The brilliant composer and musician, Arthur Sullivan, was our much-loved friend for thirty years. We first knew him about the time he and W. S. Gilbert were made known to each other by Frederic Clay. His great career began, like many others, very simply, for he was one of the "Children of the Chapel Royal," as they are still called, before his more serious studies began at the Royal Academy of Music and at Leipzig. He returned with his music to The Tempest, to be followed by The Light of the World.
His wonderful partnership with Gilbert has given joy to every land. It is said that the success of H.M.S. Pinafore was so amazing in America that 100,000 barrel-organs were specially constructed to play nothing else.
I recall a happy gathering of friends at Pontresina. Sullivan was one of them, and his old mother was with him: his devotion to her revealed a beautiful side of his affectionate nature.
A different meeting was when my wife and I met him one morning in the rooms at Monte Carlo. It was settled that we should have lunch together at the Café de Paris, which they went away to order, leaving me, unfortunately, at my own request, to join them in a few minutes. When I did so, my face must have told the sad story of those few minutes, as Arthur called out, cheerily: "Come along, B; this way to the cemetery."
He had a peculiarly entrancing personality: he lived a happy but not a long life, laden with honours.
When I had the sad privilege of being one of the pall-bearers at his funeral I was as impressed as I was pleased to see the blinds of the Athenæum drawn as we passed on our way to St. Paul's Cathedral, where, I have always understood, he was laid to rest by the wish of Queen Victoria.
Music had to bear three heavy blows, dealt within a few days, when Charles Stanford, with his keen sense of humour, Walter Parratt, with his winning personality, and Frederick Bridge, with his ever-ready stories of killing fish, left us. I knew them all, but Parratt was never my guest. He had no London home. We met pleasantly sometimes at the Athenæum, and my nearest link with him was that of having been born in the same year. Bridge and I received our knighthoods together. I have happy recollections of a stay at Harrogate when Stanford was also there. Although he lived so many years in London, he seemed to me to have left Dublin only recently; but what lingers most firmly in my mind in regard to him, is the majestic march he composed for Irving when Tennyson's play Becket was produced at the Lyceum. The last time I listened to its strains was at his own funeral service in the Abbey.
Frederic Clay
The name of another old musical friend, Frederic Clay, must be remembered, for it was in his company that I met Gounod. I dined with Clay when he lived with his father, who was the friend of Lord Beaconsfield, and known as the finest whist-player in London. I once saw the old gentleman in the cardroom of the Garrick, where he distinguished himself by revoking.
Frederic Clay's career was checked by a long and distressing illness. His fame will live in the remembrance of his melodies: "She wandered down the Mountain Side," "The Sands of Dee," and, above all, by the ever-enduring "I'll sing thee songs of Araby."