Sir F. Chapman also was presented, and expressed his astonishment at the accuracy of the military details in my picture. He is a Crimean man. The King of the Goldsmiths was brought up to me to express his thanks at my ‘honouring’ their ball with my presence. The engravers are already at me to buy the copyright, but my dear counsellor and friend, Seymour Haden, says I am to accept nothing short of £1,000, and get still more if I can!

“May 10th. – The Dowager Lady Westmoreland, who is about 80, and who has lost pleasure in seeing new faces, when she heard of my Crimean picture, expressed a great wish to see me, and to-day I went to dine at her house, meeting there the present earl and countess, an old Waterloo lord, and Henry Weigall and his wife, Lady Rose. The dear old lady was so sweet. She was the Duke of Wellington’s favourite niece, and his Grace’s portraits deck the walls of more than one room. Her pleasure was in talking of the Florence of the old pre-Austrian days, where she lived sixteen years, but my great pleasure was talking with the earl and the Waterloo lord, who were most loquacious. Lord Westmoreland was on Lord Raglan’s staff in the Crimea.

“May 11th. – Received cheque for the ‘San Pietro in Vincoli’ and ‘Children of St. Francis.’ My popularity has levered those two poor little pictures off. Messrs. Dickinson & Co. have bought my copyright for £1,200!!!”

There follows a good deal in the Diary concerning the trouble with Mr. Galloway, who made hard conditions regarding his ceding “The Roll Call” to the Queen, who wished to have it. He felt he was bound to let it go to his Sovereign, but only on condition that I should paint him my next Academy picture for the same price as he had given for the one he was ceding, and that the Queen should sign with her own hand six of the artist’s proofs when the engraving of her picture came out. I had set my heart on painting the 28th Regiment in square receiving the last charge of the French Cuirassiers at Quatre Bras, but as that picture would necessitate far more work than “The Roll Call,” I could not paint it for that little £126 – so very puny now! So I most reluctantly suggested a subject I had long had in petto, “The Dawn of Sedan,” French Cuirassiers watching by their horses in the historic fog of that fateful morning – a very simple composition. To cut a very long story short, he finally consented to have “Quatre Bras” at my own price, £1,126, the copyright remaining his. All this talk went on for a long time, and meanwhile, all through the London society doings, I made oil studies of all the grey horses for “Sedan.” The General Omnibus Company sent me all shades of grey percherons for this purpose. I also made life-size oil studies of hands for “Quatre Bras,” where hands were to be very strong points, gripping “Brown Besses.” So I took time by the forelock for either subject. I was very fortunate in having the help of wise business heads to grapple with the business part of my work, for I have not been favoured that way myself.

There is no mention in the Diary of the policeman who, a few days after the opening of the Academy, had to be posted, poor hot man, in my corner to keep the crowd from too closely approaching the picture and to ask the people to “move on.” That policeman was there instead of the brass bar which, as a child, I had pleased myself by imagining in front of one of my works, à la Frith’s “Derby Day.” The R.A.’s told me the bar created so much jealousy, when used, that it had been decided never to use it again. But I think a live policeman quite as much calculated to produce the undesirable result. I learnt later that his services were quite as necessary for the protection of two lovely little pictures of Leighton’s, past which the people scraped to get at mine, they being, unfortunately, hung at right angles to mine in its corner. What an unfortunate arrangement of the hangers! Horsley told me that they went every evening after the closing, with a lantern, to see if the two gems had been scratched. They were never seen. I wonder if Leighton had any feelings of dislike towards “that girl.” She who in her ‘teens records her prostrations of worship before his earlier works, ere he became so coldly classical.

It is a curious condition of the mind between gratitude for the appreciation of one’s work by those who know, and the uncomfortable sense of an exaggerated popularity with the crowd. The exaggeration is unavoidable, and, no doubt, passes, but the fact that counts is the power of touching the people’s heart, an “organ” which remains the same through all the changing fashions in art. I remember an argument I once had with Alma Tadema on this matter of touching the heart. He laughed at me, and didn’t believe in it at all.

“Tuesday, May 12th.– Mr. Charles Manning and his wife have been so very nice to me, and this morning Mrs. M. bore me off to be presented to His Grace of Westminster, with whom I had a long interview. What a face! all spirit and no flesh. After that, to the School of Art Needlework to meet Lady Marion Alford and other Catholic ladies. I ordered there a pretty screen for my studio on the strength of my £1,200! Thence I proceeded on a round of calls, going first to the Desanges, where I lunched. There they told me the Prince of Wales was coming at four o’clock to see the Ashanti picture Desanges is just finishing. They begged me to come back a little before then, so as to be ready to be presented when the moment should arrive. I returned accordingly, and found the place crowded with people who had come to see the picture. As soon as H.R.H. was announced, all the people were sent below to the drawing-room and kept under hatches until Royalty should take its departure; but I alone was to remain in the back studio, to be handy. All this was much against my will, as I hate being thrust forward. But, as it turned out, there was no thrusting forward on this occasion, and all was very nice and natural. The Prince soon came in to where I was, Mr. Desanges saying ‘Here she is’ in answer to a question. His first remark to me was, of course, about the picture, saying he had hoped to be its possessor, etc., etc., and he asked me how I had got the correct details for the uniforms, and so on, having quite a little chat. He spoke very frankly, and has a most clear, audible voice.”

Of course, the photographers began bothering. The idea of my portraits being published in the shop windows was repugnant to me. Nowadays one is snapshotted whether one likes it or not, but it wasn’t so bad in those days; one’s own consent was asked, at any rate. I refused. However, it had to come to that at last. My grandfather simply walked into the shop of the first people that had asked me, in Regent Street, and calmly made the appointment. I was so cross on being dragged there that the result was as I expected – a rather harassed and coerced young woman, and the worst of it was that this particular photograph was the one most widely published. Indeed, one of my Aunts, passing along a street in Chelsea, was astonished to see her rueful niece on a costermonger’s barrow amongst some bananas!

CHAPTER IX

ECHOES OF “THE ROLL CALL”

ON May 14th I lunched at Lady Raglan’s. Kinglake was there to meet me, and we talked Crimea. I had read and re-read his much too prolix history, which I thought overburdened with detail, giving one an impression of the two Balaclava charges as lasting hours rather than minutes. But I had learnt much that was of the utmost value from this very superabundance of detail. Then on the next day I rose early, and was off by seven with the Horsleys to Aldershot at the invitation of Sir Hope Grant, of Indian celebrity, commanding, who travelled down with us. “Lady Grant received us at the house, where we found a nice breakfast, and where I got dried, being drenched by a torrential downpour. Would that it had continued longer, if only to lay the hideous sand in the Long Valley, which made the field day something very like a fiasco. I tried to sketch, but my book was nearly blown out of my hand, my umbrella was turned inside out and my arms benumbed by the cold. M., most luckily, was on the field, and Mrs. Horsley and I were soon comfortably ensconced in his hansom cab and trying to feel more comfortable and jolly. When the sham fight began we had to keep shifting our standpoint, and Mrs. H. and I had repeatedly to jump out of the hansom, as we were threatened by an upset every minute over those sandhills. As to the two charges of cavalry, which Sir Hope had on purpose for me, I could hardly see them, what with the dust storms half swallowing them up in dense dun-coloured sheets and my eyes being full of sand. However, I made the most of the situation, and hope I have got some good hints. I ought to have so much of this sort of thing, and hope to now, with all those ‘friends in court!’ When the march past began Sir Hope sent to ask me if I would like to stand by his charger at the saluting base, which I did, and saw, of course, beautifully. I felt extraordinarily situated, standing there, half liking and half not liking the situation, with an enormous mounted staff of utterly unknown, gorgeous officers curvetting and jingling behind me and the general. As one regiment passed, marching, as I thought, just as splendidly as the others, I heard Sir Hope snap at them ‘Very bad, very bad. Don’t, don’t!’ And I felt for them so much, trusting they didn’t see me or mind my having heard.”

Three days later, at a charming lunch at Lady Herbert’s, I met her son, Lord Pembroke, and Dr. Kingsley, Charles’s brother – “The Earl and the Doctor.” It was interesting to see the originals of the title they gave their book. The next day people came to the Academy to find, in place of “The Roll Call,” a placard – “This picture has been temporarily removed by command of Her Majesty.” She had it taken to Windsor to look at before her departure for Scotland, and to show to the Czar, who was on a visit.

Calderon, the R.A., whom I met that evening, told me the Academy had never been receiving so many daily shillings before, and that it ought to present me with a diamond necklace. And so forth, and so forth – all noted in the faithful Diary, wherein many extravagances of the moment in my regard are safely tucked away. Two days later I see: “May 20th.– The Woolwich review was quite glorious. I went with Lady Herbert, the Lane Foxes, Lord Denbigh and Capt. Slade. We posted there and back with two jolly greys and a postboy in a sky-blue jacket. This was quite after my own heart. Lord Denbigh talked art and war all the way, interesting me beyond expression. We were in the forefront of everything on arrival, next the Saluting Point, round which were grouped the most brilliant sons of Mars I ever saw gathered together, and of various nations. The Czar Alexander II. headed these, flanked by my two friends, the Prince of Wales and the Duke of Cambridge. The artillery manœuvres were effective, and I sketched as much as I could, getting up on the box, Lord Denbigh holding my parasol over my head, as the sun was strong. I suppose people like spoiling me just now, or trying to.”

Then, two days later, I note that I dined at Lady Rose Weigall’s, my left-hand neighbour at table the Archbishop of York, Dr. Thomson, who took in the hostess. He and I seem to have talked an immense deal about all sorts of things. He confided to me that his private opinion was that the Irish Church should never have been disestablished. In the course of further conversation I thought it better to let him know I was a Catholic by a passing remark. I said I thought the Neapolitans did not make such solid Catholics as the English. He stared, none too pleased! The next night I met at the Westmorelands’, at dinner, Lord George Paget, Colonel Kingscote, and Henry Weigall, my host of the previous evening. Lord George was drawn out during dinner about Balaclava, and I listened to his loud cavalry soldier’s talk with the keenest interest. He protested that we were making him say too much, but we were insatiable. Lord George was a man I had tried to picture; he was almost the last to ride back from the light cavalry charge. His manner and speech were soldatesque, his expressions requiring at times a “saving your presence” to the ladies, as a prefix. For me time flew in listening to this interesting Balaclava hero, and it was very late when I made up my mind to go, a wiser but by no means a sadder girl.

At a dinner at Lady Georgiana Fullerton’s my sister and I met Aubrey de Vere, who delighted Alice with his conversation. The general company, however, seem to have chiefly amused themselves with the long and, on the whole, silly controversy which was appearing in The Times regarding the sequence of the horse’s steps as he walks. It began by my horse’s walk in “The Roll Call” having been criticised by those who held to the old conventional idea. How many hours I had moved alongside horses to see for myself exactly how a horse puts his feet down in the walk! I had told many people to go down on all fours themselves and walk, noting the sequence with their own hands and knees, which was sure to be correct instinctively. At this same dinner Lady Lothian told me she had followed my advice, and the idea of that sedate grande dame, with grey hair combed under a white lace cap, pacing round her room on all fours I thought delightful. Since those days I have been vindicated by the snap-shot.

I find many Diary pages chiefly devoted to preparations for “Quatre Bras” and the doing of several pen-and-ink reminiscences of what I had seen at Woolwich and Aldershot, and exhibited at the “Dudley.” Some were bought by the picture dealer Gambart, and some by Agnew. One of those pen-and-inks was the “Halt!” – those Scots Greys I only half saw through the dust storm at Aldershot pulling up in the midst of a tremendous charge, very close to us. Gambart had come to my studio to see if he could get anything, and when I told him of this “Halt!” which I had just sent to the “Dudley,” he there and then wrote me a cheque for it, without seeing it. When he went there to claim it, behold! it had already been sold, before the opening. He was very angry, and threatened law against the “Dudley” for what he called “skimming” the show before the public got a chance. But the possessor was, like Mr. Galloway, a Maanchester maan, and these are very firm on what they call “our rights.” It was no use. I had to make Gambart a compensation drawing. This introduces Mr. Whitehead, for whom I was to paint “Balaclava.” He had the “Halt!” tight.

On Corpus Christi Day that year Alice and I, having received our invitations from the Bishop of Salford, of happy pilgrimage memory, to join in the services and procession in honour of the Blessed Sacrament at the Missionary College, Mill Hill, we went thither that glorious midsummer day. At page 127 of the Diary I have put down certain sentiments about the practice of the Catholic faith in England, and I express a longing to see the Host carried through English fields. I little thought in one year to see my hope realised; yet so it was at Mill Hill. After vespers in the little church, the procession was formed, and I shall long remember the choristers, in their purple cassocks, passing along a field of golden buttercups and the white and gold banners at the head of the procession floating out against a typical English sky as their bearers passed over a little hillock which commands a lovely view of the rich landscape. The bishop bore the Host, and six favoured men held the canopy. Franciscan nuns in the procession sang the hymns.

The early days of that July had their pleasant festivities, such as a dinner, with Alice, at Lady Londonderry’s (she who was our mother’s godmother on the occasion of her reception into the Catholic Church) and the Academy soirée, where Mrs. Tait invited me and Dr. Pollard to a large garden party at Lambeth Palace. There I note: “The Royalties were in full force, the Waleses, as I have heard the Prince and Princess called, and many others. It was amusing and very pleasant in the gardens, though provokingly windy. I had a curiously uncomfortable and oppressed feeling, though, in that headquarters of the – what shall I call it? – Opposition? The Archbishop and Mrs. Archbishop, particularly Mrs., rather appalled me. But dear Dr. Pollard, that stout Protestant, must have been very gratified.”

On July 4th Colonel Browne, C.B., R.E., who took the keenest interest in my “Quatre Bras,” and did all in his power to help me with the military part of it, had a day at Chatham for me. He, Mrs. B. and daughters called for me in the morning, and we set forth for Chatham, where some 300 men of the Royal Engineers were awaiting us on the “Lines.” Colonel Browne had ordered them beforehand, and had them in full dress, with knapsacks, as I desired.

They first formed the old-fashioned four-deep square for me, and not only that, but the beautiful parade dressing was broken and accidenté by my directions, so as to have a little more the appearance of the real thing. They fired in sections, too, as I wished, but, unfortunately, the wind was so strong that the smoke was whisked away in a twinkling, and what I chiefly wished to study was unobtainable, i. e., masses of men seen through smoke. After they had fired away all their ammunition, the whole body of men were drawn up in line, and, the rear rank having been distanced from the front rank, I, attended by Colonel Browne and a sergeant, walked down them both, slowly, picking out here and there a man I thought would do for a “Quatre Bras” model (beardless), and the sergeant took down the name of each man as I pointed him out very unobtrusively, Colonel Browne promising to have these men up at Brompton, quartered there for the time I wanted them. So I write: “I shall not want for soldierly faces, what with those sappers and the Scots Fusilier Guards, of whom I am sure I can have the pick, through Colonel Hepburn’s courtesy. After this interesting ‘choosing a model’ was ended, we all repaired to Colonel Galway’s quarters, where we lunched. After that I went to the guard-room to see the men I had chosen in the morning, so as to write down their personal descriptions in my book. Each man was marched in by the sergeant and stood at attention with every vestige of expression discharged from his countenance whilst I wrote down his personal peculiarities. I had chosen eight out of the 300 in the morning, but only five were brought now by the sergeant, as I had managed to pitch upon three bad characters out of the eight, and these could not be sent me. We spent the rest of the day very pleasantly listening to the band, going over the museum, etc. I ought to see as much of military life as possible, and I must go down to Aldershot as often as I can.

“July 16th.– Mamma and I went to Henley-on-Thames in search of a rye field for my ‘Quatre Bras.’ Eagerly I looked at the harvest fields as we sped to our goal to see how advanced they were. We had a great difficulty in finding any rye at Henley, it having all been cut, except a little patch which we at length discovered by the direction of a farmer. I bought a piece of it, and then immediately trampled it down with the aid of a lot of children. Mamma and I then went to work, but, oh! horror, my oil brushes were missing. I had left them in the chaise, which had returned to Henley. So Mamma went frantically to work with two slimy water-colour brushes to get down tints whilst I drew down forms in pencil. We laughed a good deal and worked on into the darkness, two regular ‘Pre-Raphaelite Brethren,’ to all appearances, bending over a patch of trampled rye.”

I seem to have felt to the utmost the exhilaration produced by the following episode. Let the young Diary speak: “The grand and glorious Lord Mayor’s banquet to the stars of literature and art came off to-day, July 21st, and it was to me such a delightful thing that I felt all the time in a pleasant sort of dream. I was mentioned in two speeches, Lord Houghton’s (‘Monckton Milnes’) and Sir Francis Grant’s, P.R.A. As the President spoke of me, he said his eye rested with pleasure on me at that moment! Papa came with me. Above all the display of civic splendour one felt the dominant spirit of hospitality in that ever-to-me-delightful Mansion House. It was a unique thing because such aristocrats as were there were those of merit and genius. The few lords were only there because they represented literature, being authors. Patti was there. She wished to have a talk with me, and went through little Italian dramatic compliments, like Neilson. Old Cruikshank was a strange-looking old man, a wonder to me as the illustrator of ‘Oliver Twist’ and others of Dickens’s works – a unique genius. He said many nice things about me to Papa. I wished the evening could have lasted a week.”

The next entries are connected with the “Quatre Bras” cartoon: “Dreadful misgivings about a vital point. I have made my front rank men sitting on their heels in the kneeling position. Not so the drill book. After my model went, most luckily came Colonel Browne. Shakes his head at the attitudes. Will telegraph to Chatham about the heel and let me know in the morning.

“July 23rd.– Colonel Browne came, and with him a smart sergeant-major, instructor of musketry. Alas! this man and telegram from Chatham dead against me. Sergeant says the men at Chatham must have been sitting on their heels to rest and steady themselves. He showed me the exact position when at the ‘ready’ to receive cavalry. To my delight I may have him to-morrow as a model, but it is no end of a bore, this wasted time.”