I had always been somewhat of a horticulturist myself and so I said to him: “It is evident that the plants here bearing purple flowers grow taller than the others; but you must remember that any single plant of sweet pea can give you nothing but one and the same color in its blossoms.” Sir Seymour sent for his pig-headed old Hampshire gardener, put the question to him, and although the old man was greatly in awe of his master he gave his decision on my side and against Sir Seymour. “You are a pair of fools,” was the old gentleman’s angry answer, and he started to leave us. But I overtook him and said: “Now, Sir Seymour, it is not fair to me to leave this little scientific question undecided. Pray come back for a few minutes and let me cut two or three of your plants at the roots, disentangle them from the hedge, and show you that although they mingle when growing close together yet you never get more than one colored bloom from one plant.” To this he consented, and of course my demonstration showed that his theory was wrong; but his anger against me lasted till bedtime, and it was only next morning that he said to me: “Keppel, you made me angry yesterday about those sweet peas,—but, all the same, I am glad you saved me from making a damned fool of myself before the Royal Society.”
Reproduction, in reduced size, of a page of Manuscript in the Handwriting
of Sir Seymour Haden
Facsimile, in reduced size, of the Certificate of Seymour Haden’s
Candidacy for Membership in the Athenæum Club
Sir Seymour’s anger on this occasion was mild compared with the rage he flew into with his gardener when, after the master had been absent for a day in London, he returned and found that his man had spent a laborious day in scraping off the beautiful green moss which adorned the trunks and larger branches of the old apple-trees in the garden. I was with Sir Seymour when he made the distressing discovery and I heard the furious sound of the vials of wrath which he poured on the stupid old man’s head. After Sir Seymour had gone the poor gardener said to me: “And that’s my thanks for having worked hard to make his old apple-trees look neat and tidy!”
Besides being a fellow of the Royal College of Surgeons, Sir Seymour Haden was a member of the most exclusive club in London—if not in the world—the Athenæum. It generally took from fifteen to twenty years for any candidate to be elected. Sir Seymour had to wait eighteen years. The usage of this club is to hang on the wall a large sheet of paper setting forth the name and the qualities of the candidate, and any member who approved of this candidate would sign this paper. Whether many of these eminent persons had much idea of the quality of a fine etching is quite another matter, but Sir Seymour’s nomination sheet at the club was crammed with signatures of eminent men advocating his election. Among these signatures are those of Robert Browning, Anthony Trollope, Matthew Arnold, Dr. Tait, Archbishop of Canterbury; Huxley, the great scientist; Lord Chief Justice Coleridge, and Sir E. J. Poynter, now President of the Royal Academy of Arts. Besides the signatures of these famous men who had “achieved greatness” other signers of this Athenæum document had been “born great,” including several hereditary peers; and—to finish Shakespeare’s sentence—the gentleman chiefly concerned never waited to have “greatness thrust upon him,” for he was always quite willing to meet greatness half-way.
The Athenæum Club is so desperately exclusive that no member can bring in an outsider except to a little sentry-box inside the main portal, which room is only large enough to accommodate two persons. On one occasion when I was visiting Sir Seymour I did one of the few deliberately wicked things that ever I did in my life. As I stood in the little sentry-box I perceived His Grace the Archbishop of York entering with a friend at the front door of the club. The two walked straight to the glass door of the little sentry-box where I was, and the eminent prelate said to his friend, in a loud authoritative voice: “We can sign the documents here in a moment.” Then it was that “Satan entered into me.” I knew that this was my only chance ever to make a British archbishop wait till I was “good and ready,” and so, although I had finished my business with Sir Seymour, I began talking and talking about his friends in Paris and what they were doing, until I kept the very impatient archbishop striding up and down before the little door for more than ten minutes, and twice when I caught his eye he looked at his watch, glared at me, and exclaimed, “Dear me, how tiresome!” (It will be remembered that in genteel English parlance the word “tiresome” means “annoying” or “provoking.”) At last, when I could talk no more, Sir Seymour rose from his chair, opened the door, and met the raging Dr. Maclagan outside. “Oh, Archbishop,” said he, “I do hope we have not kept you waiting,” and His Grace made answer in a very fretful voice, “Well, in point of fact, Sir Seymour, you have!” I cannot claim that this prank of mine did me any credit, but in my boyhood days in England my family and I had suffered from the pomposity of English prelates.
Haden. Whistler’s House, Old Chelsea