My mother's versatile talent has ably upheld the reputation of her artistic predecessors; she paints besides figure-subjects delightful interiors, charming little bits of country life, and inherits the gift of painting dogs, which she represents with remarkable facility.
Although both my parents were historical painters, my mother's style was in no way similar to my father's. Her quality of painting is of a distinctive kind. This was especially marked in the painting of "Mrs. Fry visiting Newgate," one of the most remarkable of her pictures. The picture was hung on the line in the Royal Academy, and after a very successful reception was engraved. Afterwards, both painting and engraving were stolen by the man to whom they were entrusted for exhibition round the country; this man lived on the proceeds and pawned the picture. Eventually the painting was recovered and bought for America, and it is still perhaps the most widely known of the many works of my mother purchased for public galleries.
It is not surprising, therefore, that I should have inherited some of the inclinations of my artistic progenitors.
My earliest recollection is of a sea-trip at the age of four, when I remember tasting my first acidulated drop, presented me by an old lady whose appearance I can recollect perfectly, together with the remembrance of my pleasure and the novelty of the strange sweet.
My mother tells me my first caricatures were of soldiers at Calais. I am afraid that--youthful as I then was--they could hardly have been anything but _caricatures_.
Wilkie Collins came into my life even earlier than this. I was going to say I remember him at my christening, but I am afraid my words would be discredited even in these days of exaggeration. The well-known novelist, who was a great friend of my parents, was then at the height of his fame. He had what I knew afterwards to be an unfortunate "cast" in one eye, which troubled me very much as a child, for when telling an anecdote or making an observation to my father, I frequently thought he was addressing me, and I invariably grew embarrassed because I did not understand, and was therefore unable to reply.
Other members of the Collins family visited us. There was old Mrs. Collins, the widow of William Collins, R.A.; a quaint old lady who wore her kid boots carefully down on one side and then reversed them and wore them down on the other. She had a horror of Highlanders because they wore kilts, which she considered scandalous.