Sir John Tenniel was an old friend and guest. His remarkable connection with Punch extended over fifty years. During this marvellous record he contributed between two and three thousand cartoons to its pages. The most famous of this vast collection was, perhaps, Dropping the Pilot, which showed Bismarck leaving the Ship of State, while his new chief, who was to wreck Europe, looked superciliously down on him.
I was present at a banquet given in his honour upon his retirement. The company gathered was exceptional and was presided over by Mr. Balfour, as he then was. When Tenniel rose to return his thanks, the demonstration was too much for the old man; he was unable to speak, and resumed his seat in tears. As the chairman said at once, no expression of thanks could have been more eloquent.
We knew George du Maurier for many years: I wish it had been more intimately. After his early days in Paris and his familiarity with the Quartier Latin, his connection with Punch began, ten years later than Tenniel's. Soon afterwards he succeeded to Leach's prominent position and earned his world-wide fame, which was not lessened by his novels, Peter Ibbetson and Trilby.
I should have loved to hear him say at one of the weekly Punch dinners, as the man who told me did: "Fellows will write to me as de Maurier; I wish they'd give the devil his du."
Painting
One of du Maurier's closest friends was that fascinating man Canon Ainger, Master of the Temple, with whom I had only a slight acquaintance. They met constantly, almost daily, in their beloved Hampstead, and indeed haunted its Heath: du Maurier was at home in Bohemia; Ainger had never stood upon its soil; while their widely separated religious views never hurt their friendship. "A strange world, my masters."
He loved the stage. Would he had lived to see the position of its leader in England, to-day, achieved by his son Gerald!
"Sammy," as Linley Sambourne was affectionately called by his intimates, will complete my trio of Punch draughtsmen.
He was an amusing little creature, always very horsey in get up. I have his gift of the first drawing from his pencil which appeared in Punch, so long ago as 1867, when he was but twenty-two; it is a droll little sketch of George Honey as Eccles, John Hare as Sam Gerridge, and myself as Captain Hawtree in Caste. He told me that it was drawn from memory, after visits to the pit when Robertson's comedy was at the height of its first success.
I recall an amusing incident which occurred at a fancy-dress ball, largely attended by the artistic and "Bohemian" world. "Sammy" appeared, admirably appointed and dressed, as a little fat Dutchman. He was cheerily greeted by Gilbert, who ran against him with the words: "One Dutch of Sambourne makes the whole world grin."