"A many years ago, when I was young and charming." H.M.S. Pinafore.
As I was born in December, 1847, I was not five years old when I was taken to a house at the corner of Wellington Street, Strand2, to see the funeral procession of the Duke of Wellington. And I remember it as distinctly as if it had been yesterday. The crowd, the soldiers, and the magnificent funeral car, are still strongly engraven on my memory. That was the most important of my earlier recollections.
The next recollection of great importance was my having fallen desperately3 in love with a Miss Field, at a day-school near Bloomsbury, to which I was taken at five years of age, and which was kept by a Miss Adams. It was an academy for young (extremely young) ladies and gentlemen. It was only natural that I should desire to make my fiancee a suitable gift as a token of our engagement; so I presented her with a set of large gold shirt-studs, which I annexed4 from my father's dressing-table. The mother of my adored one, without having the courtesy to consult her daughter or myself, took the gift from the former, and returned it to the father of the latter. My parent explained to me the etiquette5 with regard to acts of alienation6 in a sweet, simple, and comprehensive manner worthy7 of Dr. Watts8, and extracted from me a promise that in future I would discard that humour which had prompted me to generously dispose of other people's property. That promise I have faithfully kept.
As a reward for my future good intentions, he handed me a sovereign, with injunctions not to spend it. I must confess I could not see his object. A few days afterwards I began to be suspicious of his sovereign. There was some writing on one side, which I was not yet intelligent enough to decipher; but on the other, instead of the pretty head of our Most Gracious Majesty10, there was an impression of a hat. I was much worried and concerned about that hat. I perfectly11 remember going to my parents and saying, "I would rather have a sovereign without a hat on." I also remember with what continued roars of laughter my request was met. I have the sovereign to this day. It is a brass12 disc, the exact size of a sovereign, advertising13 the Gibus opera hat.
About 1855 I was sent to a preparatory school kept by the Misses Hay, at Massingham House, Haverstock Hill. I was a boarder, and it was there I first began to play the fool. I invented several shadow pantomimes, and acted in them. As no dialogue was required, I can say nothing of my literary ability. On one occasion, when my mother visited me, she asked how I was getting on with my lessons. Miss Eliza Hay (from whom I had a letter last May) said, "He gets on very well with his music, but I am afraid he will one day be a clown."
I mention this because, about fifteen years afterwards, my father met her, and informed her that I had made my appearance at the Polytechnic14 Institution as a professional entertainer, and she replied, "Ah! I always said he would be a clown." This is not repeated with any unkind intention, for the remarks were made by Miss Hay in a pure spirit of chaff15. She was very kind to me, gave me lessons in elocution, and taught me pieces of poetry to recite. She used to write poetry herself.
Her sister, Miss Isabelle, taught me the piano; and, of course, I learned the "Priere d'une Vierge" and "Les Cloches de Monastere," and the "Duet in D" by Diabelli, to say nothing of Czerny's 101 exercises, all of which I used to play tolerably well at the age of nine and ten. Miss Isabelle also sang very nicely; and as I was very fond of music, I became a favourite pupil, and was taken by her to local concerts, where she sang for charities. Of course, I fell over head and ears in love with her.
The school was kept by three sisters, and the elder was a handsome lady with grey hair. She was an immense favourite with the boys. I have never forgotten her kindness in occasionally permitting me to fire off a brass cannon16 with real gunpowder17 in the kitchen. That was the sort of extension of license18 that a boy appreciated.
In 1856 I witnessed, from the lower part of Primrose19 Hill, the fireworks in celebration of peace with Russia. The final sight was wonderful, and greatly impressed me. At a given period, thousands of rockets were fired from the Hill and all the parks.
I was sometimes taken to the theatre, and have a faint recollection of Wright at the Adelphi, and a more distinct one of T. P. Cooke in Black-eyed Susan. I was afterwards introduced to him at Margate, and surprised to find he looked so old—which he certainly did not on the stage. It was in this year, I think, that I was taken to see the ruins of Covent Garden Theatre. It was the day after the fire, and smoke was still ascending20 in columns. I described this with characteristic exaggeration, and became a temporary hero at the school of the Misses Hay.
In 1857 my father took the little house now known as 36 Haverstock Hill. It was then known as 9 Powis Place, and was called Manor21 Lodge22. My school was only a few doors off, and so I became a day scholar. I remained at this preparatory school until I was nearly twelve, and I can safely say I was very happy in those days. I do not mean to infer that I am not happy now. Fortunately, I am of an extremely happy disposition23, and I so thoroughly24 enjoy the bright side of life that its shadows sink into insignificance25.
Amongst my school-fellows at the Misses Hay's was Dr. Arthur W.
Orwin, of the Throat and Ear Hospital, Gray's Inn Road.
In 1860 there was a Pugilistic Fever in England. Tom Sayers fought J. C. Heenan, the Benicia Boy. The fever was very virulent26. It attacked Peers, Commons, Bishops27, Actors, Soldiers, Sailors, Tinkers and Tailors. It attacked The Times, and all the daily, evening, weekly, monthly, quarterly, and yearly periodicals. Is it to be wondered at, that it attacked also the school of the Misses Hay? Tom Sayers, with his big dog, had been pointed28 out to me; so had Heenan and Tom King.
I was surreptitiously, and most certainly without the knowledge of my parents, taken by one of the servants at home to the house of Mr. Ben Caunt, who shook hands with me and showed me the room where boxing matches took place. I was then taken across the road, and this boy of twelve years and a few months was presented to Nat Langham. I was accordingly seized with the fever very badly. On the inside of my leather belt I sketched30 little panels of my imagined victories, and issued a challenge to fight anyone for the championship of the school—the victor to hold the leather belt. As I had shaken hands with Ben Caunt and Langham, the boys were rather afraid of me. Orwin, however, accepted the challenge, threw his castor into the ring, and we fought for twenty minutes or half an hour: it seemed years to me. In the end I was undoubtedly31 defeated. One generally hears that corruption32 is the aim and end of all fights. I knew nothing of such practices then, and so cannot explain what induced me to offer Orwin twopence to admit that I was the conqueror33, or what persuaded him to accept the sum and condition.
After leaving the preparatory school, I was sent to the North London Collegiate School, then under the headmastership of Dr. Williams. I wore a "mortar-board," and walked to and from the school with E. H. Dickens, who was a nephew of Charles Dickens, and who, living close to my home, became (and still is) a great friend of mine. The chief delight of the little home on Haverstock Hill was the garden at the back. It was much prettier than the modern suburban34 garden. There used to be nine apple trees and two pear trees. As time wore on, a couple of the trees wore out. My mother used to send the apples away to friends in basketsful. My brother Weedon and I generally partook of this fruit when it had grown to the size of a chestnut35, and was particularly hard and green. We much preferred it to the mature apple. In this respect I think we resembled most boys.
When the bicycle came in vogue36, a few years after, we three boys procured37 one each. (I include my father as one of the boys. It was his own desire, as well as his nature, to be one of us, and I often think many fathers would find it to their advantage if they followed his example). I possessed38, what was considered then, a very high bicycle, the front wheel being 36 inches high. I got one for my brother, cheap, at an auction-room near Covent Garden. Being considered the champion rider of the three, I was sent to bid for the steed, and ride it home in style. I succeeded in the former, but not in the latter. Before an admiring crowd of Covent Garden loungers, loafers, porters, fruiterers, flower-girls and policemen, I leapt on to the saddle, and immediately broke the back of the spring, which had evidently been carefully made of cast-iron. My intention was that the bicycle should carry me home, but we reversed the order of things.
The steed used by my father stood about two and a half feet from the ground, and had iron wheels. He himself was only a little over five feet, and was much—very much—inclined to embonpoint. In the winter, the garden-path at Manor Lodge was a fine field for practice. I forget how many laps went to the mile; all I remember is, that three miles about did for Weedon and myself, and half a mile did for the Guv'nor—that is, if he had not done for himself before then. I never recollect1 anything so funny as seeing him trundling round the garden. It somewhat resembled a diminutive39 edition of the modern road engine. We heard him in the house distinctly—loud as he approached the house, the noise becoming less as he reached the bottom of the garden. Sometimes the noise would suddenly cease. Ha! We in the house knew instinctively40 what had happened, and rushed to the windows to look out. Yes; there he was, in the thick of the gooseberry bushes. Not on the bicycle—oh dear, no! Under it, most decidedly under it. Sometimes on these occasions we would push up the windows, and, in conjunction with our dear mother, greet him with a loud guffaw41. Sometimes we would preserve a strict silence and listen. We heard him wheel the vehicle back, place it against the lattice-work of the verandah, open the door, and, as usual, call for me.
"George—George!"
"Here I am. What is it?"
"Oh, I say, George, have you got a piece of sticking-plaister?"
He always appealed to me for this article, knowing that I was in possession of a few quires of court plaister; for it was at this period I had commenced to shave.
In summer my mother would not permit the bicycles in the garden because of the flowers, in which she took pride. In the earlier days at Manor Lodge the garden was a mass of roses. As the demon42 builders began to surround the locality, so the roses began to die, and blight43 began to kill the apple-trees.
Still, the garden always looked pretty, especially in the summer and autumn. Then we three boys went in for amateur photography. The fad44 was started by me, and I was the principal operator. A "dark room" was erected45 against the wall near the house, and the front was manufactured out of the folding doors which had formerly46 separated the dining-room from the drawing-room. An amateur photographer was a scarcity47 in those days. The clean and easy dry-plate process was not then in use. We first had to clean the plain glass plate, which, in my case, was never successfully accomplished48; then to coat it with collodion, which, if it did not run off the plate up the sleeve, generally "set" in diagonal streaks49. Then it had to be placed in the wet silver bath, an extremely sensitive concoction50, which got out of order without the slightest provocation51. After its exposure in the camera (by-the-by, I generally forgot to pull up the shutter52, or, if I remembered that, discovered when I went to uncover the lens that its cap was already off), this plate was subjected to a development which was original in its vagaries53.
If the figures on the plate were indistinct, it was more than could be said of the spots and patches which appeared vividly54 on the fingers and clothes. Still, I was devoted55 to the occupation while in my teens, and would photograph all day long, anybody or anything. The family sat or stood to me a dozen times a day. The dogs used to sneak56 into the house and hide in the coal cellar the moment they saw me bring out the camera. The tradesmen and servants were all taken. All my father's friends, and they were numerous and good-natured, were seized and carried into the garden to be taken on glass; for I generally took "positives," which were finished off then and there and put into little brass frames, like the sixpenny and shilling portraits (eighteenpence if a bit of jewellery is painted in with gold) one sees displayed in the Euston Road and elsewhere.
I have taken Toole scores of times, H. J. Byron, J. Billington, Andrew Halliday, and many more: in fact, the last-named wrote an article in All the Year Round called "Precocious57 Boys," in which he described my brother and myself photographing him in a back-garden. I hope the reader will not think I am boasting, but I solemnly declare that I do not believe any photographer, professional or amateur, ever succeeded in turning out so many deplorable failures as I did.
I attach rather an interesting programme of a juvenile58—followed by a grown-up—party at Manor Lodge:
———
Haverstock Hill, April 1st, 1864.
With Master George and Walter Grossmith's Compliments.
PROGRAMME
7 o'clock.—General Gathering59 of the Company (Limited). The first arrival will please to make itself as comfortable as possible.
7.30.—Music and Conversation. The latter may be varied60 by an occasional allusion61 to the day of the month—a practical joke being the "touch of nature" that makes everybody touchy62.
8 o'clock.—Quadrille and Polka. After which, Mrs. Martha Brown (from the Egyptian Hall) will describe her "Trip to Brighton and back."
9 o'clock.—Quadrille and Waltz.
A few young gents in their teens, inspired by the Tercent-e-nary (see Hepworth Dixon or any other dixon-ary), will recite a passage from—and a very long way from—HAMLET.
9.30.—Quadrille. Polka. Spanish Dance.
10 o'clock.—THE JUVENILE SPREAD. Children under 20 not admitted.
10.30.—The author of "Underground London" will demon-strate his well-known connection with the arch-enemy. (Beware of your pockets.)
11.—Dancing, Comic Singing, etc.
12 to 1.—Arrival of the Professionals from the Royal Adelphi, Olympic, St. James's, and Princess's Theatres, retained at an enormous cost for this night only—or rather morning.
BANQUET OF THE ELDERS IN THE CULINARY CAVERNS63 OF THE REGIONS BELOW.
Resumption of the fun. Paul's return a great go. Curious analysis of the Brothers Webb, to ascertain64 which is which. Mr. Toole will oblige, etc.
Any attempt to define the order or duration of the proceedings65 from this point being obviously absurd, it will suffice to state that the Sun rises at 5.30.
———
The twenty minutes' burlesque66 on Hamlet was written expressly for us by my father. It was received so well that we afterwards did it at the residences of Mr. Toole and John Hollingshead to "grown-up" parties, of which we were very proud. I played Hamlet, my brother played Ophelia and the Gravedigger, and the remainder of the characters were assumed by schoolfellows at the North London Collegiate School, who were, singularly enough, distantly connected with the stage. They were Pierre Leclercq, the brother of Carlotta Leclercq; Claude Addison, brother of the Misses Fanny and Carlotta Addison; B. Terry, brother of Ellen Terry, who, with her sister Kate (Mrs. Arthur Lewis), visited Manor Lodge several times. The part of the Queen was played by T. Bolton, who afterwards went on the stage and became a prominent member of Mr. Wilson Barrett's provincial67 companies. Many actors and literary men and women came in late at this party.
I knew very little of Society (with a big S) in those days, but had the honour, under the parental68 roof, of meeting and making friends, while a young man, of such people as Henry Irving, Toole, J. Clarke (Little Clarke, as he was called), H. J. Byron, John Oxenford, Kate and Ellen Terry, Madame Celeste, Miss Woolgar, Andrew Halliday, Artemus Ward9, Chas. Wyndham, the brothers Brough, Luke Fildes, R.A., Joseph Hatton, Dillon Croker, J. Prowse, Fred Barnard, Mrs. Eiloart, Eliza Winstanley, Emma Stanley (the entertainer), W. S. Woodin, Arthur Sketchley, Tom Hood69 the younger, T. W. Robertson, Miss Furtardo, Paul Bedford.
For eight or nine months in the year we did not see much of the master of the house, for he was away lecturing; but we always welcomed his return home, generally on Saturdays. In the summer he had more leisure; he was brimful of humour, and there were few people so good at repartee70.
When he was "put out," there was no mistaking it. He would then speak without thinking; but he never wrote without thinking. What a deal of trouble would be saved in this world if people would only delay answering an annoying letter for twenty-four hours!
Some of my father's replies were very amusing, I remember. I happened to come across a copy of one recently. I must first explain that my mother was passionately71 fond of animals, and had a strong tendency to overfeed them. In the next garden to ours a dog was chained close to the adjoining wall, and I have no doubt whatever that every remnant of food was dropped over for his special delight. The next-door neighbour wrote a sharp remonstrance72, and complained that his dog was getting too fat in consequence of its being overfed. My father wrote the following characteristic reply:
"9 Powis Place,
"December 18th, 1870.
"Dear Sir,—I am very sorry my people have annoyed you by giving food to your dog.
"Mrs. Grossmith happens to be very fond of dogs. I think she prefers them to human beings, and she has a notion that it is very cruel to keep one chained up eternally; and possibly this want of exercise may have more to do with its getting fat than the occasional extra feeding to which you refer, and which comes of weak womanly sympathy with misfortune—just as our booby philanthropists, after contributing nearly half a million for the relief of the sick and wounded, received nothing but kicks and growls73 from the ruffianly savages74 in return.
"Seriously, however, you have a perfect right to complain, and I have given orders which I hope will be obeyed. I am very seldom in London myself, and cannot boast of having much control over my household when I am; but I think I may rely on your wishes being implicitly75 regarded.
"I almost wonder that it has not occurred to you to put the dog on the other side of the garden, out of their reach; but I trust there will be no occasion for this now.
"Yours faithfully,
"GEO. GROSSMITH.—Esq."
The next-door neighbour was amused with this letter, having taken it in its proper spirit, and became a visitor to the house. "All's well that ends well."
In accordance with its usual custom, time rolled on. I began to exhibit a taste for painting, and my brother Weedon for acting76. These professions we subsequently reversed. Weedon (his full name is Walter Weedon Grossmith) left the North London Collegiate School to go to school nearer home; viz., Mr. Simpson's, in Belsize Park. Eventually I left the N.L.C.S. to go to Bow Street, with the ultimate intention of entering for the bar; and Weedon, after leaving school, went to the West London School of Art in Portland Street, also to the Slade School at the London University, and eventually he passed the requisite77 examination that admitted him to the Royal Academy Schools.
I have endeavoured to make this little sketch29 of my old home as brief as possible, and will conclude this chapter with an incident that ultimately happened to be of considerable importance to me:
At a certain juvenile party, while still in jackets and turned-down collars, I met and became enamoured of a little maiden78 in a short frock and sash.
She flattered me by approving of my comic songs; and I was immensely struck with her power of conversation, which was unusual for one so young. I ascertained79 that her name was Emmeline Rosa Noyce, and that she was the only daughter of Doctor Noyce, whose practice was in the neighbourhood. We danced every dance together; but the Fates decreed that we should not meet again for another three or four years. We did meet—in a crowd, and again danced nearly every dance together; for, strange to say, she understood my step.
All this was simply a beginning to a very happy end: and I can say with truth that the wisest step I ever took in the whole course of my life was when, on the 14th May, 1873, I made my juvenile sweetheart my wife—with her consent, of course,—and, thank God, I have never had reason to regret it for a single second.
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1
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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annexed
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| [法] 附加的，附属的 | |
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etiquette
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| n.礼仪，礼节；规矩 | |
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alienation
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| n.疏远；离间；异化 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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watts
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| （电力计量单位）瓦，瓦特( watt的名词复数 ) | |
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ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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advertising
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| n.广告业；广告活动 a.广告的；广告业务的 | |
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polytechnic
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| adj.各种工艺的，综合技术的；n.工艺(专科)学校；理工(专科)学校 | |
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chaff
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| v.取笑，嘲笑；n.谷壳 | |
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cannon
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| n.大炮，火炮；飞机上的机关炮 | |
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gunpowder
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| n.火药 | |
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license
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| n.执照，许可证，特许；v.许可，特许 | |
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primrose
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| n.樱草，最佳部分， | |
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ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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manor
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| n.庄园，领地 | |
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lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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insignificance
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| n.不重要；无价值；无意义 | |
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virulent
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| adj.有毒的，有恶意的，充满敌意的 | |
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bishops
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| （基督教某些教派管辖大教区的）主教( bishop的名词复数 )； （国际象棋的）象 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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sketched
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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corruption
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conqueror
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| n.征服者，胜利者 | |
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suburban
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chestnut
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Vogue
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procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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diminutive
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| adj.小巧可爱的，小的 | |
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instinctively
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guffaw
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| n.哄笑；突然的大笑 | |
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demon
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| n.魔鬼，恶魔 | |
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blight
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| n.枯萎病；造成破坏的因素；vt.破坏，摧残 | |
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fad
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| n.时尚；一时流行的狂热；一时的爱好 | |
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ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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scarcity
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| n.缺乏，不足，萧条 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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streaks
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| n.（与周围有所不同的）条纹( streak的名词复数 )；（通常指不好的）特征（倾向）；（不断经历成功或失败的）一段时期v.快速移动( streak的第三人称单数 )；使布满条纹 | |
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concoction
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| n.调配(物)；谎言 | |
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provocation
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| n.激怒，刺激，挑拨，挑衅的事物，激怒的原因 | |
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shutter
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| n.百叶窗；(照相机)快门；关闭装置 | |
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vagaries
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| n.奇想( vagary的名词复数 )；异想天开；异常行为；难以预测的情况 | |
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vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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sneak
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| vt.潜行(隐藏,填石缝)；偷偷摸摸做；n.潜行；adj.暗中进行 | |
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precocious
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| adj.早熟的；较早显出的 | |
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juvenile
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| n.青少年，少年读物；adj.青少年的，幼稚的 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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touchy
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| adj.易怒的；棘手的 | |
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caverns
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| 大山洞，大洞穴( cavern的名词复数 ) | |
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ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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burlesque
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| v.嘲弄，戏仿；n.嘲弄，取笑，滑稽模仿 | |
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provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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parental
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| adj.父母的；父的；母的 | |
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hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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repartee
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| n.机敏的应答 | |
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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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growls
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的第三人称单数 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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savages
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| 未开化的人，野蛮人( savage的名词复数 ) | |
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implicitly
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| adv. 含蓄地, 暗中地, 毫不保留地 | |
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acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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requisite
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| adj.需要的，必不可少的；n.必需品 | |
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maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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ascertained
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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