[Illustration: MY CARICATURE OF MR. GLADSTONE. ] THE CONFESSIONS OF A CARICATURIST BY HARRY FURNISS _ILLUSTRATED_ VOLUME I [Illustration] NEW YORK AND LONDON: HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS. 1902. BRADBURY, AGNEW, & CO. LD. , PRINTERS LONDON AND TONBRIDGE. [_All rights reserved. _] December, 1901. PREFACE. If, in these volumes, I have made some joke at a friend's expense, letthat friend take it in the spirit intended, and--I apologise beforehand. In America apology in journalism is unknown. The exception is thewell-known story of the man whose death was published in the obituarycolumn. He rushed into the office of the paper and cried out to theeditor: "Look here, sur, what do you mean by this? You have published twocolumns and a half of my obituary, and here I am as large as life!" The editor looked up and coolly said, "Sur, I am vury sorry, I reckonthere is a mistake some place, but it kean't be helped. You are killedby the _Jersey Eagle_, you are to the world buried. We nevur correctanything, and we nevur apologise in Amurrican papers. " "That won't do for me, sur. My wife's in tears; my friends are laughingat me; my business will be ruined, --you _must_ apologise. " "No, si--ree, an Amurrican editor nevur apologises. " "Well, sur, I'll take the law on you right away. I'm off to myattorney. " "Wait one minute, sur--just one minute. You are a re-nowned and popularcitizen: the _Jersey Eagle_ has killed you--for that I am vury, vurysorry, and to show you my respect I will to-morrow find room for you--inthe births column. " Now do not let any editor imagine these pages are my professionalobituary, --my autobiography. If by mistake he does, then let him placeme immediately in their births column. I am in my forties, and there isquite time for me to prepare and publish two more volumes of my"Confessions" from my first to my second birth, and many other things, before I am fifty. [Illustration: Faithfully yours Harry Furniss] LONDON, 1901. [The Author begs to acknowledge his indebtedness to the Proprietors and the Editor of _Punch_, the Proprietors of the _Magazine of Art_, the _Graphic_, the _Illustrated London News_, _English Illustrated Magazine_, _Cornhill Magazine_, _Harper's Magazine_, _Westminster Gazette_, _St. James' Gazette_, the _British Weekly_ and the _Sporting Times_ for their kindness in allowing him to reproduce extracts and pictures in these volumes. ] CONTENTS. CHAPTER I. CONFESSIONS OF MY CHILDHOOD--AND AFTER. Introductory--Birth and Parentage--The Cause of my remaining a Caricaturist--The Schoolboys' _Punch_--Infant Prodigies--As a Student--I Start in Life--_Zozimus_--The Sullivan Brothers--Pigott--The Forger--The Irish "Pathriot"--Wood Engraving--Tom Taylor--The Wild West--Judy--Behind the Scenes--Titiens--My First and Last Appearance in a Play--My Journey to London--My Companion--A Coincidence _pp. _ 1-29 CHAPTER II. BOHEMIAN CONFESSIONS. I arrive in London--A Rogue and Vagabond--Two Ladies--Letters of Introduction--Bohemia--A Distinguished Member--My Double--A Rara Avis--The Duke of Broadacres--The Savages--A Souvenir--Portraits of the Past--J. L. Toole--Art and Artists--Sir Spencer Wells--John Pettie--Milton's Garden _pp. _ 30-53 CHAPTER III. MY CONFESSIONS AS A SPECIAL ARTIST. The Light Brigade--Miss Thompson (Lady Butler)--Slumming--The Boat Race--Realism--A Phantasmagoria--Orlando and the Caitiff--Fancy Dress Balls--Lewis Wingfield--Cinderella--A Model--All Night Sitting--An Impromptu Easel--"Where there's a Will there's a Way"--The American Sunday Papers--I am Deaf--The Grill--The World's Fair--Exaggeration--Personally Conducted--The Charnel House--10, Downing Street--I attend a Cabinet Council--An Illustration by Mr. Labouchere--The Great Lincolnshire Trial--Praying without Prejudice _pp. _ 54-87 CHAPTER IV. THE CONFESSIONS OF AN ILLUSTRATOR--A SERIOUS CHAPTER. Drawing--"Hieroglyphics"--Clerical Portraiture--A Commission from General Booth--In Search of Truth--Sir Walter Besant--James Payn--Why Theodore Hook was Melancholy--"Off with his Head"--Reformers' Tree--Happy Thoughts--Christmas Story--Lewis Carroll--The Rev. Charles Lutwidge Dodgson--Sir John Tenniel--The Challenge--Seven Years' Labour--A Puzzle MS. --Dodgson on Dress--Carroll on Drawing--Sylvie and Bruno--A Composite Picture--My Real Models--I am very Eccentric--My "Romps"--A Letter from du Maurier--Caldecott--Tableaux--Fine Feathers--Models--Fred Barnard--The Haystack--A Wicket Keeper--A Fair Sitter--Neighbours--The Post Office Jumble--Puzzling the Postmen--Writing Backwards--A Coincidence _pp. _ 88-130 CHAPTER V. A CHAT BETWEEN MY PEN AND PENCIL. What is Caricature?--Interviewing--Catching Caricatures--Pellegrini--The "Ha! Ha!"--Black and White _v. _ Paint--How to make a Caricature--M. P. 's--My System--Mr. Labouchere's Attitude--Do the Subjects Object?--Colour in Caricature--Caught!--A Pocket Caricature--The Danger of the Shirt-cuff--The Danger of a Marble Table--Quick Change--Advice to those about to Caricature _pp. _ 131--153 CHAPTER VI. PARLIAMENTARY CONFESSIONS. Gladstone and Disraeli--A Contrast--An unauthenticated Incident--Lord Beaconsfield's last Visit to the House of Commons--My Serious Sketch--Historical--Mr. Gladstone--His Portraits--What he thought of the Artists--Sir J. E. Millais--Frank Holl--The Despatch Boxes--Impressions--Disraeli--Dan O'Connell--Procedure--American Wit--Toys--Wine--Pressure--Sandwich Soirée--The G. O. M. Dines with "Toby, M. P. "--Walking--Quivering--My Desk--An Interview--Political Caricaturists--Signature in Sycamore--Scenes in the Commons--Joseph Gillis Biggar--My Double--Scenes--Divisions--Puck--Sir R. Temple--Charles Stewart Parnell--A Study--Quick Changes--His Fall--Room 15--The last Time I saw him--Lord Randolph Churchill--His Youth--His Height--His Fickleness--His Hair--His Health--His Fall--Lord Iddesleigh--Sir Stafford and Mr. Gladstone--Bradlaugh--His Youth--His Parents--His Tactics--His Fight--His Extinction--John Bright--Jacob Bright--Sir Isaac Holden--Lord Derby--A Political Prophecy--A Lucky Guess--My Confession in the _Times_--The Joke that Failed--The Seer--Fair Play--I deny being a Conservative--I am Encouraged--Chaff--Reprimanded--Misprinted--Misunderstood _pp. _ 154--214 CHAPTER VII. "PUNCH. " Two _Punch_ Editors--_Punch's_ Hump--My First _Punch_ Dinner--Charles Keene--"Robert"--W. H. Bradbury--du Maurier--"Kiki"--A Trip to the Place of his Birth--He Hates Me--A Practical Joke--du Maurier's Strange Model--No Sportsman--Tea--Appollinaris--My First Contribution--My Record--Parliament--Press Gallery Official--I Feel Small--The "Black Beetle"--Professor Rogers--Sergeant-at-Arms' Room--Styles of Work--Privileges--Dr. Percy--I Sit in the Table--The Villain of Art--The New Cabinet--Criticism--_Punch's_ Historical Cartoons--Darwen MacNeill--Scenes in the Lobby--A Technical Assault--John Burns's "Invention"--John Burns's Promise--John Burns's Insult--The Lay of Swift MacNeill--The Truth--Sir Frank Lockwood--"Grand Cross"--Lockwood's Little Sketch--Lockwood's Little Joke in the House--Lockwood's Little Joke at Dinner--Lewis Carroll and _Punch_--Gladstone's Head--Sir William's Portrait--Ciphers--Reversion--_Punch_ at Play--Three _Punch_ Men in a Boat--Squaring up--Two Pins Club--Its One Joke--Its One Horse--Its Mystery--Artistic Duties--Lord Russell--Furious Riding--Before the Beak--Burnand and I in the Saddle--Caricaturing Pictures for _Punch_--Art under Glass--Arthur Cecil--My Other Eye--The Ridicule that Kills--Red Tape--_Punch_ in Prison--I make a Mess of it--Waterproof--"I used your Soap two years ago"--Charles Keene--Charles Barber--_Punch's_ Advice--_Punch's_ Wives _pp. _ 215--302 [Illustration: HARRY FURNISS'S (EGYPTIAN STYLE). _From "Punch. "_] LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. PAGE My Caricature of Mr. Gladstone _Frontispiece_ Initial "In. " Writing my Confessions. A Visitor's Snapshot 1 My Mother 3 My Father 5 Harry Furniss, aged 10 6 A Caricature, made when a Boy (never published). Dublin Exhibition. Portrait of Sir A. Guinness (now Lord Iveagh) in centre 11 An Early Illustration on Wood by Harry Furniss. Partly Engraved by him. 16 Sketches in Galway 19 "Judy, " the Galway Dwarf 23 Phelps, the first Actor I saw 24 Mrs. Hardcastle. Mr. Harry Furniss. From an Early Sketch 25 Caricature of Myself, drawn when I first arrived in London 30 Age 20 35 A successful "Make-Up" 36 Two Travellers 38 The Duke of "Broadacres" 40 Savage Club House Dinner. From a Sketch by Herbert Johnson 41 The Earl of Dunraven as a Savage 42 "Another Gap in Our Ranks" 43 "Jope" 43 H. J. Byron 44 A Presentation 45 Savage Club. My Design for the Menu, 25th Anniversary Dinner 47 "Savages" 50 Letter from Sir Spencer Wells 51 Distress in the Black Country 54 At the Oxford and Cambridge Boat Race 55 As Special at the Balaclava Celebration 57 Distress in the North 59 Realism! 61 "The Caitiff" and Orlando 62 An Invitation 63 At a Fancy Dress Ball 65 Lewis Wingfield as a Street Nigger Home from the Derby 67 "The Liberal Candidate" 68 Sketches at the Liverpool Election: A Ward Meeting 69 My Easel. Drawing Mr. Gladstone at a Public Meeting 71 The American Sunday Papers 72 Major Handy 74 The World's Fair, Chicago. A "Special's" Visit 75 "On dashed the Horses in their wild Career" 77 Initial "A" 79 The Charnel-House. Chicago World's Fair 80 Initial "London" 83 The Bishop of Lincoln's Trial 85 Initial "If" 88 Majuba Hill 89 Canon Liddon. A Sketch from Life 92 Letter from Sir Walter Besant 94 The Late Sir Walter Besant 95 The "Jetty" 95 Illustration for "The Talk of the Town" 96 "That's just what I have done!" 98 Specimen of James Payn's Writing 99 The Typical Lovers in Illustrated Novels 100 Initial "T" 101 Instructions in a Letter from Lewis Carroll 103 Specimen of Lewis Carroll's Drawing and Writing 106 Original Sketch by Lewis Carroll of his Charming Hero and Heroine 107 Lewis Carroll's Note to me or a Pathetic Picture 108 Sylvie and Bruno. My Original Drawing for Lewis Carroll 110 I Go Mad! 111 From Lewis Carroll 112 "I do want a Wicket-keeper!" 113 Portion of Letter from Lawrence, age 9 114 Reduction from a Design for my "Romps" 115 Portion of a Letter from George du Maurier 117 A Transformation 119 "Yours always, Barnard" 119 Barnard and the Models 120 "I sit for 'Ands, Sir" 121 The Grand Old Hand and the Young 'Un 122 My Fighting Double 124 Specimen of Mr. Linley Sambourne's Envelopes to me 125 Cheque for 5-1/2d. Passed through two Banks and paid. I signed it _backwards_, and it was cancelled by Clerk _backwards_ 127 Sir Henry Irving writes his Name backwards 128 Sir Henry Irving's Attempt 128 Mr. J. L. Toole's first Attempt 128 Mr. J. L. Toole's second Attempt 128 Autograph: Harry Furniss 129 Initial "If" 131 The Studio of a Caricaturist 132 Caricature of me by my Daughter, age 15 134 A serious Portrait--from Life 135 Initial "H" 136 "Penguin" 139 Mr. Brown, Ordinary Attire. Court Dress 139 Two Portraits 140 A Caricature 140 _Not_ a Caricature 140 The Editor of _Punch_ sits for his Portrait 144 A Model unawares and the Result 145 Sketch on a Shirt-Cuff 146 "Mundella" 147 Mr. Labouchere 149 The M. P. Real and Ideal 150 The Photo. As he really is 151 "Dizzy" (Beaconsfield) and Gladstone 154 The Inner Lobby of the House of Commons 156 Explanation to Illustration on page 156 157 Lord Beaconsfield. A Sketch from Life 158 The last Visit of Lord Beaconsfield to the House 161 Mr. Gladstone. A Sketch from Life 163 Mr. Gladstone "under his Flow of Eloquence" 165 Mr. Gladstone. Conventional Portrait 167 Caricature of the Holl Portrait 169 Note of Mr. Gladstone made in the Press Gallery with the wrong end of a Quill Pen 171 Invitation to a "Sandwich Soirée" 173 Mr. Gladstone sits on the Floor 174 The Fragment of _Punch_ Mr. Gladstone did not see 175 The Gladstone Matchbox 176 Mr. Gladstone's Collars 178 Parnell 179 To Room 15 182 Outside Room 15 183 Outside my Room 185 "The G. O. M. " and "Randy" 185 Mr. Louis Jennings 186 Lord Randolph and Louis Jennings 188 Lord Randolph Churchill 189 Behind the Speaker's Chair 190 Initial "S" 191 Initial "H" 193 Bradlaugh Triumphant. _From "Punch"_ 194 Charles Bradlaugh 195 The Meet at St. Stephen's 197 Sir George Campbell 199 Heraldic Design illustrating Mr. Plunkett's (now Lord Rathmore) Joke 201 Mr. Farmer Atkinson 202 I must Introduce you to Lucy. Here he is 203 Joseph Gillis Biggar 204 Initial "I" 206 The House of Commons from Toby's Private Box 208 The Government Bench--before Home Rule 211 Reduction of one of my Parliamentary Pages in _Punch_ 214 Initial "T" 215 Age 26, when I first worked for _Punch_ 216 My first Meeting with the Editor of _Punch_ 217 My first Invitation from _Punch_ 218 A Letter from Charles Keene, objecting to an Editor interviewing him 219 "Robert" 220 George du Maurier 221 Suggestion by du Maurier for _Punch_ Cartoon 224 Du Maurier's Souvenir de Fontainebleau. _From "Punch_" 225 _Punch_ Staff returning from Paris 227 Japanese Style 229 "Birch--His Mark" 231 Chinese Style. From a Drawing on Wood 232 Familiar Faces 234 An Official in the Press Gallery 235 "He spies me" 236 "What are you?" 236 "Blowed if the Country wants you" 238 "I feel smaller!" 241 The Black Beetle 242 The Sergeant-at-Arms' Room 243 Capt. Gosset, late Sergeant-at-Arms 244 My "Childish" Style in _Punch_ 245 A simple Document 246 I Sketch the House 247 Dr. Percy. "The House Up" 250 Mr. Punch's Puzzle-Headed People. Mr. Goschen 251 Mr. Punch's Puzzle-Headed People. "All Harcourts" 252 The New Cabinet 255 Reduction of Page in _Punch_, showing that my Caricatures were--in this case--published too large 258 Reduction from the Original Drawing, showing that I gave Instructions for the Caricature to be "reduced as usual" 259 What really happened 261 Dr. Tanner 262 Assault on me in the House. What the Press described 263 John Burns 265 Note from Sir Frank Lockwood, after reading the Bogus Account of the "Assault" 266 Letter supposed to come from Lord Cross. (Lockwood's Joke) 267 Sir F. Lockwood 269 Lewis Carroll's Suggestion, and my sketch of it in _Punch_ 270 Nature's Puzzle Portrait 271 Initial "W" 272 "Three Oarsmen under a Tree" 273 Lord Russell's Acceptance to dine with me 275 "It's your Turn next" 277 Letter from Sir Frank Lockwood 277 Mr. Linley Sambourne 278 Portrait of me as a Member of the Two Pins Club, by Linley Sambourne 279 The late Lord Russell, the President of the Two Pins Club 280 "Furious Riding. " Sketch by F. C. Gould 282 My Portrait, by F. C. Burnand 285 Mr. Punch "doing" the Picture Shows 286 The Picture Shows. Design from _Punch_ 288 "The World-Renowned and Talented Barnardo Family" 289 The Great Baccarat Case. My Sketch in Pencil made in Court, and Congratulatory Note from the Editor of _Punch_ 291 Letter from Professor Herkomer 293 A Prisoner 294 "Good Advertisement. " Original Idea as sent to me 297 Ditto. My Drawing of it in _Punch_ 297 "English Waterproof Ink" 299 I sit for John Brown 300 A Crib by an American Advertiser 301 Finis 302 CONFESSIONS OF A CARICATURIST. CHAPTER I. CONFESSIONS OF MY CHILDHOOD--AND AFTER. Introductory--Birth and Parentage--The Cause of my remaining a Caricaturist--The Schoolboys' _Punch_--Infant Prodigies--As a Student--I Start in Life--_Zozimus_--The Sullivan Brothers--Pigott--The Forger--The Irish "Pathriot"--Wood Engraving--Tom Taylor--The Wild West--Judy--Behind the Scenes--Titiens--My First and Last Appearance in a Play--My Journey to London--My Companion--A Coincidence. [Illustration] In offering the following pages to the public, I should like it to beknown that no interviewer has extracted them from me by the thumbscrewof a morning call, nor have they been wheedled out of me by the caressesof those iron-maidens of literature, the publishers. For the most partthey have been penned in odd half-hours as I sat in my easy-chair in thesolitude of my studio, surrounded by the aroma of the post-prandialcigarette. I would also at the outset warn those who may purchase this work in theexpectation of finding therein the revelations of a caricaturist'sChamber of Horrors, that they will be disappointed. Some day I may betempted to bring forth my skeletons from the seclusion of theircupboards and strip my mummies, taking certain familiar figures andfaces to pieces and exposing not only the jewels with which they werepacked away, but all those spicy secrets too which are so relished byscandal-loving readers. At present, however, I am in an altogether lighter and more genial vein. My confessions up to date are of a purely personal character, and like aliterary Liliputian I am placing myself in the hand of that colossalGulliver the Public. I may, it is true, in the course of my remarks be led to retaliate tosome extent upon those who have had the hardihood to assert that allcaricaturists ought, in the interest of historical accuracy, to beshipped on board an unseaworthy craft and left in the middle of theChannel, for the crime of handing down to posterity distorted images ofthose now in the land of the living. This I feel bound to do inself-defence, as well as in the cause of truth, for to judge by thebiographical sketches of myself which continually appear and reach methrough the medium of a press-cutting agency, caricaturists asdistorters of features are not so proficient as authors as distorters offacts. I think it best therefore to begin by giving as briefly as possible anauthentic outline of my early career. For the benefit of anyone who may not feel particularly interested insuch details, I should mention that the narration of this plainunvarnished tale extends from this line to page 29. I was born in Ireland, in the town of Wexford, on March 26th, 1854. I donot, however, claim, to be an Irishman. My father was a typicalEnglishman, hailing from Yorkshire, and not in his appearance only, butin his tastes and sympathies, he was an unmistakable John Bull. Byprofession he was a civil engineer, and he migrated to Ireland someyears before I was born, having been invited to throw some light uponthat "benighted counthry" by designing and superintending the erectionof gas works in various towns and cities. My mother was Scotch. My great-great-grandfather was a captain in thePretender's army at Culloden, and had a son, Angus, who settled inAberdeen. When Æneas MacKenzie, my grandfather, was born, his familymoved south and settled in Newcastle-on-Tyne. A local biographer writesof him: "A man who by dint of perseverance and self-denial acquired morelearning than ninety-nine in a hundred ever got at a university--anaccomplished and most trustworthy writer. The real founder of theNewcastle Mechanics' Institute, and the leader of the group ofPhilosophical Radicals who made not a little stir in the North ofEngland at the beginning of the last century. " He was not only abenevolent, active member of society and an ardent politician (JosephCowen received his earliest impressions from him--and never forgot hisindebtedness), but the able historian of Northumberland, Durham, and ofNewcastle itself, a town in which he spent his life and his energies. IfI possess any hereditary aptitude for journalism, it is to him I owe it;whilst to my mother, who at a time when miniature painting wasfashionable, cultivated the natural artistic taste with much success, Iam directly indebted for such artistic faculties as are innate in me. [Illustration] My family moved from Wexford to Dublin when I was ten. It is pleasant toknow they left a good impression. In Miss Mary Banim's account ofIreland I find the following reference to these aliens in Wexford, whichI must allow my egotism to transcribe: "Many are the kindly memoriesthat remain in Wexford of this warm-hearted, gifted family, who are saidnot only to be endowed with rare talents, but, better still, with thosequalities that endear people to those they meet in daily intercourse. "The flattering adjectives with which the remarks about myself aresandwiched prevent my modest nature from quoting any more. However, asone does not remember much of that period of their life before theyreach their teens I need not apologise for quoting from the same workthis reference to me at that age: "One who was his playmate--he is still a young man--describes Mr. Furniss as very small of stature, full of animation and merriment, constantly amusing himself and his friends with clever[!] reproductionsof each humorous character or scene that met his eye in theever-fruitful gallery of living art--gay, grotesque, pathetic, evenbeautiful--that the streets and outlets of such a town as Wexfordpresent to a quick eye and a ready pencil. " I can appreciate the fact that at that early age I had an eye for the"pathetic, and even beautiful, " but, alas! I have been misunderstoodfrom the day of my birth. I used to sit and study the heavens before Icould walk, and my nurse, a wise and shrewd woman, predicted that Ishould become a great astronomer; but instead of the works of Herschelbeing put into my hands, I was satiated with the vilest comic toy books, and deluged with the frivolous nursery literature now happily a thing ofthe past. At odd times my old leaning towards serious reflection andambition for high art come over me, but there is a fatality which dogsmy footsteps and always at the critical moment ruins my hopes. It is indeed strange how slight an incident may alter the whole courseof one's life, as will be seen from the following instance, which Iinsert here although it took place some years after the period to whichI am now alluding. The scene was Antwerp, to which I was paying my first visit, and where Iwas, like all artists, very much impressed and delighted with thecathedral of the quaint old place. The afternoon was merging intoevening as I entered the sacred building, and the broad amber rays ofthe setting sun glowed amid the stately pillars and deepened the shadowyglamour of the solemn aisles. As I gazed on the scene of grandeur I feltprofoundly moved by the picturesque effect, and the following morningdiscovered me hard at work upon a most elaborate study of the beautifulcarved figures upon the confessional boxes. I had just laid out mypalette preparatory to painting that picture which would of course makemy name and fortune, when a hoarse and terribly British guffaw at myelbow startled me, and turning round I encountered some acquaintances towhom the scene seemed to afford considerable amusement. One of them wasgood enough to remark that to have come all the way to Antwerp to find acaricaturist painting the confessional boxes in the cathedral wascertainly the funniest thing he had ever heard of, and thereuponinsisted upon dragging me off to dine with him, a proposition to which Iimmediately assented, feeling far more foolish than I could possiblyhave looked. I may add that as the sun that evening dipped beneath thewestern horizon, so vanished the visions of high art by which I had beeninspired, and thus it is that Michael Angelo Vandyck Correggio RaphaelFurniss lies buried in Antwerp Cathedral. Strangely enough I came acrossthe following paragraph some years afterwards: "The guides of AntwerpCathedral point out a grotesque in the wood carving of the choir whichresembles almost exactly the head of Mr. Gladstone, as depicted by HarryFurniss. " [Illustration: MY FATHER. ] My earliest recollections are altogether too modern to be of muchinterest. Crimean heroes were veterans when they, as guests at myfather's table, fought their battles o'er again. The _Great Eastern_steamship was quite an old white elephant of the sea when I, held up inmy nurse's arms, saw Brunel's blunder pass Greenore Point. I was hardlyeligible for "Etons" when our present King was married. When first takento church I was most interested, as standing on tiptoe on the seat inour square family pew, and peering into the next pew, I saw a younggoverness, at that moment the most talked-of woman in Great Britain, theniece of the notorious poisoner Palmer. She had just returned from thecondemned cell, having made that scoundrel confess his crime, and therewas more pleasure in the sight than in listening to the good old RectorElgee who had christened me, or in seeing his famous daughter thepoetess "Speranza, " otherwise known as Lady Wilde. In the newspaper shop windows--always an attraction to me--the colouredportrait of Garibaldi was fly-blown, the pictures of the great fightbetween Sayers and Heenan were illustrations of ancient history, and inthe year I was born _Punch_ published his twenty-sixth volume. [Illustration: HARRY FURNISS, AGED 10. ] Leaving Wexford before the railway there was opened, my parents removedto the metropolis of Ireland, and I went to school in Dublin at the ageof twelve. It was at the Wesleyan Connexional School, now known as theWesleyan College, St. Stephen's Green, that I struggled through my firstpages of Cæsar and stumbled over the "pons asinorum, " and here I mustmention that although the Wesleyan College bears the name of the greatreligious reformer, a considerable number of the boys who studiedthere--myself included--were in no way connected with the Wesleyan body. I merely say this because I have seen it stated more than once that I ama Wesleyan, and as this little sketch professes to be an authenticaccount of myself, I wish it to be correct, however trivial my remarksmay seem to the general reader. It is in the same spirit that I havedisclaimed the honour of being an Irishman. Once upon a time, when I was a very little boy, I remember being verymuch impressed by a heading in my copybook which ran: "He who can learnto write, can learn to draw. " Now this was putting the cart before thehorse, so far as my experience had gone, for I could most certainly drawbefore I could write, and had not only become an editor long before Iwas fit to be a contributor, but was also a publisher before I had evenseen a printing press. In fact, I was but a little urchin inknickerbockers when I brought out a periodical--in MS. It is true--ofwhich the ambitious title was "The Schoolboys' _Punch. _" The ingenuoussimplicity with which I am universally credited by all who know me nowhad not then, I fancy, obtained complete possession of me. I must havebeen artful, designing, diplomatic, almost Machiavellian; for anxious tocurry favour with the head master of my school, I resolved to use thecolumns of "The Schoolboys' _Punch_" not so much in the interest of theschoolboy world as to attract the head master's favourable notice to theeditor. Accordingly, the first cartoon I drew for the paper was speciallydesigned with this purpose in view, and I need scarcely say it washighly complimentary to the head master. He was represented in aPoole-made suit of perfectly-fitting evening dress, and the trousers, Iremember, were particularly free from the slightest wrinkle, and musthave been extremely uncomfortable to the wearer. This tailorishimpossibility was matched by the tiny patent boots which encased thegreat man's small and exquisitely moulded feet. I furnished him with apair of dollish light eyes, with long eyelashes carefully drawn in, andas a masterstroke threw in the most taper-shaped waist. The subject of the picture, I flattered myself, was selected with nolittle cleverness and originality. A celebrated conjuror who hadrecently exposed the frauds of the Davenport Brothers was at the momentcreating a sensation in the town where the school was situated, and fromthat incident I determined to draw my inspiration. The magnitude of thedesign and the importance of the occasion seemed to demand adouble-paged cartoon. On one side I depicted a hopelessly scared littleschoolboy, not unlike myself at the time, tightly corded in a cabinet, which represented the school, with trailing Latin roots, heavy Greekexercises, and chains of figures. The door, supposed to be closed onthis distressing but necessary situation, is observed in the oppositecartoon to be majestically thrown open by the beaming and consciouslysuccessful head master, in order to allow a young college student, thepink of scholastic perfection, to step out, loaded with learning andacademical honours. "Great events from little causes spring!"--great, at least, to me. Sowell was my juvenile effort received, that it is not too much to say itdecided my future career. Had my subtle flattery taken the shape of awritten panegyric upon the head master in lieu of a cartoon, it ispossible that I might, had I met with equal success, have devoted myselfto journalism and literature; but from that day forward I clung to thepencil, and in a few years was regularly contributing "cartoons" topublic journals, and practising the profession I have ever sincepursued. Drawing, in fact, seemed to come to me naturally and intuitively. Thiswas well for me, for small indeed was the instruction I received. Irecollect that a German governess, who professed, among other things, toteach drawing, undertook to cultivate my genius; but I derived littlebenefit from her unique system, as it consisted in placing over thepaper the drawing to be copied, and pricking the leading points with apin, after which, the copy being removed, the lines were drawn from onepoint to another. The copies were of course soon perforated beyondrecognition, and, although I warmly protested against this sacrilege ofart, she explained that it was by that system that Albert Dürer had beentaught. This, of course, accounts for our having infant prodigies inart, as well as music and the drama. The rapidity with which MasterHoffmann was followed by infantile Lizsts and little Otto Hegner as soonas it became apparent that there was a demand for such phenomena, seemsto indicate that in music at all events supply will follow demand as amatter of course, and if the infant artist can only be "crammed" indaubing on canvas as youthful musicians are in playing on the piano, then perhaps a new sensation is in store for the artistic world, and weshall see babies executing replicas of the old masters, and the InfantSlapdash painter painting the portraits of Society beauties. As awelcome relief to Chopin's Nocturne in D flat, played by Baby Hegner atSt. James's Hall, we shall step across to Bond Street and behold "LePetit Américain" dashing off his "Nocturne" on canvas. I sometimeswonder if I might have been made such an infant art prodigy, but when Iwas a lad public taste was not in its second childhood in matters of artpatronage, nor was the forcing of children practised in the same manneras it is nowadays. Naturally enough I did not altogether escape the thraldom of thedrawing-master, and as years went on I made a really serious effort tostudy at an art school under the Kensington system, which I must confessI believe to be positively prejudicial to a young artist possessingimagination and originality. The late Lord Beaconsfield made one of hischaracters in "Lothair" declare that "critics are those who have failedin literature and art. " Whether this is true as to the art critics, orthat the dramatic critic is generally a disappointed playwright, it mustin truth be said that drawing-masters are nearly always those who havefailed in art. I can remember one gentleman who was the especial terrorof my youth. I can see him now going his rounds along the chillycorridor, where, perhaps, one had been placed to draw something "fromthe flat. " After years and years of practice at this rubbish, he wouldhalt beside you, look at your work in a perfunctory manner, and with adexterity which appalled you until you reflected that he had been doingthe same thing exactly, and nothing else, for perhaps a decade, he woulddraw in a section of a leaf, and if, as in my case, you happened to havea pretty sister attending the ladies' class in the school, he would addleaf to leaf until your whole paper was covered with his mechanicalhandiwork, in order to have a little extra conversation with you, although, I need scarcely add, it was not exclusively confined to thesubject of art. This sort of thing was called "instruction in freehand drawing, " and hadto be endured and persisted in for months and months. Freehand! Shade ofApelles! What is there free in squinting and measuring, and feeblytouching in and fiercely rubbing out a collection of stragglingmechanical pencil lines on a piece of paper pinned on to a hard board, which after a few weeks becomes nothing but a confused jumble offingermarks? Had I an Art School I would treat my students according to theirindividual requirements, just as a doctor treats his patients. I am ledhere to repeat what I have already observed in one of my lectures, thatfor the young the pill of knowledge should be silver-coated, and thatwhile they are being instructed they should also be amused. In otherwords, interest your pupils, do not depress them. Giotto did not beginby rigidly elaborating a drawing of the crook of his shepherd's stafffor weeks together; his drawings upon the sand and upon the flat stoneswhich he found on the hillsides are said to have been of the picturesquesheep he tended, and all the interesting and fascinating objects thatmet his eye. Then, when his hand had gained practice, he was able todraw that perfect circle which he sent to the Pope as a proof of hiscommand of hand. But the truth is that we begin at the wrong end, andtry to make our boys draw a perfect circle before they are in love withdrawing at all. For my part, I had to endure some weeks of wearystruggling with a cone and ball and other chilly objects, the effect ofwhich was to fill my mind with an overwhelming sense of the drearinessof art education under the Kensington system. A short time, therefore, sufficed to disgust me with the Art School, and I preferred to stay athome caricaturing my relatives, educating myself, and practising alonethe rudiments of my art. [Illustration: A CARICATURE, MADE WHEN A BOY (NEVER PUBLISHED). DUBLINEXHIBITION. PORTRAIT OF SIR A. GUINNESS (NOW LORD IVEAGH) IN CENTRE. ] Early in my teens, however, I was invited to join the Life School of theHibernian Academy, as there happened to be a paucity of students at thatinstitution, and in order to secure the Government grant it wasnecessary to bring them up to the required number. But here also therewas no idea of proper teaching. Some fossilised member of the Academywould stand about roasting his toes over the stove. A recollection of afair specimen of the body still haunts me. He used to roll round theeasels, and you became conscious of his approaching presence by anaroma of onions. I believe he was a landscape painter, and saw no morebeauty in the female form divine than in a haystack. It was his customto take up a huge piece of charcoal and come down upon one of yourdelicately drawn pencil lines of a figure with a terrible stroke aboutan inch wide. "There, me boy, " he would exclaim, "that's what it wants, " and walk on, leaving you in doubt upon which side of the line you had drawn heintended his alteration to come. I soon decided to have my own models and study for myself, and thispractice I have maintained to the present day. I really don't know whatMrs. Grundy would have said if she had known that at this early age Iwas drawing Venuses from the life, instead of tinting the illustrationsto "Robinson Crusoe" or "Gulliver's Travels" in my playroom at home. Few imagine that a caricaturist requires models to draw from. Although Iwill not further digress at this point, I may perhaps be pardoned if Ireturn later on in this book to the explanation of my _modusoperandi_--a subject which, if I may judge from the number of letters Ireceive about it, is likely to prove of interest to a large number of myreaders. It was when I was still quite a boy that my first great chance came. Being in Dublin, I was asked one day by my friend the late Mr. A. M. Sullivan to make some illustrations for a paper called _Zozimus_, ofwhich he was the editor and founder. As a matter of fact, _Zozimus_ wasthe Irish _Punch_. Mr. Sullivan, who was a Nationalist, and a man ofexceptional energy and ability, began life as an artist. He came toDublin, I was told, as a very young man, and began to paint; but thesails of his ships were pronounced to be far too yellow, the seas onwhich the vessels floated were derided as being far too green, while theskies above them were scoffed at as being far too blue. In these adversecircumstances, then, the artist soon drifted into journalism, and, inducing his brothers to join him in his new venture, thenceforth tookup the pen and abandoned the brush. Each member of the family became awell-known figure in Parliamentary life. Mr. T. D. Sullivan, the poet ofthe Irish Party, is still a well-known figure in the world of politics;but my friend Mr. A. M. Sullivan, who died some years ago, belongedrather to the more moderate _régime_ which prevailed in the Irish Partyduring the leadership of Mr. Butt. At the time when I first made his acquaintance he was the editor andmoving spirit of the _Nation_. It was a curious office, and I can recallmany whom I first met there who have since come more or less prominentlyto the front in public life. There was Mr. Sexton, whom my friend "Toby"has since christened "Windbag Sexton" in his Parliamentary reports. Mr. Sexton then presided over the scissors and paste department of thejournals owned by Mr. A. M. Sullivan, and, unlike the posing orator heafterwards became, was at that early stage of his career of a verymodest and retiring disposition. Mr. Leamy also, I think, was connectedwith the staff, while Mr. Dennis Sullivan superintended the sale of thepapers in the publishing department. But the central figure in the office was unquestionably the editor andproprietor, Mr. A. M. Sullivan. His personality was of itselfremarkable. Possessed of wonderful energy and nerve, he was a confirmedteetotaller, and his prominent eyes, beaming with intelligence, seemedalmost to be starting from his head as, intent upon some project, hedarted about the office, ever and anon checking his erratic movements togive further directions to his subordinates, when he had a funny habitof placing his hand on his mouth and blowing his moustache through hisfingers, much to the amusement of his listeners, and to my astonishment, as I stood modestly in a corner of the editorial sanctum observing withawe the great Mr. Sexton, who, amid the distractions of scissors andpaste, would drawl out a sentence or two in a voice strongly resemblingthe sarcastic tones of Mr. Labouchere. In another part of the office sat Mr. T. D. Sullivan, the poetaforesaid, who, like his brother, is a genial and kindly man at heart, although possessing the volcanic temperament characteristic of hisfamily. There he sat--a poet with a large family--his hair dishevelled, his trousers worked by excitement halfway up his calves, emittingvarious stertorous sounds after the manner of his brother, as hesavagely tore open the recently-arrived English newspapers. Such was theinterior of the office of the _Nation_, the representative organ of themost advanced type of the National Press of Ireland. But _Zozimus_, the paper to which I was then contributing, had nothingin common with the rest of the publications issuing from that office. Itwas of a purely social character, and was a praiseworthy attempt to dosomething of a more artistic nature than the coarsely-conceived andcoarsely-executed National cartoons which were the only specimens ofillustrative art produced in Ireland. Fortunately for me, there was aneffort made in Dublin just then to produce a better class ofpublications, and the result was that I began to get fairly busy, although it was merely a wave of artistic energy, which did not lastlong, but soon subsided into that dead level of mediocrity which doesnot appear likely to be again disturbed. I was now in my seventeenth year, and, intent on making as much hay aspossible the while the sun shone, I accepted every kind of work that wasoffered me; and a strange medley it was. Religious books, medical works, scientific treatises, scholastic primers and story books afforded inturn illustrative material for my pencil. One week I was engaged upondesigns for the most advanced Catholic and Jesuitical manuals, and thenext upon similar work for a Protestant prayer-book. At one moment itseemed as if I were destined to achieve fame as an artist of theambulance corps and the dissecting-room. One of my earliestdreams--which I attribute to the fact that my eldest brother, with whomI had much in common, was a doctor--had been to adopt the medicalprofession. Curiously enough, my brother also had a taste forcaricaturing, and, like the illustrious John Leech in his medicalstudent days, he was wont to embellish his notes in the hospitallecture-room with pictorial _jeux d'esprit_ of a livelier cast thanthose for which scope is usually afforded by the discourses of thelearned Mr. Sawbones. I remember that about this period a leading surgeon was anxious that Ishould devote myself to the pursuit of this anything but pleasant formof art, and seriously proposed that I should draw and paint for him someof his surgical cases. I accepted his offer without hesitation, and, burning to distinguish myself as an anatomical expert with the brush, Igave instruction to our family butcher to send me, as a model to studyfrom, a kidney, which was to be the acme of goriness and as repulsive inappearance as possible. Of this piece of uncooked meat I made a quitepre-Raphaelite study in water-colours, but so realistic was the resultthat the effect it had upon me was the very antithesis to what Ianticipated, disgusting me to such an extent that I not only declined topursue further anatomical illustration, but for years afterwards wasquite unable to touch a kidney, although I believe that had I selected acalf's head or a sucking-pig for my maiden effort in this direction, Imight by now have blossomed into a Rembrandt or a Landseer. [Illustration: AN EARLY ILLUSTRATION ON WOOD BY HARRY FURNISS. PARTLYENGRAVED BY HIM. ] Amongst other incidents which occurred during this period of my life wasone which it now almost makes me shudder to think of. I was commissionedby no less a personage than the late Mr. Pigott, of Parnell Commissionnotoriety, to illustrate for him a story of the broadest Irish humour. Little did I think when I entered his office in Abbey Street, Dublin, and had an interview with the genial and pleasant-looking little manwith the eye-glass, that he would one day play so prominent a _rôle_ inthe Parliamentary drama, or that the weak little arm he extended to mewas destined years afterwards to be the instrument of a tragedy. I cantruly say, at all events, my recollection as a boy of sixteen of thegreat _Times_ forger is by no means unfavourable, and he dwells in mymemory as one of the most pleasant and genial of men. I ought, perhaps, to say that in feeling I was anything but a Nationalist, because inIreland, generally speaking, you must be either black or white. But likea lawyer who takes his brief from every source, I never studied who myclients were when they required my juvenile services. Although I was not of Irish parentage and did not lean towardsNationalism in politics, it was necessary to sympathise now and thenwith the down-trodden race. For instance, I remember that one evening arespectable-looking mechanic called at my fathers house and requested tosee me. His manner was strange and mysterious, and as he wanted to seeme alone, I took him into an anteroom, where, with my hand on the doorhandle and the other within easy distance of the bell, I asked theexcitable-looking stranger the nature of his business. Pulling from hispocket a roll of one-pound Irish bank-notes, he thrust them into myhand, and besought me at the same time not to refuse the request he wasabout to make. An idea flashed through my mind that perhaps he had seenme coming out of the offices of the National Press, and had jumped tothe conclusion that I could therefore be bought over to perpetrate someterrible political crime. I even imagined that in the roll of notes Ishould find the knife with which the fell deed had to be done. Seeingthat I shrank from him, he seized hold of my arm, and, in a mostpitiable voice, said: "Don't, young sorr, refuse me what I am about to ask you. I'm only aworking man, but here are all my savings, which you may take if you willjust dhraw me a picter to be placed at the top of a complete set ofphotographs of our Irish leaders. I want Britannia at the head of thegroup, a bastely dhrunken old hag, wid her fut on the throat of thebeautiful Erin, who is to be bound hand and fut wid chains, and beingbaten and starved. Thin I want prisons at the sides, showing the grandsons of Ould Oireland dying in their cells by torture, whilst a fineOirish liberator wid dhrawn sword is just on the point of killingBritannia outright, and so saving his disthressful country. " About this time someone had been good enough to inform me that all blackand white artists are in the habit of engraving their own work, and, religiously believing this, I duly provided myself with some engravingtools, bought some boxwood, a jeweller's eye-glass, and a sand bag, without which no engraver's table can be said to be complete. Then, setting to work to practise the difficult art, I struggled on asbest I could, until one fine day a professional engraver enlightened meupon the matter. I need scarcely say he went into fits of laughter whenI told him that every artist was expected to be a Bewick, and he pointedout to me that not only do artists as a rule know very little aboutengraving, but in addition they have often only a limited knowledge ofhow to draw for engravers. However, thinking I should better understand the difficulties of drawingfor publishers if I first mastered the technical art of reproduction, with the assistance of the engraver aforesaid I rapidly acquiredsufficient dexterity with the tools to engrave my own drawings, and thisI continued to do until I left Dublin, at the age of nineteen. Sincethen I have never utilised one of my gravers, except to pick a lock oropen a box of sardines. Nor is this to be wondered at, considering thatone can make a drawing in an hour which takes a week to engrave, andthat an engraver may take five guineas for his share of the work whilstan artist may get fifty. There is very little doubt, therefore, as tothe reason why artists who can draw refrain from engraving their ownwork. [Illustration: SKETCHES IN GALWAY. _Republished by permission of the proprietors of the "Illustrated LondonNews. "_] In the studio of the engraver to whom I have above referred there hung ahuge map of London, and as I used to pore over it I took many animaginary walk down Fleet Street, many a canter in the Row, and many avoyage to Greenwich on a penny steamboat, before I bade adieu to "deardirty Dublin" in the year 1873, and, as many have done before me, arrived in the "little village" in search of fame and wealth. Just prior to my leaving Ireland for the land of my parents I met noless an editor than Tom Taylor, who was then the presiding genius of the_Punch_ table, and he gave me every encouragement to hasten mymigration. He, however, had just returned from the wilds of Connemara, and before setting my face in the direction of Holyhead he stronglyadvised me also to pay a visit to the trackless wastes of the Westerncountry, for the purpose of committing to paper the lineaments of thenatives indigenous to the soil. This I did a week or so before quittingthe land of my birth, and the sketches I made upon that occasion formedpart of my stock-in-trade when I arrived in London. After making the accompanying page of studies, I strolled along the bankof the river; and while sketching some men breaking stones an incidenthappened which first aroused me to the fact that the lot of thesketching artist is not always a happy one. A fiend in human shape--anoverbearing overseer--came up at the moment, and roundly abused thepoor labourers for taking the "base Saxon's" coin. Inciting them tobelieve that I was a special informer from London, he laughed on mydeclaring that I was merely a novice, and informed me that I ought to be"dhrounded. " He was about to suit the action to the word and pitch meinto the salmon-stuffed river when he was stopped by the mediation of mymodels, and I escaped from the grip of the agitator. In due course Ifound myself in the Claddagh, a village of mud huts, which formed thefrontispiece by John Leech to "A Little Tour in Ireland" by "AnOxonian, " "a village of miserable cabins, the walls of mud and stone, and for the most part windowless, the floors damp and dirty, and theroofs a mass of rotten straw and weeds. " Pigs and fowls mixed up withboats and fish refuse. Women old, dried and ugly; girls young, dark, ofSpanish type, scantily dressed in bright-coloured short garments, alltattered and torn; and children grotesque beyond description. I sketchthree members of one family clothed (!) in the three articles of attirediscarded by their father--one claimed the coat, another the trousers, whilst the third had only a waistcoat. No doubt Leech had seen the samesixteen years before, when he was there; and if "the Oxonian, " whosurvives him--Canon Hole, of Rochester--were to make another little tourin Ireland, he would find the Claddagh still a spot to give anEnglishman "a new sensation. " All I can say is, that having escaped a"dhrouning" in the river when in Galway in 1873, I have visited manycountries and seen much filth and misery, but I have seen nothingapproaching the sad squalor of the wild West of Ireland. The majority of those I sketched were hardly human. Tom Taylor wasright--"I would find such characters there not to be found in all theworld over, " and I haven't. The people got on my overstrung youthfulnerves. I left the country the moment I had sufficient material for mysketches. I had shaken off the unpleasant feeling of being murdered inthe river. I had survived living a week or two in the worst inns in theworld. I had risked typhoid and every other disease fostered by theinsanitary surroundings--for I had to hide myself in narrow turnings andobnoxious corners so as to sketch unseen, as the religion of the nativesopposed any attempt to have themselves "dhrawn, " believing that thedestruction of their "pictur'" would be fatal to their souls! I hadsketched the famous house in Deadman's Lane--and listened as I sketchedit, in the falling shades of night, to the old, old story ofFitz-Stephen the Warden, who had lived there, and had in virtue of hisoffice to assist at the hanging of his own son. And, when in the dark Iwas strolling back to my hotel, my reflections were suddenly interruptedby something powerful seizing me in a grip of iron round my leg. I washeld as in a vice, and could hardly move, by what--a huge dog--a wolf?No, something heavier; something more hideous; something clothed! As Idragged it under a lamp I saw revealed a huge head, covered by a blackskull cap--a man's head--a dwarf, muttering in Irish something I couldnot understand--except one word, "Judy! Judy! Judy!" It was a woman ofextraordinary strength thus clasped on to me. I dragged her to the hoteldoor, where I engaged an interpreter in the shape of the "boots, " andmade a bargain with "Judy" to release me on my giving her one shilling, and to sit to me for this sketch for half-a-crown. I have still a livelyrecollection of the vice-like grip. [Illustration: "JUDY, " THE GALWAY DWARF. ] My friend who had introduced me to the editor of _Punch_ was a prominentcity official, and entertainer in chief of all men of talent fromLondon, and was also, like Tom Taylor, an author and dramatist; and whenI was a boy I illustrated one of his first stories. He also introducedme behind the scenes at the old Theatre Royal. I recollect my boyishdelight when one day I was on the stage during the rehearsal of theItalian opera. Shall I ever forget that treat? It was much greater in myeyes than the real performance later on. If my memory serves, "DonGiovanni" was the opera. One of the principals was suddenly taken ill, and this rehearsal was called for the benefit of the understudy. He wasa dumpy, puffy little Italian, and played the heavy father. MadameTitiens was--well--the heavy daughter. In the first scene she has tothrow herself upon her prostrate father. This is the incident I sawrehearsed: the little fat father lay on the dusty stage, with one eye onthe O. P. Side. As soon as the massive form of Titiens bore down upon himhe rolled over and over out of the way. This pantomime highly amused allof us, the ever-jovial Titiens in particular, and she again and againrushed laughingly in, but with the same result. The first actor I ever saw perform was Phelps, in "The Man of theWorld. " If anything could disillusionise a youth regarding the romanceof the theatre, that play surely would. Be it to my credit that myfirst impression was admiration for a fine--if dull--performance. Fromthat day I have been a constant theatre-goer. If I am to believe thefollowing anecdote, published in a Dublin paper a few years ago, I "didthe theatre in style, " and had an early taste which I did not possessfor making jokes. "The jarvey drove Harry Furniss, when a boy, down to the old TheatreRoyal, Dublin. On the way there Jehu enquired of the budding artistwhether it was true that the roof was provided with a tank whence everypart of the building could be deluged, shower-bath fashion, ifnecessary. 'Yes, ' replied Raphael junior; 'and, you see, I always bringan umbrella in case of fire. '" [Illustration: PHELPS, THE FIRST ACTOR I SAW. ] I may confess that I have only once appeared in theatricals, and thatwas in high comedy as a member of the Dublin Amateur Theatrical Society. The play was "She Stoops to Conquer, " and I took the partof--think!--_Mrs. _ Hardcastle. I was only seventeen, and very small formy age, so I owe any success I may have made to the costumier andwig-maker. The Tony Lumpkin was so excellent that he adopted the stageas his profession, and became a very popular comedian; and our Diggoryis now a judge--"and a good judge too"--in the High Court. It was on a bright, breezy morning late in July, 1873, I shook the dustof "dear dirty Dublin" off my feet. With the exception of the Welshrailways, the Irish are notoriously the slowest in the world, and onthat particular morning the mail train seemed to my impatient mind toprogress pig-ways. The engine was attached to the rear of the train andfaced the station, so that when it began to pull it was only the"parvarsity in the baste" caused it to go in the opposite direction, towards Kingstown, in an erratic, spasmodic, and uncertain fashion, sothat the eight miles journey seemed to me eighty. It was quite a tediousjourney to Salthill and Blackrock. At the latter station I saw for thelast time the porter famous for being the slave of habit. For years ithad been his duty to call out the name of the station, "Blackrock!Blackrock! Blackrock!" In due course he was removed to Salthill station, on the same line, and well do I remember how he puzzled many a Saxontourist by his calling out continually, "Blackrock--Salthill-I-mane!Blackrock--Salthill-I-mane!" No doubt the traveller put this chronicabsent-mindedness down to "Irish humour. " I must confess that I agree ina great measure with the opinion of the late T. W. Robertson (author of"Caste, " "School, " &c. ), that the witticisms of Irish carmen and othersare the ingenious inventions of Charles Lever, Samuel Lover, WilliamCarleton, and other educated men. [Illustration: MRS. HARDCASTLE. MR. HARRY FURNISS, FROM AN EARLYSKETCH. ] Dickens failed to see Irish humour, or in fact to understand what wasmeant by it. So when he was on tour with his readings a friend of mine, who was his host, in the North, undertook to initiate him into themysteries of Irish wit. As a sample he gave Dickens the following: Adefinition of nothing, --a footless stocking without a leg. This conveyednothing whatever to the mind of the greatest of English humourists; butwhen my friend took him to a certain spot and showed him a wall builtround a vacant space, and explained to him that the native masons wereinstructed to build a wall round an old ruined church to protect it, andpulled down the church for the material to build the wall, he laughedheartily, and acknowledged the Irish had a sense of humour afterall, --if not, a quaint absence of it. To me so-called Irish wit is a curious combination not wholly dependenton humour, and frequently unconscious. There is a story that when Mr. Beerbohm Tree arrived in Dublin he was received by a crowd of hisadmirers, and jumping on to a car said to his jarvey, "Splendidreception that, driver!" The jarvey thought a moment, and replied, "Maybe ye think so, butbegorrah, it ain't a patch on the small-pox scare!" Was that _meant_? The poor Saxon "towrist"--what he may suffer in the Emerald Isle! Thereis a story on record of three Irishmen rushing away from the racemeeting at Punchestown to catch a train back to Dublin. At the moment atrain from a long distance pulled up at the station, and the three menscrambled in. In the carriage was seated one other passenger. As soon asthey had regained their breath, one said: "Pat, have you got th' tickets?" "What tickets? I've got me loife; I thought I'd have lost that gettin'in th' thrain. Have you got 'em, Moike?" "Oi, begorrah, I haven't. " "Oh, we're all done for thin, " said the third. "They'll charge us roightfrom the other soide of Oireland. " The old gentleman looked over his newspaper and said: "You are quite safe, gintlemen; wait till we get to the next station. " They all three looked at each other. "Bedad, he's a directhor, --we'redone for now entoirely. " But as soon as the train pulled up the little gentleman jumped out andcame back with three first-class tickets. Handing them to the astonishedstrangers, he said, "Whist, I'll tell ye how I did it. I wint along thethrain--'Tickets plaze, tickets plaze, ' I called, and these belong tothree Saxon towrists in another carriage. " On the morning I left Ireland to seek my fortune in London I had ayouthful notion that, once on the mainland of my parents' country, St. Paul's and the smoke of London would be visible; but we had passedthrough the Menai tunnel, grazed Conway Castle walls, and skirted milesof the Welsh rock-bound coast, and yet no St. Paul's was visible to mynaked eye which was plastered against the window-pane of the carriage. The other eye, clothed and in its right mind, inspected the carriage anddiscovered that there were two other occupants--a lady and her maid. These interesting passengers had recovered from the effects of theChannel passage, and were eating their lunch. The lady politely offeredme some sandwiches. "No, thanks, " I replied; "I shall lunch in London. "This reminds me of a story I heard when I was in America, of two youngEnglish ladies arriving at New York. They immediately entered theNorthern Express at the West Central. About 7 o'clock in the eveningthey arrived at Niagara--half an hour or so is given to the passengersto alight and look at the wonderful Falls. The gentleman who told me thestory informed me that as the two ladies were getting back into thecarriage he asked them if they were going to dine at once. They, ignorant of the vastness of the "gre--e--at country Amuraka, " replied, "Oh, no, thanks, we are going to dine with our friends when we arrive. It can't be long now, we have been travelling so fast all the day!" "And may I ask, young ladies, where your friends live?" "We are going to an uncle who has been taken suddenly ill in SanFrancisco. " These young ladies would have had to wait certainly five days for theirdinner, --I only five hours. The strange lady and I conversed a great deal on various topics. Bydegrees she discovered that I was a young artist, friendless, and on hisway to the great city to battle with fortune. I may have told her of myhistory, of my youthful ambitions and my professional plans, --anyway shetold me of hers, and, while her maid was lazily slumbering, sheconfessed to me her troubles. "My story, " she said, "is a sad one. I am of good family, and I marrieda well-known professional London man. He turned out to be a gambler, andran through my money, and I returned to my parents. I have left themthis morning again, and, like you, I am now on my way to London tostart in life, and if possible make my own living. You see my appearanceis not altogether unprepossessing" (she was tall, singularly handsome, arefined woman of style) . .. I bowed . .. "Well, I am also fortunate inhaving a good voice, it is well-trained, and I am going to London tosing as a paid professional in the houses in which I have formerly beena guest. " I sympathised with her, and she continued, weeping, to relate to meevents of her unhappy married life until we arrived at Euston. I saw herand her maid into a four-wheeler, and I saw their luggage on the top. She gave me her card with her parents' address in London written on it, and requested that I would write to her at that address, as she wouldlike to hear how I got on in London. I never saw her again. But I didwrite home, and found there was such a lady, her family were well-knownsociety people in Ireland, and that her marriage had not been a happyone. After three years in London I ran over to Ireland to see my parents. Onmy return I seemed to miss the charming companion of my journey over thesame ground three years previously. Two uninteresting men were in thecarriage: a typical German professor on tour, and communicative; and atypical English gentleman, uncommunicative. As the journey was a longone the German smoked, ate and drank himself to sleep, and after somehours the other man and I exchanged a word. The fact is I thought I knewhis face, --I told him so. He thought he knew mine. "Had we gone toschool together?" "No. " He was at least ten years my senior. It happenedhe had been to school with my half-brother (my father was marriedtwice, --I am the youngest son of his second family). We chatted freelyabout each other's family and on various topics, including the sleepingTeuton in the corner. I incidentally mentioned my last journey. The ladyinterested him, so I told him of the way in which she confessed to me. Iwaxed eloquent over her wrongs. He got still more excited as I describedher husband as she described him to me; and as the train rolled intoEuston, he said, "Well, you know who I am, I know who you are, --I'lltell you one thing more: that woman's story is perfectly true--I'm herhusband!" That was one of the most extraordinary coincidences which ever happenedto me. Three years after meeting the wife, over the same journey, at thesame time of the year, I meet the husband; and I had never been thejourney in the meantime. CHAPTER II. BOHEMIAN CONFESSIONS. I arrive in London--A Rogue and Vagabond--Two Ladies--Letters of Introduction--Bohemia--A Distinguished Member--My Double--A Rara Avis--The Duke of Broadacres--The Savages--A Souvenir---Portraits of the Past--J. L. Toole--Art and Artists--Sir Spencer Wells--John Pettie--Milton's Garden. I did not make my appearance in London with merely the proverbialhalf-crown in my pocket, nor was I breathlessly expectant to find thestreets paved with gold. Thanks chiefly to my savings in Dublin, mybalance at my bankers' was sufficient to keep me for at least a year, and as soon as the editors returned from their summer holidays I wasfortunate enough to procure commissions, which have been pouring inpretty steadily ever since. [Illustration: CARICATURE OF MYSELF, DRAWN WHEN I FIRST ARRIVED INLONDON. ] It was with a strange feeling that I found myself for the first time inLondon, among four millions of people, with not one of whom I couldclaim acquaintance, and I think it will not be out of place if I hereoffer a hint which may possibly be of use to other young men who areplaced in similar circumstances. Upon first coming to the metropolis, then, let them invariably act, in as much as it is possible, as if theywere Londoners old and seasoned. To stand gazing at St. Paul's withmouth agape and eyes astare, or to enquire your way to the NationalGallery or Madame Tussaud's, is a sure means of finding yourself erelong in the hands of the unscrupulous and designing. For my part, as Itook my first admiring peep at the masterpiece of Sir Christopher, Iwhistled to myself with an air of nonchalance, and as I passed downFleet Street I made a point of nodding familiarly to the passers-by asif I were already a frequent _habitué_ of the thoroughfare of letters. Did I find myself accosted by any particularly ingenuous stranger askinghis way, I always promptly told him to go on as straight as ever hecould go--a piece of advice which, coming from one so young, I think washighly proper and creditable, whatever may have proved its value in somecases from a topographical point of view. On the other hand, thefollowing incident will serve to show the prudence of exercising duecaution in addressing strangers oneself. Upon the evening of my arrival in the big city I had dined at the LondonRestaurant, which was situate at the corner of Chancery Lane and FleetStreet, in the premises now occupied by Messrs. Partridge and Cooper(the name of this firm must not be taken as an indication of the natureof my repast), and, fired with the curiosity of youth, I mounted theknifeboard of an omnibus bound for Hyde Park. Arrived at the famousstatue of Wellington astride the impossible horse which has since ambledoff to the seclusion of Aldershot, and which at once recalled to my mindthe inimitable drawings of that infamous quadruped by John Leech, anartist who had done as much to familiarise me with London scenes andcharacters with his pencil as had Dickens with the pen, I happened toask a sturdy artisan who was sitting beside me whether this was HydePark Corner. "'Ide Park!" he muttered. "'Oo are you a-tryin' ter git at? 'Ide Park!None o' yer 'anky panky with me, my covey!" I forthwith slipped off that 'bus, not a little nettled that the firstperson to whom I had spoken in London should have taken me for a rogueand a vagabond. I had been fortunate enough to secure quarters which had beenrecommended to me in a comfortable boarding-house in one of theold-fashioned Inns in Holborn--Thavies' Inn--in which, I was informed, whether accurately or not I do not pretend to know, the Knight Templarsof old had once resided. There were no Knight Templars there when Iarrived, but in their stead I found some highly-proper andnon-belligerent clerics with their wives and families, and othervisitors from the country, who seemed very satisfied with thecomfortable provision that was made for them. But, best of all, I founda hostess who soon became one of the kindest and best of friends I everhad, and although I at once engaged a studio in the neighbouringartistic quarter of Newman Street, I continued for some time to live inThavies' Inn in the enjoyment of the pleasant society and manyadvantages of her pleasant home. Not the least of these to me was the perfect gallery of characters whowere continually coming and going, and the many and various studies Imade of the different visitors to that boarding-house long supplied mewith ample material for my sketch-book. I should be ungallant indeed were I to omit to add that not only was ita lady who first made me feel at home amid the bustle and turmoil ofModern Babylon, but that it was also a lady who primarily welcomed me asa contributor to the Press and gave me my first work in London. Curiously enough, both of these ladies possessed points of resemblance, not only in person, but in manner and goodness of heart. It was MissFlorence Marryat, then editress of _London Society_, who gave me myfirst commission, and I am more anxious to record the fact because I amaware that many a youthful journalist besides myself owed his firstintroduction to the public to the sympathy and enterprise of thisaccomplished lady. Perhaps I have less to grumble at personally thanmost others concerning the treatment which, as a young man, Iexperienced at the hands of editors; but I must say that the majority ofsuch potentates with whom I then came in contact lamentably lacked thatreadiness to welcome new-comers which Miss Florence Marryat notably, andpossibly too readily, evinced. Here I may offer a hint tobeginners--that on coming to London letters of introduction are oflittle or no value. One such letter I possessed, and it led me intomore trouble, and was the means of my losing more time, than I shouldever have received recompense for, even if it had obtained me the workwhich it was intended to bring me. In the first place, these letters often get into the hands of othersthan the particular individuals to whom they are addressed. In my casethe letter had been inadvertently directed to the literary editorinstead of to the art editor of one of the largest publishing firms, andthat gentleman--I refer to the literary editor--was good enough tosupply me with a quantity of work. I executed the commission, but, loand behold! when I sent the work in, the monster Red Tape intervened inthe person of the art editor, who became scarlet with rage because hehad not been invoked instead of his colleague, and promptly repudiatedthe entire contract. Thereupon the literary editor wrote to me sayingthat unless I withdrew my contributions he would be personally out ofpocket; and it may not be uninteresting to record that some day, when Istrip this amongst my other mummies, it will be found that hesubsequently became a wearer of lawn sleeves. Thus, whilst the twoeditors quarrelled between themselves, I was left out in the cold, andbecame a considerable loser over the transaction. _A propos_ of letters of introduction, I am reminded of a brotherartist, who, although a caricaturist, was entirely devoid of guile, and, in addition, was as absent-minded as the popularly-accepted type ofardent scientist or professor of ultra-abstruse subject. Well, thiscurious species of satirist was setting forth on travels in foreignclimes, and in order to lighten in some measure the vicissitudesinseparable from peripatetic wandering, he was provided with a letter ofintroduction to a certain British consul. The writer of this letterenclosed it in one to my friend, in which he said that he would find theconsul a most arrant snob, and a bumptious, arrogant humbug as well--infact, a cad to the backbone; but that he (my friend) was not to mindthis, for, as he could claim acquaintanceship with several dukes andduchesses, all he had to do was to trot out their names for theedification of the consul, who would then render him every attention, and thus compensate him to some extent for having to come into contactwith such an insufferable vulgarian. On the return of the guilelesssatirist to England the writer of the letter of introduction inquiredhow he had fared with the consul, and great was his surprise to hear himdrawl out, in his habitual lethargic manner: "Well, my dear fellow, he did not receive me very warmly, and he did notask me to dinner. In fact, he struck me as being rather cool. " "Well, you do surprise me!" rejoined his friend. "He's a horrible cad, as I told you in my letter, but he's awfully hospitable, and I reallycan't understand what you tell me. You gave him my letter ofintroduction?" "Well, I thought so, " said my friend; "but, do you know, on my journeyhome I discovered it in my pocket-book, so I must have handed himinstead your note to me about him!" Of course, in the remarks which I have been making I have not beenalluding to letters of merely social introduction, which are of anentirely different nature. Such letters are generally handed to theindividual to whom they are addressed at more propitious moments, whenhe is not either hard at work, as the case may be, in his editorialchair, or overburdened with anxiety as to the fluctuations of the Bankrate. Be that as it may, I cannot refrain from citing here the case of anotherbrother artist, who was particular in the extreme as regarded theneatness of his apparel and his personal appearance in general; in fact, he laboured, rightly or wrongly, under the impression that the manner inwhich a letter of introduction is received and acted upon by the personto whom it is addressed depends upon the raiment and _tout ensemble_ ofthe bearer. Well, it so happened that he once had a letter of introduction to a manhe particularly wished to know, but, of all places in the world, fatehad designed that he should have no choice but to deliver it in theboring of the Channel Tunnel, where the dripping roof rendered itnecessary for all visitors to be encased from head to foot in the vilestand most unbecoming tarpaulin overalls. It was in these circumstances, then, that the introduction took place, and as nothing came of it, myfriend will now go to his grave in the firm belief that fine feathersmake fine birds in the eyes of all those who receive letters ofintroduction. The first Bohemian Club I joined was located over Gaze's Tourist Officesin the Strand. Nearly my first engagement in London was for a stillflourishing sixpenny weekly. Started in Wellington Street, close by, theeditorial offices were there certainly, but editor, proprietors, andothers were not. They were only to be found in "the Club, " so throughnecessity I became a member. The flowing bowl of that iniquitousconcoction, punch, was brewed for the staff early in the afternoon andkept flowing till early the next morning. The "Club" never closed day ornight till the broker's man took possession and closed it for good. I, being young and unknown, was surprised to find myself an object ofattraction whenever I was in the Club. There was something strange aboutme, something mysterious. This was so marked that my brief visits tofind my editor were few and far between. I discovered afterwards thatthe curiosity and attention paid me had nothing to do with my work, ormy personal appearance, or my natural shyness or youth. It was arousedby the fact that I was known as "the member who had paid hissubscription!" [Illustration: AGE 20. [_From a photo. By W. & D. Downey. _]] This fact being noised abroad. I found it an easy matter to get electedto another and a better Bohemian Club, having beautiful premises on theAdelphi Terrace--a Club which has since gone through many vicissitudes, but I think still exists in a small way. At the time I mention it wasmuch what the Savage Club is now; in fact, was located in the sameTerrace. Its smoking concerts, too, were its great attractions, and onone of these evenings I played a part worth reciting, if only toillustrate how difficult it is for some minds to understand a joke. [Illustration: A SUCCESSFUL "MAKE-UP. "] A well-known literary man called to see me. On a table in my studio laya "make-up" box--used by actors preparing their faces for thefootlights--a bald head with fringe of light hair, large fair moustache, wig paste, a suit of clothes too large for me, and other trifles. Myvisitor's curiosity was aroused. Taking up my "properties, " he asked mewhat they were for. I explained to him a huge joke had been arranged asa surprise at the Club smoking concert to take place that very evening, in which I was to play a part with a well-known and highly-popularmember--the funny man of the Club, and an eccentric-looking one to boot. He had conceived the idea to make me up as a double of himself. We werethe same height, but otherwise we in no way resembled each other. He wasstout, I was thin; he prematurely bald, I enjoyed a superabundance ofauburn locks; but he had very marked characteristics, and wore veryremarkable clothes. He was also very clever at "making-up. " The idea wasto test his talent in this direction, and deceive the whole of ourfriends. It was arranged that he was to leave the piano after singinghalf his song, and I--up to that moment concealed--was to come forwardand continue it. This I explained to my visitor, who expressed hisbelief that the deception was impossible. He promised to keep thesecret, and that evening was early in the room and seated close to thepiano. My "double"--fortunately for me, an amateur--sang the firstverses of one of his well-known songs, but in the middle of itcomplained of the heat of the room (one of those large rooms on thefirst floor in Adelphi Terrace, famous for the Angelica Kaufmannpaintings on the ceiling), and opening the French window close to thepiano he went out on to the balcony. There I was, having walked alongthe balcony from the next room. So successful was my "make-up" that inpassing through the supper-room to get on to the balcony some of themembers spoke to me under the impression I was the other member! Thehall-porter had handed me a letter intended for my "double. " Of course Iimitated his walk, his mannerisms at the piano, and his voice, but Imade a poor attempt to sing. This was the joke. "What was the matter?""Never sang like that before, " "Evidently thinks it is funny to becompletely out of tune, " "Hullo, what is this?" as _my_ "double" walkedthrough the crowded room just as I finished, and shook hands with me! I would really have sung the song better, but my eye happened to catchthe puzzled stare of my friend the literary visitor in the front row. Helooked angry and annoyed, and before my "double" came up to me, myfriend, scowling at me, said, "Sir, I think it is infernal bad taste onyour part to imitate my friend Harry Furniss!" Who is it that says we English have no sense of humour? My "double" inthe preceding tale was my brother-in-law, who as a boy was the companionof Mr. George Grossmith, and in fact once appeared as an amateur atGerman Reed's, the old Gallery of Illustration, in a piece, with "GeeGee" as his double, entitled "Too much Alike. " He was also an inveterate and clever _raconteur_, and of courseoccasionally made a slip, as for instance, on a railway journey toBrighton once, when he found himself alone with a stranger. The strangerin conversation happened to ask my relative casually if he were fond oftravelling. "Travelling? I should rather think so" he replied airily, and imagining he was impressing someone who was "something in the City, "he continued, "Yes, sir, I'm a pretty experienced traveller. Been mostlyround the world and all that kind of thing, you know, and had my shareof adventures, I can tell you!" After a bit he gained more confidence, and launched into details, giving the stranger the benefit of hisexperience. "Why, sir, you read in books that hunters of big game, suchas tigers, watch their eyes. Not a bit of it. What you have got to dois to watch the _tail_, and that's the thing. It mesmerises the animal, so to speak, and you have him at your mercy, " and so forth, and soforth. On arriving at the hotel he found his travelling companion hadjust signed his name in the visitors' book. It was Richard Burton! Mybrother-in-law hastened to apologise to Sir Richard for his absurdtales. He had no idea, of course, to whom he was retailing his stiffyarns. Burton laughed. "My dear sir, not a word, please. I was moreentertained than I can tell you. You really might have travelled--youlie so well!" [Illustration: TWO TRAVELLERS. ] One of the most eccentric men I ever met, and certainly one of the mostsuccessful journalists--a _rara avis_, for he made a fortune in FleetStreet, and retired to live in a castle in the country--was a man whosename, although a very singular one, remains absolutely unknown even tomembers of the Fourth Estate. He was a clever, hard-working journalist;every line he wrote--and he was always writing--was printed andwell-paid for, but he never signed an article, whilst others, journalists, specialists, poets, essayists--logrollers of highdegree--see their name often enough, are "celebrities, " "men of thetime, " fêted and written about, but eventually retire on the Civil List. Eccentricity is the breath of their nostrils, their very existencedepends upon it, publicity is essential. My friend's eccentricity wasfor his own pleasure. He lived in a frugal--some might think in amiserly way--in two rooms in one of the Inns of Court. Perhaps I shallbe more correct if I say he _existed_ in one. A loaf of bread and half apint of milk was his daily fare. The room he slept in he worked in. Theother was empty, save for bundles of dusty old newspapers containingarticles from his ever active brain. "I keep this room, " said he, "fortimes when I am over-wrought. Then I shut myself up in it, and _roar_!When by this process I have blown away my mental cobwebs, my brainregains its pristine energy, and I go back to my study calm andcollected, having done no one any harm, and myself a lot of good. " Ihave dined at his Club with him in the most luxurious fashion, quiteregardless of expense. He was a capital host, but, like the magazines hewrote for, he only appeared replete once a month. His Press work helooked upon as mere bread and milk. His work was excellent, journalismwhich editors term "safe, " neither too brilliant nor too dull, certainlyhaving no trace whatever of eccentricity. I may here offer an opinion, and make a suggestion to young journalists, and that is--safe, steady, dull mediocrity is what pays in the long run;to attempt to be brilliant when not a genius is fatal. To have thegenius, brilliancy, pluck, and success means tremendous prosperity andfavour for a time, but the editors and the public tire of yourcleverness. You are too much in evidence. It is safer from a merebusiness standpoint to be the steady, stupid tortoise than the brillianthare. The man or woman who writes a carefully thought-out essay isflattered, and quoted, and talked about: for that article the writer maypossibly receive as many sovereigns as the writer of a newspaper articlereceives shillings; but the shillings come every day, and the sovereignsonce a month. It is wiser in the long run to be satisfied with a loafand milk once a day than with a dinner at a Club every four weeks. If in the old days the Bohemian scribbler was not in Society, he couldat least imagine himself there. There was nothing to prevent hisspeaking of a member of the aristocracy as "one of us" with far lessembarrassment and with as much truth as he could nowadays when he _is_invited--but still as the oil that never will mix with water. Except inimagination--an imagination such as I recollect a well-known figure inliterary Bohemia had when I knew it well, a writer of stories for thepopular papers: Society stories, in which a Duke ran away with agoverness, or a Duchess eloped with an artist, each weekly instalmentwinding up with a sensational event, so as to carry forward the interestof the reader. This writer--quite excellent in his way--a thoroughBohemian, knowing nothing about the Society he wrote about, had thepower of making himself, and sometimes fresh acquaintances, believe thathe played in real life a part in the story he was writing. He did notrefer to the experiences as related by him as incidents in his story, but as actual events of the day. [Illustration: "THE DUKE OF BROADACRES. "] "Brandy and soda? Thanks. My dear fellow, I feel a perfect wreck, shakento pieces. I had an experience to-day I shall never forget. I have justarrived from Devonshire; ran down by a night train to look at a hunterLord Briarrose wanted to sell me. Bob--that is Briarrose--and Itravelled together. He is going to be married, you know; heiress; greatbeauty--neighbour--rolling in wealth. I stopped at the Castle lastnight, and before Bob was up I was on the thoroughbred and well over thecountry, returning about eleven along the top of the cliffs. To myhorror, I saw a carriage and pair charging down a road which at one timecontinued a long distance skirting the cliffs. Cliffs had fallen; roadcut off; unprotected; drop down cliff eight hundred feet on to pointedrocks and deep sea. There was nothing between the runaway horses and thecliff, except a storm-broken solitary tree with one branch curved overthe road. When the horses bolted, the groom fell off. There was only alady in the carriage, powerless to stop the frightened steeds dashing onto death. As she approached I was electrified. Something told me she wasBob's _fiancée_. A moment and I was charging the hunter under that tree. Jumping up out of the saddle, I clasped the solitary branch with bothhands, and turning as an acrobat would on a trapeze, I hung by my legs, hands downwards, calling to the lady to clasp them. The fiery steeds andthe oscillating carriage dashed under me--our hands met. With asuperhuman effort I raised the fainting fairy form out of the vehicle asit passed like a whirlwind. The next moment horses and carriage werebeing dashed to pieces on the rocks below. Under our united weight thebranch of the tree broke, and we fell unhurt on the moss-covered path. When the eyes of the fair lady opened to gaze upon her deliverer, Istarted as if shot. She sprang to her feet. 'Reginald!' she cried. 'Isit you?' "She was my first love. We had not seen each other for years! Thanks. I'll have some more brandy. Hot this time, with some sugar, please. " The following week _The London Library_ appeared. I bought it, and read"The Duke's Oak, " all about Lord Briarrose and Lady Betty Buttercup andthe runaway horses. The tree with the one branch gave the title to thestory, and the Dashing Duke of Broadacres was the aristocraticacrobat--my friend the author! [Illustration: FROM A SKETCH BY HERBERT JOHNSON. ] The Savage Club is a remnant of Bohemian London. It was started at aperiod when art, literature, and the drama were at their lowest ebb--inthe "good old days" when artists wore seedy velveteen coats, smokedclays, and generally had their works of art exhibited in pawnbrokers'windows; when journalists were paid at the same rate and received thesame treatment as office-boys; and when actors commanded as manyshillings a week as they do pounds at present. This typical trio nowexists only in the imagination of the lady novelist. When first thelittle band of Savages met they smoked their calumets over apublic-house in the vicinity of Drury Lane, in a room with a sandedfloor; a chop and a pint of ale was their fare, and good-fellowshipatoned for lack of funds. The Brothers Brough, Andrew Halliday, TomRobertson, and other clever men were the original Savages, and thelatter in one of his charming pieces made capital out of an incident atthe Club. One member asks another for a few shillings. "Very sorry, oldchap, I haven't got it, but I'll ask Smith. " Smith replies, "Not a centmyself, but I'll ask Brown. " Brown asks Robinson, and so on until aCroesus is found with five shillings in his pocket, which he is onlytoo willing to lend. But this true Bohemianism is as dead as Queen Anne, and the Savages now live merely on the traditions of the past. HisMajesty the King, when Prince of Wales, was a member of the Club, and anEarl takes the chair and entertains my Lord Mayor with his flunkeys andall. The Club is now as much advertised as the Imperial Institute, butthe true old flavour is no more. No doubt some excellent men and goodfellows are still in the Savage wigwam. Some Bohemians--a sprinkling ofthose Micawbers, "waiting for something to turn up"--keep up itsreputation, but in reality it is only Savage now in name. [Illustration: THE EARL OF DUNRAVEN AS A SAVAGE. ] I was not thirty when I ceased to be a member. I had been on thecommittee, and had taken an active part in matters concerning it, untilit changed its character and lost its true Bohemian individuality, andbeing a member of the Garrick Club, I found matured in it the elementthe Savage endeavoured at that time to emulate. Although I am still inmy forties, few of those with whom I smoked the calumet of peace roundthe camp fire at a great pow-wow in the wigwam of the excellent Savages, alas! remain. The old Grecian Theatre in the City Road was the nursery of many membersof the theatrical profession, and authors too. Two well-known membersof the Savage Club, Merritt and Pettitt, were writers of the commonstuff necessary for the melodramas of the kind connected with theirnames. Merritt would have made an equal fortune if exhibited as theoriginal fat boy in "Pickwick, " or as a prize baby at a show. I supposemy readers are aware that it is not necessary to be a baby in order tobe exhibited as one, for I recollect, in my Bohemian days, going down toWoolwich Gardens when the famous William Holland was manager of them, and accidentally strolling into a tent outside of which was a placard, "The Largest Baby in the World! 6d. " I was not expected, --and the "Baby"was walking about in his baby-clothes, with little pink bows on hisshoulders, smoking a horrible black clay pipe. He was the dwarfpoliceman in Holland's pantomime in the winter-time! [Illustration: "ANOTHER GAP IN OUR RANKS. "] Merritt would have made a capital prize baby. He was tall, very stout, and possessed of a perfectly hairless, baby's face and a squeaky littlevoice. I shall never forget a prize remark this transpontine author madein the Savage Club, when an editor rushed in and said, "Have you heardthe news? Carlyle is dead!" Merritt rose, and putting his hand on hischest, squeaked out, "Another gap in our ranks!" [Illustration: "JOPE. "] A peculiar figure in Bohemia in those old days was "J. " Pope, known as"Jope, " brother of the late celebrated K. C. Jo was nearly as large ashis brother, the well-known legal luminary, and Paul Merritt rolled intoone, and wore his black wide-awake on the back of his pleasing, intelligent head. I saw him one sultry autumn evening leaning against alamp-post in Chancery Lane to take breath. "Hullo, Pope, where are you going?" "My dear boy, let me lean on you a minute. I'm going up to theBirkbeck--to lecture--to lecture on 'Air, and How We Breathe!'" As a contrast to the popular Doctor was a wit more popularly known, H. J. Byron--as thin as the proverbial lamp-post. Of course the stories aboutByron would fill a volume, but there is one that is always worthrepeating, and that is his reply to a vulgar and obtrusive stranger whomet him at Plymouth, and said to him, "Mr. Byron, I've 'ad a walk _h_allround the 'Oe. " "Yes, old chap, and the next time you have a walk I advise you to walkall round the H. " [Illustration: H. J. BYRON. ] In those merry gatherings I recall the familiar features of trueBohemians, when Bohemianism was at its best--not the ornamental names ofthose one finds mentioned in all reports of the famous gatherings, butof the members who really used and made the Club. Few of the outsidepublic recollect, for instance, the name of Arthur Mathieson, who wroteand sang that pathetic ballad, "The Little Hero"; who also was an actorand writer of ability, --in fact, he was what is fatal to men of hisclass--a veritable Crichton. Being in appearance not unlike Sir HenryIrving, he was engaged by our leading actor to play his double in "TheCorsican Brothers, " and made up so like his chief that no one couldpossibly tell the difference between the two. One evening during the runof the piece an old Irishwoman who was duster of the theatre, and withwhom the genial double of Sir Henry often had a friendly word, approached as she thought the familiar M. , and in a rather frivolousmood innocently tickled the actor under the chin with her dusting-broom. "My good woman, what do you mean?" The poor Irishwoman dropped on her knees, clasped her hands and said, "The Saints protect me! it's the Masther himself--I'm kilt entoirely. " The "Masther, " however, probably enjoyed the humour of it. Sir Henry, like his dear old friend Mr. J. L. Toole, has found a relief inoccasional harmless fun. Toole, however, was irrepressible. [Illustration: A PRESENTATION. ] I was one day walking with him in Leeds (when he was appearing in theevening on the stage, and I on the platform). A street hawker profferedthe comedian a metal pencil-case for the sum of a halfpenny. Toole madethis valuable purchase. As soon as I left the platform that night, Ifound a note for me, inviting me to the theatre directly after theperformance. Toole came back on to the stage, and making me an elaborateand complimentary speech, referring to me as "a brother artist inanother sphere, " etc. , etc. , presented me with the pencil! I made anappropriate reply, and we went to supper. The following paragraph from the pen of Mr. Toole appeared in the Pressthe next day in London as well as the provinces: "Brother artists, even when working in different grooves, do not lackappreciation of each other's work. After Mr. Harry Furniss's lecture inLeeds the other night, he and Mr. Toole foregathered; and the popularand genial actor presented the 'comedian of the pencil' with a very neatand handsome pencil-case, just adapted for the jotting down, whereverduty takes him, of those graphic sketches with which the caricaturistamuses us week by week. " I must confess I am sometimes guilty of mild practical jokes, but I amalways careful to select reciprocative and kindred spirits--with such aspirit of practical joking as J. L. Toole, for instance. He and I havehad many a joke at each other's expense. It so happened that when he wasproducing the great success, "The House Boat, " he wintered at Hastings, where I had a house for the season, and we saw a great deal of eachother. Toole was always what is called a bad study--that is, it was withgreat difficulty and pain he learnt his parts. On this occasion the timewas drawing nearer and nearer for the production; he was getting moreand more nervous about his new part, and I received a visit from hisfriend the late Edmund Routledge, asking me to protect "Johnny" from hisfriends--in other words, to keep his whereabouts dark, as he had tostudy. Toole had had one or two little practical jokes with me, which Iowed him for, so having to rush up to town, I had the following letterwritten to him: "DEAR MR. TOOLE, --I suppose you recollect your old friends in Smoketownwhen you performed one night at our Hall and did us the honour ofstopping at our house over Sunday. You then kindly asked us all to stopwith you when we went to London--a promise we have treasured ever since. We called at Maida Vale yesterday, but finding you were at Hastings Iwrite now to say that we are on our way. Besides myself I am bringingdear Aunt Jane you will remember--now unfortunately a confirmedinvalid--and my boy Tom who has got a bad leg, and Uncle William and histhree daughters, and my dear Sue, who, I am sorry to say, is stillsuffering, but I think a week at Hastings will do us all a world ofgood--particularly to have you to amuse us all the time. "Yours very truly, " And a signature was attached which I could not myself read. The next day in London a hansom pulled up close to where I was walking, and a friend of Toole's jumped out, and, seizing my hand, he said, "Isay, Furniss, you travel about a lot, lecturing and all that kind ofthing--do you know Smoketown?" [Illustration: SAVAGE CLUB. MY DESIGN FOR THE MENU 25TH ANNIVERSARY DINNER. _The Original Drawing was by request presented to His Royal Highness. _] "Smoketown!" I said, "Smoketown!" (Truth to tell, at the moment I hadquite forgotten all about my letter to Toole; then it dawned upon me. )"Oh, yes--well, " I said; "I had one night there, and some frightfulfriends of Toole's bored my life out. He had invited them, I believe, tostop with him in London, and they--" "Just the people I want. What's their name?" "I forget that entirely. " "Can you read this?" he said, producing my letter. "No, " I said; "I can't read that signature. " "Do you know where they are likely to put up in town?" "Not the slightest idea. " "I've tried every hotel in London. " "Temperance?" I asked. "No, not one. Happy thought!--of course that is where they'll be. " "Try them all, " I said, as I waved my hand. And off the cab rushed tovisit the various temperance hotels in London. The next day I returned to Hastings, and went straight to Mr. Toole'shotel. Getting the hall porter into my confidence, he sent up a messageto Mr. Toole that a gentleman with a large family had arrived to seehim; and the porter and I made the noise of ten up the stairs, andeventually the gentleman and family were announced at Toole's door. Ishall never forget poor Toole, standing in an attitude so familiar tothe British public, with his eye-glass in his hand and his eyes cast onthe ground--he was afraid to raise them. As soon as he did, however, hisother hand caught the first book that was handy, and it was flung at myhead. Bohemianism, when I arrived in London, was emigrating from the tavern ofsanded floors and clay pipes into Clubland. Artists, authors, actors, and journalists were starting clubs of their own, simply to continue thesame pot-house life without restraint; in place of turning thepublic-house into a club, they turned the club into a public-house. Ifjournalists in Grub Street were at their worst in those days, artistswere at their best. The great boom in trade which followed theFranco-German War produced a wave of extraordinary prosperity, whichlanded many a tramp struggling in troubled waters safely on the beach offortune. Working men in the North were drinking champagne; some of themrose to be masters and millionaires. They tired of drinking champagne, they could not play the pianos they had bought, or enjoy the mansionsthey had built; but they could rival each other in covering their wallswith pictures, so the poorest "pot-boiler" found a ready sale. The mostindifferent daubs were sold as quickly as they could be framed. Artiststhen built their mansions, drank champagne, and played on their grandpianos. When I, still in my teens, first met these good fellows, I mighthave been tempted, seeing what wretched work satisfied thepicture-dealer, to abandon black and white for colour; but already theboom was over. Artists, like their patrons, had found out their mistake. They had either to let or sell their costly houses, and have, with fewexceptions, little to show now for those wonderful days of prosperity inthe early seventies--which they still talk over in their clubs inBohemia. [Illustration] The few exceptions are the survival of the fittest. But the best ofartists have never seen such a boom in art as that I saw in my earlydays in London. It cannot be denied that, from a fashionable point ofview, picture shows are going down. Artists have had to stand on oneside as popular Society favourites: the actors have taken their place. One has only to visit the studios on "Show Sundays" to see what afalling off there is. "Show Sunday" was, some years ago, one of theevents of the year. From Kensington to St. John's Wood, and up toHampstead, the studios of the mighty attracted hosts of fashionablepeople to these annual gatherings. A familiar figure at these for many years was the genial Sir SpencerWells, the well-known surgeon. He lived monarch of all he surveyed atGolder's Hill, Hampstead, and many a morning I met him when riding, andwe jogged into town together. He was a capital _raconteur_, a happy wit, and told one incident I always recall to mind as I pass a house on thetop of Fitzjohn's Avenue, where a few years ago lived, painted and"received" that Wilson Barrett of the brush, Edwin Long, R. A. , ahard-working, self-made artist who amassed a fortune by successfullygauging the taste of the large middle-class English public in mixingreligion with voluptuous melodrama. On the annual "Show Sunday" nostudio was more popular than Long's. His subjects perhaps had somethingto do with it. They were in keeping with the Sabbath. The work too wasas smooth and as highly finished as the most orthodox sermon. _Ars longaest. _ Yes, said some cynic, but art is not Long. But anyway Long's artwas commercially successful, and he was what is known as "a goodbusiness man. " [Illustration] As haberdashers in the days of crude advertising used to place men incostume at the shop door--a fireman when they were selling off a damagedsalvage stock, or a sailor or, if a _very_ enterprising tradesman, adiver, helmet and all, when selling off goods damaged from a wreck--sodid this Academician, when exhibiting Biblical subjects on "ShowSunday, " engage a Nubian model to stand at the door of his shop. Thisman had also to announce the names of the guests, and when the small, spectacled, simple man with the large smile gave his name, Sir SpencerWells, the model pulled himself up to his full height and in his bestEnglish proudly and loudly announced to the crowd in the studio-- "The Prince of Wales!" The effect was magical: all fell in line, ladies curtseyed, men bowed, when the Prince of Hampstead Heath entered. The artist looked as blackas his model, and the visitors laughed. At the other end of Fitzjohn's Avenue once lived that ever popularAcademician, the late Mr. John Pettie. Mr. Pettie was a vigorousdraughtsman and a beautiful colourist, and many of his portraits arevery fine. He seemed to revel in painting a red coat--an object to manypainters as maddening as it is to the infuriated bull. On one "ShowSunday" before the sending-in day of the Royal Academy, at which heexhibited, I recollect admiring a portrait of Mr. Lamb, the celebratedgolfer, in his red coat, when the original of the portrait came into thestudio. Not feeling very well, Mr. Pettie had to avoid the crowd of hisadmirers seeing him. There were a few exceptions, of which I was one. Ihad just left him when I saw Mr. Lamb before his picture. In thisportrait the "bulger" golf club--which Mr. Lamb, I believe, invented, tothe delight of the golfing world--is introduced. I ran back to Mr. Pettie and told him that there was a stupid man in the studio wanting toknow why artists always draw golf clubs wrongly; that as a Scotchman hemust protest against such a club, which was out of shape, like a clubfoot. "Tell him, mon, it's a bulger--Lamb's invention!" I returned. "Hewants to know who Mr. Lamb is, and what is a bulger?--perhaps it's a newkind of hunting-crop and not a golf club at all?" In rushed Mr. Pettie, like an enraged lion, to slay the ignorant visitor, but in reality toshake hands with Mr. Lamb and explain my childish joke. Leaving Pettie, I called at a studio near Hampstead occupied by a veryclever Irish artist, who was very much depressed when I entered. Gazingin bewilderment at his picture for the Academy, representing Milton withhis daughters in his garden at Chalfont St. Giles, he said-- "Furniss, I'm in an awful state entoirely over this picture. One ofthose critic fellows has been in here, and he tells me this picturewon't do at all at all. I've painted in Milton's garden as I've seen it, but the critic tells me that these are all modern flowers and weren'tknown in the country in the poet's time. Now, what on earth am Oi todo?" "Oh, don't bother about those critics, " I said. "They know nothing. Milton was blind, don't you know, so how could he tell whether theflowers were correct or not?" "Begorrah, Furniss, you're right. Oi never thought of that. It's justlike those ignorant critic chaps to upset a fellow in this way. " CHAPTER III. MY CONFESSIONS AS A SPECIAL ARTIST. [Illustration: DISTRESS IN THE BLACK COUNTRY. _Acting as Special Artistfor The Illustrated London News. _] The Light Brigade--Miss Thompson (Lady Butler)--Slumming--The Boat Race--Realism--A Phantasmagoria--Orlando and the Caitiff--Fancy Dress Balls--Lewis Wingfield--Cinderella--A Model--All Night Sitting--An Impromptu Easel--"Where there's a Will there's a Way"--The American Sunday Papers--I am Deaf--The Grill--The World's Fair--Exaggeration--Personally Conducted--The Charnel House--10, Downing Street--I attend a Cabinet Council--An Illustration by Mr. Labouchere--The Great Lincolnshire Trial--Praying without Prejudice. [Illustration: AT THE OXFORD AND CAMBRIDGE BOAT RACE. (_Reduction ofLarge Drawing. _)] Sir William Russell and I were called upon at a banquet in the City torespond to the toast of the Press. Sir William made one of hischaracteristic, graceful little speeches, reminiscential and modest. When I rose I was for a moment also reminiscential--but not modest. "MyLord Mayor, Sheriffs, and Masters of this Worshipful Company, --Iappreciate the appropriateness in coupling my name with that of SirWilliam Russell, for both of us have made a noise in the world at thesame time--Dr. Russell with his first war letters to the _Times_, and Iin my cradle, for I came into this troubled world while others in armswere making a noise in the Crimea. " [Illustration: AS SPECIAL AT THE BALACLAVA CELEBRATION. ] Naturally for this reason I have always taken an interest in the doingsof that time; so it was quite _con amore_ that I acted as "special" atthe first Balaclava Celebration Banquet (1875), twenty years after"Billy" Russell's first war letters and my first birthday. The roll-call on the occasion was funny, seeing that it was that of the"Light Brigade"--some were "light" and many were heavy--one I recollectwas about eighteen stone. The banquet was held in the Alexandra Palace, Muswell Hill. The visitors, except the military--past or present--wereshamefully treated. We had to stand all the time behind the chairs andwearily watch a scene not altogether elevating to lookers-on. We werenot allowed a chair to sit on, nor any refreshment of any kind--not evenif we paid for it; and I well recollect how hungry I was when I returnedto my studio after a tedious journey at 1 in the morning, having hadnothing to eat since 1 of the previous day. Such Red Tape was, Isuppose, to illustrate the disgraceful arrangements of the commissariatin the Crimea! I was standing close to Miss Thompson (Lady Butler), whohad just become famous by her picture "The Roll Call. " She was makingnotes, and possibly intended painting a sequel to her celebratedpicture. She was exhausted and tired, and no doubt too disgusted by suchungallant conduct on the part of the organisers of the banquet to touchthe subject. Had she painted this particular roll-call I fear many ofthe figures would have had to be drawn out of the perpendicular. Twenty years before one of the heroes was, possibly, a better and awiser man, and tackled the "Rooshins" with greater dexterity than hedisplayed on this occasion in managing a jelly. He had waiters to rightof him, waiters to left of him, and waiters behind him, but that jellydefeated him, although he charged it with fork, spoon, and finally withfingers. From a very early age it was naturally my ambition to be introduced toMr. Punch, but this was not to be just yet, and the first London paperfor which I drew regularly was the _Illustrated Sporting and DramaticNews_, which was started soon after I arrived in London. I continued towork for it until it was bought by the proprietor of the _IllustratedLondon News_, when I became a large contributor to that leadingillustrated paper. Most of my work for the _Illustrated London News_ consisted of singleand double pages of character sketches, in which Eton and Harrow cricketmatches, Oxford and Cambridge boat races, tennis meetings, the Lawn atGoodwood, and many other scenes of English life were treatedpictorially; but I also acted sometimes in the capacity of a specialcorrespondent, and this duty sometimes took me into places far frompleasant. [Illustration: DISTRESS IN THE NORTH. _Page (reduction), "IllustratedLondon News. " Republished by permission of the proprietors. _] On my twenty-fourth Christmas, the year after I was married, I recollecthaving to start off upon such a mission to the North of England, where, owing to strikes and labour disputes, most distressing scenes weretaking place. Throwing myself into the work, I thoroughly ferreted outthe distress which prevailed, pursuing my investigations into the verygarrets of the poor starving creatures whose privacy I thus disturbed atthe entreaty and under the escort of the district visitors and otherbenevolent people, whilst the criminal classes also came in for a shareof my observation, which in this case was conducted under the shelteringwing of a detective. I cannot, however, say that my energy met with its due reward, for suchwas the realism with which I had treated the subject allotted to methat the editor and proprietors of the _Illustrated London News_ werereluctant to shock the susceptibilities of their readers by presentingthem with such scenes, and I had to substitute for them sketches of soupkitchens, committee meetings and refuges. That the editorial decisionwas not a sound one was amply proved a few years later, when during asomewhat similar crisis Mr. G. R. Sims and the late Mr. Fred Barnardpublished work of a similar breadth and boldness with signal effect. Visiting slums, seeing death from want and misery on all sides, iscertainly not the most pleasant way of spending the festive season. Incompany with detectives, clergymen, or self-sacrificing districtvisitors, you may swallow the pill with the silver on; but try itsingle-handed, and it is a very different affair. I was taken for somedemon rent-collector prowling about, and was peered at through brokenwindows and doors, and received with language warm enough to thaw theicicles. The sketches I made during the weeks I spent in the haunts ofwant and misery would have made a startling volume, but time and moneywere thrown away, and only the perfunctory pictures were published. Thepublic have no idea, or seldom think, of the great trouble and expenseincurred in faithfully depicting everyday scenes. Still, it is notpossible for a "special" even to see everything, or to be in two placessimultaneously; and consequently, in ordinary pictorial representations, dummy figures are frequently looked upon as true portraits. One boatrace, for example, is very much like another. Some years ago I executeda panoramic series of sketches of the University Race from start tofinish, and as they were urgently wanted, the drawings had to be sent inthe same day. Early in the morning, before the break of fast, I foundmyself at Putney, rowing up to Mortlake, taking notes of the differentpoints on the way--local colour through a fog. Getting home before theLondoners started for the scene, I was at work, and the drawings--minusthe boats--were sent in shortly after the news of the race. The figureswere imaginary and unimportant, but one correspondent wrote to point outthe exact spot where he stood, and complained of my leaving out theblack band on his white hat, and placing him too near a pretty girl, adding that his wife, who had not been present, had recognised hisportrait. Yes, I must confess, one has often to draw upon the imagination even inserious "realism, " Some years ago I went with a colleague of the pen toillustrate and describe the dreadful scenes which were said to takeplace in St. James's Park, where the poor people were seen to sleep allnight on the seats. We arrived about 2 A. M. It was a beautiful moonlightnight, but though we walked up and down for hours not a soul came insight. My companion said, "It's a bad business; we cannot do anythingwith this. " I replied, "We must not go away without something to show;now if you will lie down I will make a sketch of you, and then I willlie down and you can describe me. " [Illustration: REALISM!] One of the most "uncanny" experiences I ever had as a "special" I findgraphically described by the late Hon. Lewis Wingfield, who accompaniedme on the strange mission. [Illustration: "THE CAITIFF" AND ORLANDO. ] "Winter without. Snow. A sea of billows drifting across the sky, glittering, frosted--a symphony in metals--silver, aluminium, lead--rendered buoyant for the nonce, ethereal--as though the world werereally gone Christmas mad, and, having a sudden attack of topsy-turvydomin its inside, had taken to showering its treasures about the firmament, instead of keeping them snugly put away in mines below ground. A sheetof snow, and bitter white rain driving still. A huge building loomingblack, its many eyes staring into the dark--lidless, bilious, vacant. This is a hospital. Or is it a factory, disguised with a veneer of thePuginesque? Or an æsthetic barrack? Or an artistic workhouse? Visibleyet, under falling snow which has not had time to cover them, areflower-beds, shrub-plots, meandering walks. Too genteel and ambitiousfor the most æsthetic of workhouses or advanced of hospitals, wewonder what the building is; and our wonder is not decreased by seeing apostern opened in a huge black wall, from which a handful ofconspirators creep silently. We rub our eyes. Are we dreaming? Is this, or is it not, the age of scientific marvels, levelling of castes, rampant communism, murder, agrarian outrage, sudden massacre?--the _ollapodrida_ which we are pleased to denominate enlightenment? That firstblack figure is James the Second. Heavens! The Jacobites live yet, andwill join, doubtless, with the Fenians and Mr. Bradlaugh, and a _possecomitatus_ of iconoclasts, to upset the reign of order, and add a thornto the chaplet of our hard-run Premier. James the Second. Not a doubt ofit. There he is--periwig, black velvet, and bugles. Where, oh where, isthe Great Seal, with which he played ducks and drakes in the Thames? Yetno. This is no Jacobite plot, for His Majesty is followed by no troop ofpartisans on tiptoe in hose and doublet. He is not seeking to win hisown again. A woodman trudges behind--we recognise him, for his name's"Orlando"--(Wingfield himself, in a beautiful costume, which he had madetwo years previously when playing the part of Orlando in a production of"As You Like It" in Manchester, the Calvert Memorial performance; MissHelen Faucit (Lady Martin), Rosalind; Herman Merivale, Touchstone; TomTaylor, Adam; and other well-known celebrities assisting). Then hedescribes me: "A muffled creature of sinister aspect. Short, auburn-locked, extinguished by a portentous hat, tripping and stumblingover a cloak, or robe, in whose dragging folds he conceals his identityas well as his power of volition, a weird and gruesome phantom. What--oh what--is this hovering ghost? He must be just defunct, for thepurgatorial garments fit him not, he stumbles at every step, and when hetrips an underdress is unveiled that's like a City waiter's. What ishe--the arch conspirator--doing himself? He starts, tries to conceal abook, but we snatch it from him. Sketches! lots of sketches!caricatures, low and vulgar portraits of ourselves! 'What are you?' wescream, 'and why this orgy? Speak, caitiff, or for ever hold yourpeace!' [Illustration] "Perceiving that we are in earnest and not to be trifled with, and glarewith forbidding mien, the caitiff speaks in trembling accents. 'If youplease, ' he says, 'I'm the artist from the great illustrated journal;I'm drawing pictures of the lunatics. My disguise is beyond my owncontrol, and trips me up, but I'm told it's becoming. ' 'Lunatics!' weecho. "'Yes, ' the caitiff murmurs. 'This is the annual fancy dress ball atBrookwood Asylum. You and I and the doctors and attendants are the onlysane people in the place. By-and-by the country gentry will be admitted, and then the tangle will be hopeless, for even in everyday life it'simpossible to know who's mad and who isn't. How much more here?' "We left the trembling caitiff to his secret sketching, and thedespondency produced by his appearance. He was sane, was he? Then in himwere we revenged on human nature, for sure never was mortal moreoppressed by his gear and his surroundings. " The fact is that my editor, in sending his "young man, " omitted to saythat the invitation was crossed with "fancy dress only, " so I arrived inordinary war-paint. The Doctor was horrified. "This will never do. Mypatients will resent it. You _must_ be in fancy dress. " All my hostcould find was a seedy red curtain and an old cocked hat (had it been anightcap I should have been complete as Caudle). I wrapped this martialcloak around me, and soon found myself in the most extraordinary scene, so graphically described by Wingfield. He was not alone in his scornfor me. The "Duke of York" had a great contempt for my appearance, butwhen introduced to him as His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales, heunbent, waved his bauble, and commanded me to be seated. The visitorseyed me suspiciously all the evening, and on my entering thesupper-room, accompanied by the Doctor, they were seized with the ideathat I must be a very dangerous case, and readily made room--in fact, made off. One of the poor patients was an artist, and showed me hissketch-book, the work of many, many months--a number of drawings incolour, stuck one on top of the other, resembling an elongatedconcertina, so that only the corners of the pages could be seen. Thepatients wore costumes designed and made by themselves, in markedcontrast to their stylish keepers. Among the guests the county familieswere well represented, and garrison officers from a neighbouring depôtformed a motley group which a looker-on, viewing the scene as in akaleidoscope, would laugh at. One turn, and the next moment someincident might occur which an imaginative brain could easily work into aromance too touching to relate. For some years I had quite a run of fancy dress balls, a craze at thattime, acting as special artist for various periodicals, the _IllustratedLondon News_ in particular. The ball above recorded was unique, butthere is very little variety in such gatherings, where variety is theone thing aimed at, thus showing the limit of our English artisticinvention. The ingredients of a ball of three hundred, say, would be asfollows, --Thirty Marie Stuarts, ten Marguerites, twenty-eight Fausts, fifty Flower Girls, nine Portias, three Clowns, sixteen Matadores, thirty Sailors, twenty-five Ophelias, twenty-five Desdemonas, theremainder uniforms and nondescripts. Of course any popular figure, picture or play of the moment will be represented. When the relief ofMafeking took place, the number of Baden-Powells, tall, short, young, old, thin and stout, in the various fancy balls and bazaars appearingwill be, as newspaper leader-writers say, "a fact fresh in the mind ofthe reader. " Some years ago a portrait of the "missing Gainsborough, " apicture of the Duchess of Devonshire, which mysteriously vanished fromAgnew's gallery in Bond Street, was represented in dozens at the fancyballs of the period, and the Gilbert-Sullivan opera "Patience, " suppliedmany a costume. My brother "special" on this occasion--LewisWingfield--was a Crichton of eccentricity. The son of an Irish peer, anofficer in the Guards, he dressed as a ballet-girl and danced on thestage; was a journalist and wrote for Charles Dickens when that greatnovelist edited _Household Words_. Wingfield never did anything byhalves, so in writing a series of articles for Dickens on the casualwards of London he personated a street photographer (having delicatehands he could not pretend to be a labourer), and wrote his experiencesof the dreadful state of affairs existing in those days under the ruleof Bumbledom. The last he sought relief at was situated close to GoldenSquare. Here he was very harshly treated, and when he left he rapidlychanged into his usual clothes, drove up to the establishment as one ofthe life patrons (all his family had for years supported the charity), and had the satisfaction of dismissing the overbearing overseer, to thewretch's chagrin. Wingfield related this incident with great glee. [Illustration: AT A FANCY DRESS BALL. ] Anxious to find out the amount niggers made on the Derby Day, he decidedto go as a burnt-cork nigger himself; but it is impossible to do thisunless you are of that ilk, for like the business of the beggars andstreet performers, everything is properly organised; there is a propersystem and superintendent to arrange matters. After some difficulty hemanaged to get introduced as the genuine article, and at 4 in themorning had to stand with the other Ethiopian minstrels at "PovertyJunction, " between Waterloo Bridge and Waterloo Station, while lots weredrawn for positions on the course. As luck would have it, Wingfield drewa pitch opposite the Grand Stand, where at least he would be among hisown acquaintances. All the niggers had to walk to Epsom, unless ithappened some friendly carter could be induced to offer a seat. Hadfour-in-hands come along Wingfield might have been saved a walk, butcosters were to him unknown. By lunch-time he was heartily sick of hisnew life. However, he was determined to carry it through. In theevening, after his long, hot day's work, he found he had to wait for thepoliceman's train. After the half-million people had returned to London, he was allowed to crawl into a carriage, and being thoroughly tired hefell asleep in a corner of the compartment. But the police wanted someentertainment, and waking him up, said: "Now then, darky, tune up! we can pay you as well as the toffs; let'shave a song!" They had a concert all the way, Wingfield singing thesolos. The hat was sent round and a collection made, and to the bitterend Wingfield had to bang away at his banjo and squeak with what littlevoice he had left. This nearly finished him. Arriving at Victoria, hehailed a hansom. One driver after another eyed him scornfully and passedon. He then for the first time realised that it is not a customary thingfor an itinerant nigger to drive about London in hansoms, even on DerbyDay. So he dragged himself wearily along the streets until he happenedto meet an intimate friend. To him he explained matters, and his friendcalled a hansom for him and paid the driver as well before he would takeup his dusky fare. He thought the fact of his driving a street nigger agreat joke, and made merry over his passenger as he passed the otherdrivers. But he was very much astonished when he drove up in front ofquite an imposing dwelling and saw the door opened by a footman as thenigger toiled up the steps. [Illustration: LEWIS WINGFIELD AS A STREET NIGGER HOME FROM THE DERBY. ] As an artist Wingfield was ambitious. Finding, as he told me, that hecould never be a great artist, he preferred not to be one at all. On hiswalls were large classic paintings, not likely ever to find their way tothe walls of anyone else. But he tried his hand at popular art as well. A scene in a circus, for instance, was one subject. A pretty littlechild was engaged to sit in his studio, but as that day he was going toHengler's Circus to paint the background he, to the delight of thechild, took her with him. The little girl played about in the ring, andwas noticed by Mr. Hengler, who asked her if she would like to bedressed up and play in the same ring at night. This led to the childbecoming a professional. She enchanted everyone as Cinderella. Her namewas Connie Gilchrist. I fell in love with her myself when I was in myteens and first saw her as Cinderella. Afterwards when I came to LondonI was as ignorant as a Lord Chief Justice as to who Connie Gilchristwas; but I recollect a model sitting to me recommending my writing toher younger sister for some figures she thought her sister would suit. The day was fixed, but by the morning's post I received a letter fromthe young lady to say that Mr. Hollingshead, of the Gaiety Theatre, hadsent for her, and she could not sit to me. She was Connie Gilchrist, andI believe this was the last engagement she had accepted as aprofessional model. Telegram from the editor of the _Illustrated London News_:--"Election, Liverpool, see to it at once. " So I did. On arriving in the evening, Irushed off to a "ward meeting, " To my surprise the artist of a rivalpaper sat down beside me. He did not frighten me away, but candidlyconfessed that he had seen a private telegram of mine saying I wasstarting, and his editor packed him off by the same train. Ha! I must beequal to him! I sat up all night and drew a page on wood, ready forengraving, and sent it off by the first train in the morning. It was inthe press before my rival's rough notes left Liverpool. One would hardlythink, to see candles stuck in my boots, that the hotel was the OldAdelphi. I trust the "special" of the future will find the electriclight, or a better supply of bedroom candlesticks. All day againsketching, and all night hard at work, burning the midnight oil (I wasnearly writing boots). A slice of luck kept me awake in the earlymorning. A knock at my door, and to my surprise a friend walked in whohad come down by a night train for a "daily" and seeing my name in thevisitors' book had looked me up, thinking I could give him some "tips. ""All right, " I said; "a bargain: you sit for me and I'll talk. Here, stand like this"--the Liberal candidate. "Capital! Now round likethis"--the Conservative. "Drawn from life! And after another day of thiskind of thing, I reached home without having had an hour's sleep. Oh! a"special's" life is not a happy one. [Illustration: AN ALL-NIGHT SITTING. ] Great political excitement, there is no doubt, turns men's heads. Once Irecollect finding a most dignified provincial politician in this state, and necessity compelled me to turn him into a sketching-stool. Mr. Gladstone was speaking at Bingley Hall, Birmingham, and although closeto him on the platform, I could not, being only five feet two, see overthe heads of others when all stood to cheer. I mentioned this fact to myneighbour. "Oh, you must not miss this scene!" he said, and quickly, without ceremony, he had me on his back, his bald head serving as aneasel. It has struck me since that had this old gentleman, a big man inhis native town, and still bigger in his own estimation, seen himself asothers saw him at that moment, the probability is that he would nothave felt anything like so kindly to me as I did to him. [Illustration: SKETCHES AT THE LIVERPOOL ELECTION: A WARD MEETING. --SEEPAGE 138. _Reduction of Page Design. Brush Drawing on wood, made after electionmeeting at night, and despatched to London by early morning train. Seethe Confessions of a Special Artist. _] Another instance of a special artist having to depend upon his wits waswhen I found myself at a big central manufacturing town, sent down in ahurry from London by the _Illustrated London News_ to illustrate a mostimportant election meeting--an election upon which the fate of theGovernment of the day depended. When I arrived the mills had beenclosed, crowds were in the streets, and it would have been a simplematter to have got into Mafeking compared with getting into the hall inwhich the meeting was at the time being held. [Illustration: MY EASEL. DRAWING MR. GLADSTONE AT A PUBLIC MEETING. ] If there is one thing I dislike more than another it is a crowd, particularly an electioneering crowd. Political fever is a bad malady, even when one is impervious to it, if he has to fight his way through aninfected mob. Quickly slipping round to the principal hotel, and findingthere the carriages engaged for the celebrities of the meeting, I gotinto one and was driven rapidly up to the hall, cheered by the mob, whodoubtless looked upon me as some active politician. Had I put my headout of the window and promised them any absurdity, I believe they wouldhave chosen me their member on the spot. Arriving at the hall, I wasreceived by the tipstaffs, who, probably not catching my namedistinctly, thought as the hotel people had done, that I was sent downin some official capacity, and politely ushered me to the platform, where I was given a seat in the front row. Ah, you little know the difficulties of the poor artist in running hissubjects to earth. When in New York I was specially engaged by the _NewYork Herald_ to contribute a series of studies of the leading publicmen. These were to appear in the Sunday edition. Those Sunday papers! What gluttons for reading the Americans are! Thefirst Sabbath morning I was in the States I telephoned in an off-handsort of way from my bedroom for "some Sunday papers. " I went ondressing, and somehow forgot my order, but on leaving, or ratherattempting to leave, my room afterwards, I found to my astonishment thedoorway completely blocked with newspapers to the quantity of severaltons. I rang my bell vigorously. The attendant arrived, and seemedconsiderably amused at my look of consternation. He explained to me thatthese were five of the Sunday papers, and added apologetically that theywere all he could get at present. If I had stayed to read through thatpile I should be in the States now. [Illustration: THE AMERICAN SUNDAY PAPERS. ] The first "subject" I was requested to caricature was the celebratedsensational preacher, Dr. Parkhurst. When I arrived at his church it wascrowded to the doors, and I could not get near him. A churchwarden toldme to sit down where I was, but I put my hand to my ear and shook myhead, as much as to say "I do not hear you. " Then one churchwarden saidto the other churchwarden, "This man is deaf, he doesn't hear; I wastelling him to sit down--" "Pardon me, but are you speaking?" I whispered. "I regret to say that Iam very deaf. I came specially from London to hear your great preacher, and I should not like to return without gratifying this one desire Ihave. " "Say, is your wife here to-day?" asked one churchwarden of the other. "No, she is sick at home. " "Could not you squeeze this funny little Britisher into your pew?" "Guess I could. " So they beckoned to me to follow them, and I was ushered up the aisleand sat under the Doctor. The result of that little manoeuvre was thatI did my work in peace, although sadly troubled to see his face inconsequence of the church being dark and the reading lamp hiding portionof it. In America introductions are superfluous, so knowing Dr. Parkhurst cameover in the _Germanic_, the same ship that I travelled in some monthslater, I walked boldly after the service into his room, shook him by thehand, and mentioned in a familiar way the officers of the ship, thestorm, and other matters connected with his journey, and in that way hadthe chance of ten minutes' chat and a closer observation of his facialexpression. It may happen, even when everything is carefully prepared to make thevisit of a special artist easy and comfortable, that work may bedifficult to accomplish. I must go to the United States for anillustration of what I mean. Some years ago I met Max O'Rell at a London club, and was introduced byhim to a very English-looking gentleman with an American accent, whoimmediately said: "Glad to meet you, Mr. Furniss. When you come over to the States we mustput you on the grill!" What did he mean? I looked at Max. Max turned pale, and seemed for amoment to lose his self-possession, then hurriedly whispered in my ear: "Jolly good fellow--very witty--president of strange club in Americawhere they chaff their guests--see my last book!" I recollected reading about a club that goes in for roasting as well astoasting its guests, and replied: "Strange!" I said. "I always thought the Americans were in advance ofthe English; yet here in my country we do not put the Furniss on thegrill, but the grill on the furnace!" Max laughed and looked relieved, and said: "You'll do--they'll let you off easy. A Frenchman can't stand chaff, soI sat down. " He had stood the fire of the enemy upon the field of battle, but hecouldn't stand the fusillade of wit from the Americans at their dinnertable. The stranger was no other than Major Moses P. Handy, afterwards "Chiefof Department of Publicity and Promotion at the World's ColumbianExposition, Chicago;" so when I found myself in the "Windy City" as anunattached "special" from the Old World to the New "World's Fair, " Icalled at Rand-McNally Buildings, not to be put on the grill, but to beput in possession of some facts concerning that great "Exposition. " [Illustration: MAJOR HANDY. ] Sometimes there is a great deal in a name. For instance, the late MajorHandy at once indicated the man--handy, always ready with tongue, handsand legs. He handed me round the city, told me of its wonders, and sentme off enraptured to the "Exposition. " Here I was met by one of thestaff, and escorted all over the skeleton of what eventually proved tobe the most wonderful "Exposition, " Exhibition, World's Fair, orwhatever you like to call it, that the New World had ever seen. The gentleman in possession who met me and acted as my guide was aclean-cut featured, smooth-faced, typical American, "full of wise sawsand modern instances" and--tobacco juice. He had a merry wit, and hisrunning commentary would have been invaluable "copy" to America's pethumourist, Bill Nye. I had a pencil in the pocket in one side of my coat, and a note-book inthe pocket in the other side, but the carriage in which I was drivenabout rushed on so over the rough ground and "corduroy roads" and hillsand chasms, that I found it a matter of utter impossibility to get thepencil and the book out together, and, therefore, the facts I give aboutthe "Exposition" may want verification, for my worthy guide kept firingthem into me with the rapidity of a Maxim or a Hotchkiss. [Illustration: THE WORLD'S FAIR, CHICAGO. A "SPECIAL'S" VISIT. ] "Now here is the Manufactures and Liberal Arts Building. Guess thelargest building ever erected--1, 641, 223 feet long, 17, 894 feet high--"Down goes the trap on one side, plunging into some excavation, like adouble-harnessed Roman chariot. However, we scrambled up again, but Ihad lost the important figure of the width of the building. Now I don'tfor a moment wish to imply that my guide was exaggerating, but thisrather reminds me of a story told of an American visiting England, andhis host there one day remarked to him: "My dear fellow, we are delighted with you here--in fact, you are quitea favourite; but you will excuse me if I tell you that you possess onefailing pretty general with your countrymen--you do exaggerate so!" "Guess I kean't help it, but if you'll just kindly give me a kick underthe table when I'm going too far I'll pull up sharp!" With this agreement they went out to dinner that evening, and amongother topics the conversation turned upon conservatories. Captain deVere said that he had a conservatory 200 feet long, but that the Duke ofOrchid had one nearly 1, 000 feet long. The American here struck in with: "I reckon, gentlemen, you're talking about conserva_tor_ies. Now there'sa friend of mine in Amurrca, a private gentleman, who has aconserva_tor_y 5, 000 feet long, 3, 000 feet high, and" (kick)--"oh!--2feet wide!" But had I heard the figures representing the width of the building, Idon't suppose they would have been in the same absurd proportion asthis, for not all the shin-kicking in the world would have deterred myentertaining and conversational conductor. "You must assemble together in your mind's eye all the mighty structuresalready existing in the world to form any idea of the magnitude of this_tre_menjious edifice before you. It is sixteen times as large as St. Peter's Cathedral at Rome, Westminster Abbey and St. Paul's Cathedralwould nestle together in its ventilating shaft, and the whole of thearmies of Europe could sit down comfortably to dinner in the centralhall. The Tower of London would be lost under one of the staircases, andfifty Cleopatra's Needles stuck one on top of the other would notscratch the roof. The building cost fifty million six hundred andeighty-four thousand two hundred dollars seventy-five cents, and----" Ondashed the horses in their wild career. Down we went, I thought into the bed of Lake Michigan, but in an instantwe were up again, my hat in one direction and my stick in another, and Iwas well shaken before being taken to the next building. "Say, Mr. Furniss, the roads are not complete yet, but you mustn't mindthese little ups and downs. Guess these horses would pull throughanything--brought 'em right away from the fire-engine shed, considerablefresh!" At this moment a train came puffing along laden with masses of ironworkfor the central building. The horses shied at the smoky monster, turneda somersault (at least, so it seemed to me), and we nearly took a headerinto the lake again; but the charioteer managed to turn them just intime, and the fiery fire-engine steeds snorted past their iron brother, eclipsing even his noise and steam. [Illustration: "ON DASHED THE HORSES IN THEIR WILD CAREER. "] I now began to feel thoroughly happy, but I kept a watchful eye on thosegee-gees, and as we skipped over impromptu bridges, whizzed round thecorners of newly-made piles, and bumped over incomplete parapets, Iquite enjoyed myself; but somehow or other I couldn't quite manage tocatch all the marvellous details respecting the buildings we werepassing. I was qualifying myself for the Volunteer Fire Brigade. But oursteeds were reined in for a moment while my guide pointed out to me theDairy Building. "I reckon, sir, " he said, "that dairy will be an eye-opener. It'll be_soo_perb, and I guess it won't be long after the opening of the showthat they'll be turning out gold-edged butter!" Off we go again, over mounds and down dykes, jumping rocks and shootingrapids, and I am certain that had our conveyance been a milk-cart, butter, gold-edged or otherwise, would have been produced pretty soon. We pull up with a jerk opposite the Agricultural Building. "The building is 5, 000 by 8, 000 feet, design bold and heroic. On eachcorner and from the centre of the building are reared pavilions. " "Indeed!" I said. "Are they reared by incubators, or upon some specialsoil from the fertile tracts of the Far West?" My guide did not evidently deem my question worthy an answer, andcontinued: "Surmounted by a mammoth glass dome 460 feet high, constructed onpurpose to accommodate the giant Pennsylvania pumpkin we're havingraised specially for the Exposition. That pumpkin will be hollowed out, and 600 people will be able to sit down together at once in itsinterior. " "Now we'll go to the Transportation Building, " said my indefatigableconductor to the driver. "Bless me!" I thought; "is this a convict prison? Are we to havevisitors from Sing Sing, and am I to see some of my friends fromPortland and Dartmoor? Will there be a model of the Bastille, and acontingent of escaped refugees from the mines of Siberia? Or is thebuilding an enormous concern for the transport of visitors to and fromthe Exposition?" "Say, Mr. Furniss, this is the most original conception in the wholeExposition. You'll see contrasted here every mode of transport, and acomplete train, with a display of locomotives never before attempted, will be quite _stu_pendous! To quote the guidebook: 'There will be atleast 100 engines exhibited, and placed so as to face each other, ' andevery day we will have a steam tournament. Guess it will be a case ofthe survival of the fittest of the engines when they meet! Visitors fondof railway accidents can be despatched with a completeness only to bewitnessed in the stock-yards of this great city!" This ghastly suggestion had the effect of making me feel morecomfortable than ever. We had been some hours driving through this wonderful skeleton city. The last dying rays of the setting sun, sinking behind the sweepingprairies of the far, far West, lit up the horizon with a blood-red glow, and, as the shades of evening began to descend and envelop the embryoExposition, the driver turned the horses' heads whence we hadcome--towards the sunset. The animals snorted, their nostrils inflated, their eyes glistened, and, with tails erect, they tore off straight ahead at a tremendous rate. They couldn't understand why they had been driven aimlessly about allthis time; but now they saw the glare, as they thought, of the fire--theglare they had been accustomed to regard as the beacon to guide them totheir goal--a goal which had to be reached with lightning speed. [Illustration] It seemed as if we were flying through a beautiful place destroyed bythe ravages of fire, for in the dim evening light the outlined housesgave one the impression that they formed a city dead, not a citynewly-born. Away to the Wild West of the Exposition we flew, and were eventuallypulled up outside of one of the larger and more complete buildings. Myfaculties had been about all shaken out of me by this time, and I was sobewildered by the chaos of figures in my brain--all that were left ofthe volumes that had been poured into my ears--that I had to be all butlifted out of the fire-engine trap by my good guide. He said, in anundertone: "Now I'm going to show you something we keep a profound secret. " Making a supreme effort, I dispersed temporarily the armies of figuresconflicting in my unfortunate head, and became once more a rationalbeing, so as to appreciate fully this visual tit-bit reserved to thelast. We entered the structure. What was it? A mortuary, adissecting-chamber, or a pantomime property-room? Numbers of ghost-likebeings with bared arms streaming with an opaque-white liquid appeared tobe engaged in some ghoulish machinations. Mutilated figures of giganticcreatures lay strewn about in reckless confusion. It seemed as ifpigmies were butchering giants; and in the dim, weird light among theseuncanny surroundings my jumbled imagination whispered to me that, afterall, this stupendous Exhibition I had just rushed through could notpossibly be the work of the insignificant little men who swarmed allover the colossal buildings in such ridiculously absurd proportion totheir pretended handiwork. [Illustration: THE CHARNEL-HOUSE, CHICAGO'S WORLD FAIR. ] No, these giants had performed this herculean undertaking, and were nowbeing cut up--the reward of many who attempt such ambitious tasks. Inreality, though, this charnel-house was the sculptors' studio, in whichwere modelled the gigantic figures which were to be placed on thebuildings and about the grounds. Now were I to design a model for a statue to be placed in theExposition, it would certainly be one of my excellent and entertainingcompanion, who proved himself a model conductor, a model of an Americangentleman, and one who is justly proud, as all Americans must be, ofthe greatness and thoroughness of the most splendid and most interestingExhibition ever recorded in the annals of their great country. * * * * * One day I slipped up to 10, Downing Street, to make a note of that veryordinary, albeit mystical, abode of English Premiers and officials. Theeagle eye of the policeman was upon me, and he was soon at my sidesubjecting me to minute examination. My explanation satisfied him thatthe only lead I had about me was encased in wood for the purpose ofdrawing, and that the substance in my hand was not dynamite, butinnocent indiarubber, for wiping out people and places only of my owncreation. "Ah, sir, there ain't much to see there, unless the 'allporter's a-lookin' out of the winder. But you ought ter be 'ere in themornin' and see the Premier a-shavin' of 'imself, with a piece of oldlookin'-glass stuck up on the winder ter see 'imself in--just wot thelikes of us would do!" So I, as a "special, " was allowed to make a sketch of the outside of thefamous No. 10. Not long afterwards I happened to be standing in the sameplace with a number of journalists and a crowd of the public when apolitical crisis drew all attention to the Cabinet, the members of whichwere arriving at intervals, recognised and cheered by the curious. Asthe door opened to allow one of the members of the Cabinet to enter, acertain official noticed me standing on the opposite side of the street. To my surprise he beckoned to me, and said, "I have been waiting to seeyou, Mr. Furniss, for a long time. I have some sketches in the househere I want you to see whenever you can honour me with a visit. " "No time like the present moment, " I said. Before the official realised that the present moment was a dangerous onefor the admittance of strangers I was taken into the house. Whileexamining the works of art in the official's private room a knock cameto the door, which necessitated his leaving me. The moment of the"special" had arrived--now or never for a Cabinet Council! I was downthe passage, and in a few minutes stood in the presence of the Cabinet, when Mr. Gladstone, the Premier, was addressing Lord Granville and theothers, who were seated, and just as the Duke of Devonshire (then LordHartington) pushed by me into the room, I was seized by the alarmedofficial. Of course I apologised for my stupidity in taking the wrongturning, and I asked him about Mr. Gladstone's three mysterious hats inthe hall, which he informed me Mr. Gladstone always had by him, --threehats symbolic of his oratorical peculiarity of using the well-knownphrase, "There are three courses open to us. " I patted Lord Hartington's dog on the head, and had quietly taken mydeparture before the official was called into the Cabinet and questionedabout the "spy" who had so mysteriously interrupted their proceedings. But what was perhaps a more daring and difficult feat than seeing aCabinet Council was to disturb the "Sage of Queen Anne's Gate" in hissemi-official residence. It so happened some few years ago I wascommissioned by an illustrated paper to make a drawing of a peculiarscene that took place in the House of Commons. It was Mr. Gladstone'sonly appearance in the Strangers' smoking-room of the House, into whichhe had been lured by the Member for Northampton to attend a performanceof a thought reader, which Mr. Labouchere had arranged perhaps to showhis serious interest in the business of the country connected with ourgreat Houses of Parliament. Not being present at this show, I had nomeans of getting material, and, being in a hurry, I boldly drove up tothe house of the "Sage of Queen Anne's Gate. " And as I always treatpeople as they treat others, I thought that a little of the Laboucheriancheek (shall I substitute the word for confidence?) would not be out ofplace in this instance. The servant took my card, and brought back themessage that Mr. Labouchere was not at home. As I was at that momentactually acting the character of the "Sage, " and remembering thestories, true or untrue, which he so delights in telling himself abouthis own coolness in matters probably not less important than this, Iasked the servant to allow me to write a letter to Mr. Labouchere, and Iwas shown into his study, where I sat, and intended to sit, until Mr. Labouchere made his appearance. From time to time the servant looked in, but the letter was never written. And my thought-reading proved correct. Without my pen and pencil I drew Mr. Labouchere. He eventually camedownstairs, and gave me all the information I required. * * * * * [Illustration] London was in darkness. To quote the papers, "Foggy obscuration restedover the greater part of its area. " And I, in common with millions ofothers, was having my breakfast by gaslight, when I received aneditorial summons to attend the trial of the Bishop of Lincoln atLambeth Palace. Soon a hansom was at the door, with two lamps outsideand one within; the latter smelt most horribly, and I found out later onthat it leaked and had ruined my new overcoat. With an agility quitemarvellous under the circumstances the horse slipped its slimy way overthe greasy streets to Lambeth, and dashed through the fog overWestminster Bridge in a most reckless manner, which disconcertingperformance was partly explained by its suddenly stopping at the stabledoor of Sanger's and refusing to budge. I was partially consoled by thefact that we were just opposite St. Thomas's Hospital, so that I shouldbe in good hands if the worst befell. The fog becoming even denser, Sanger's became veiled from the sight of our fiery steed, whichthereupon consented to slide on towards Lambeth Palace. A sharp turnbrought us to the gateway, where stood a hearse and string of mourningcoaches. Was I too late? Had the Bishops passed sentence, and had theloved one of Lincoln really been beheaded? My fears on this point were relieved by a policeman, who restrained mydriver's energetic endeavours to drive through the wall of the Palace, and as my password was "Jeune" (November would have been moreappropriate on such a morning) I was allowed inside the gates. Here Icould not see my hand, or anyone else's, in front of me, and afterstumbling up some steps and down some others I finally flattened my noseagainst a door. Policeman No. 2 suddenly appeared, and turned hisbull's-eye upon me. I felt that I was doomed to the deepest dungeonbeneath the castle moat; I thought of the whipping-post I have read ofin connection with the Palace; of the Guard Room with its pikes andinstruments of torture, and I trembled. Luckily, however, the rays ofthe lantern fell upon the note in my hand, addressed to Francis Jeune, Q. C. , and the good-natured "All right, sir. Go hup. 'E's a-speakin'now, " came as a reprieve. I stumble into the large historic hall known as the Library, wherein thegreat trial of the Bishop of Lincoln is being held. The weird scenestrongly resembles the Dream Trial in "The Bells, " where the judges, counsel, and all concerned are in a fog. I expect the limelight to flashsuddenly upon the chief actor, the Bishop of Lincoln, as he takes thestage and re-acts the part that has caused the trial. The only lights inthe long and lofty Library, excepting the clerical and legal, are adozen or two wax candles and a few oil-lamps--of daylight, gaslight, orelectric light, nothing. I can hear the voice of Jeune, Q. C. , whichgladdens my heart amid these sepulchral surroundings, but I see him not. As my eyes gradually become accustomed to the strange scene, I find thatit is composed of three distinct "sets, " which present the appearance ofa muddled-up stage picture when the flats go wrong, and you have a partof the Surrey Hills, a corner of Drury Lane and a side of a West Enddrawing-room run on at the same time. At the further end of the Library we have the Church, very High Church, represented by an Archbishop and five Bishops; also a Judge, in afull-bottomed wig, who has evidently got in by mistake. Then we have theLaw, represented by a row of Q. C. 's, their juniors, and attendants; andthen a chorus of ordinary people and common, or Thames Policemen. Theseare separated by red ropes and some red tape; the latter I cut with myself-written passport--my note to the Q. C. Who still addresses theCourt. [Illustration: THE BISHOP OF LINCOLN'S TRIAL. (_From "Punch. "_)] I have come here to see the Bishop of Lincoln, and I roam about in thefog to find him. Ah, that figure! there he is! I immediately sketch him, only to find out that the individual in question is the Clerk of theCourt, or whatever the title of that functionary's equivalent may be inLambeth Palace. What vexes me is that whenever I enquire the whereaboutsof the Bishop, a warning finger is raised to the lips to denote silence. The Bishops sit round three tables, on a raised platform. In the centreis the Archbishop of Canterbury; on his right the mysterious Judge, infull wig and red robes; here is the Vicar-General, Sir James ParkerDeane, Q. C. ; next to him sits Assessor Dr. Atlay, Bishop of Hereford, who looks anything but happy, his hair presenting the appearance ofbeing blown about by a strong draught, while his hand is raised to hisface, suggesting that the draught had caused toothache. The portlyBishop of Oxford on his right, like the other corner man, the Bishop ofSalisbury, scribbles away at a great rate in a huge manuscript book orroll of foolscap. On the left of the Archbishop sits the Bishop ofLondon, who severely interrogates the Counsel, and evidently relishesacting the schoolmaster once more. The Bishop of Rochester, sitting onLondon's left, supplies the element of comedy as far as facialexpression goes, and his wide-open mouth and papers held in front of himlead me to expect him to burst into song at any moment. But where is_the_ Bishop--the Bishop of Lincoln? Ah, now I see him, in one of thoseside courts, and I forthwith sketch him, marvelling at my stupidity innot identifying him before. I write his name under the sketch, and showit to one of the reporters. He scribbles "Wrong man" across it. Doneagain! I write, "Then where is he?" He waves me away, as Mr. Jeune isquoting some extraordinary document six hundred years old in reply toSir Horace Davey's authority, which only dates back five hundred andninety-nine years. It suddenly occurs to me that the Bishop is besidehis Counsel at the other end of the long table, but, alas! there is acandle in front of him. This is all I can see, so I make my way to theother side of the table, only to discover that my Bishop is an old lady. I write on a piece of paper, "Where does the Bishop of Lincoln sit?" andtake it to an official. It is too dark to read, so some time is lostwhile he takes my memorandum to a candle. He looks across at me, andpoints to a corner. At last! good! The old gentleman in the corner is in plain clothes, itis true, but still he looks every inch a Bishop. I cautiously approachto a coign of vantage close beside him, and have just finished a carefulstudy of him, when he turns round to me and whispers, "Please, sir, canyou tell me which is the Bishop of Lincoln?" I shake my head angrily, and move away. This is really humbug. I'll bide my time, and takeCounsel's opinion--I'll ask Mr. Jeune. He is just occupied in answeringthe hundred and seventh question of the Bishop of London, and is being"supported" by Sir Walter Phillimore. Indeed, it amuses me to see theway in which these two clever Counsel, when in a fog (and are we not allin one?), hold an animated legal conversation between themselves, andtotally ignore the Bishops--not that the latter seem to mind, for theyscribble away merrily. An evil suspicion creeps into my head that theyare seizing the opportunity to write their next Sunday's sermons. In the meantime I discover that one of the little side courts isconverted into a studio, with an easel and canvas. I approach my brotherbrush, feeling that he, or she, or both (for a lady and a gentleman werejointly at work upon a picture of the Trial, in black and white--theblack was visible, but there was no chance of seeing the white) willtell me where I can catch a glimpse of the Bishop of Lincoln. I whisperthe question. But a "Hush!" goes up from the H'Usher, and the artists, sympathising with me in my dilemma, obtain a candle and point out theBishop to me in their picture. I slip away in search of that face. Itsowner ought to be near his Counsel. The severe Sir Horace Davey sitswriting letters; next him is the affable Dr. Tristram, then the rubicundMr. Danckwerts, but no Bishop--in fact, there is no one of publicinterest to be seen; probably they have not come, as to-day is to be ahalf-holiday. It is now one o'clock, and the Bishops rise to go to theLevée. I pounce upon Francis Jeune, Q. C. , and gasp, "Where, oh, where isthe Bishop of Lincoln? Quick! I want to sketch him before he leaves. ""Oh, he's not here--never comes near the place!" The play is over for the day. I have seen "Hamlet" with the Prince leftout. CHAPTER IV. THE CONFESSIONS OF AN ILLUSTRATOR--A SERIOUS CHAPTER. Drawing--"Hieroglyphics"--Clerical Portraiture--A Commission from General Booth--In Search of Truth--Sir Walter Besant--James Payn--Why Theodore Hook was Melancholy--"Off with his Head"--Reformers' Tree--Happy Thoughts--Christmas Story--Lewis Carroll--The Rev. Charles Lutwidge Dodgson--Sir John Tenniel--The Challenge--Seven Years' Labour--A Puzzle MS. --Dodgson on Dress--Carroll on Drawing--Sylvie and Bruno--A Composite Picture--My Real Models--I am very Eccentric--My "Romps"--A Letter from du Maurier--Caldecott--Tableaux--Fine Feathers--Models--Fred Barnard--The Haystack--A Wicket Keeper--A Fair Sitter--Neighbours--The Post-Office Jumble--Puzzling the Postmen--Writing Backwards--A Coincidence. [Illustration: If] If I confess as a caricaturist, surely I need not caricature myconfessions by any mock-modesty. Although I have illustrated novels, short stories, fairy tales, poems, parodies, satires, and _jeuxd'esprit_, for the realistic, the fanciful, the weirdly imaginative andthe broadly humorous, as my _Punch_ colleague, E. T. Milliken, wrote, mymore distinctive, natural and favourite _métier_ is that of graphic art. This intimate friend, in publishing his "appreciation" of me, put in hisown too highly-coloured opinion of my black and white work in thisdirection. I blush to quote it: [Illustration: MAJUBA HILL. DRAWN BY HARRY FURNISS. _Reproduced by permission of the proprietors of the "Illustrated London News. "_] "And they are in error who imagine Mr. Furniss's powers to besubstantially limited to political satire or Parliamentary caricature. Much of the work he has already given to the public, and perhaps more ofthat which he has not yet published, but of which his chosen familiarsare aware, will prove that in more serious or imaginative work, instrong, vivid realism as well as in frolic fancy, in landscape as wellas in life, in the picturesque as well as in the humorous, he candisplay a notable mastery. " This confession of one of my "chosen familiars" I have the pluck toreprint, as an answer to those unknown strangers who so frequently writeme down as "a conventional comic draughtsman of funny ill-drawn littlefigures. " "What shall I call him?" said one; "a master ofhieroglyphics?" Well, if I am commissioned to draw humoroushieroglyphics, I do my best to master their difficulties. Caricaturepure and simple is not the art I either care for or succeed inpractising as well as I do in my less known more serious and morefinished work. When I joined _Punch_, at the age of twenty-six, I hadhad nine-tenths of my time previous to that occupied (ever since I wasfifteen years of age) in drawing far more elaborate and finished workthan would be in keeping in a periodical such as _Punch_. _Punch_required "funny little figures, " and I supplied them; but my _métier_, Imust confess, was work requiring more demand upon direct draughtsmanshipand power. I am a funny man, a caricaturist, by force of circumstances;an artist, a satirist, and a cartoonist by nature and training. The onerequires technical knowledge--in the other, "drawing doesn't count. " Themore amateurish the work, the funnier the public consider it. Theserious confession I have to make is that I have been mistaken for acaricaturist in the accepted and limited meaning of the term. "It is the ambition of every low comedian to play Hamlet, that of everycaricaturist to be able to paint a picture which shall be worthy of aplace on the walls of the National Gallery, " are my own words on theplatform; but I do not essay to play Hamlet on the platform, nor do Ipaint pictures for posterity in my studio. Therefore I do not placemyself in the category of either, for I am neither a low comedian noram I strictly and solely a mere caricaturist. This fact is perhaps notgenerally known to the public, but it is known to the publishers, andwhen a Society Church paper wished to present a series ofsupplements--portraits of the leading clergy--I was selected as theartist. The portrait of Canon Liddon, which is here very much reduced, is one of these. [Illustration: CANON LIDDON. A SKETCH FROM LIFE. ] And furthermore I received a commission from General Booth, whichunfortunately, through pressure of work, I was unable to undertake, tomake a study of Mrs. Booth, who was at the time on her death-bed, suffering from cancer, which the General was "exceedingly anxious" toreproduce and issue to his Army, as he had "never yet been able tosecure a good photograph, although frequent attempts had been made byeminent London photographers. " I must confirm, a confession I made some years ago to the editor of the_Magazine of Art_ regarding some of the difficulties with which artistsillustrating books have to contend. In that I questioned whether authorsand artists worked sufficiently together. Few authors are asconscientious as Dickens was, or, in fact, care to consult with theirillustrators at all. In operatic work the librettist and composer mustwork hand in hand. Should not the artist do likewise? Undoubtedly there are some writers who take great trouble to see theirsubject from the artistic standpoint. One sensational writer with whom Iam acquainted will make a complete model in cardboard of his "HauntedGrange, " so as to avoid absurdities in the working out of the tale. The"Blood-stained Tower" is therefore always in its place, and the"Assassin's Door" and "Ghost's Window" do not change places, to thebewilderment of the keen-witted reader. Many writers, on the other hand, show an extraordinary carelessness, or, shall I say, agility? "HilarityHall" or "Stucco Castle" is supposed to be a firm erection, capable ofwithstanding storm, or, if necessary, siege; whereas the artist toooften detects the author turning it inside out and upside down to suithis convenience, like the mechanical quick-change scenes in our modernrealistic dramas. It may seem strange, but I have never found over-conscientiousness inseeking to secure "local colour" meet with the slightest reward. Twoinstances among many similar experiences which have fallen to my lotwill serve to show my ground for making this observation. Those who have read Sir Walter Besant's delightful but little known "Allin a Garden Fair" (it is interesting to know that this wassemi-autobiographical, and that its original title was "All in a GardenGreen") will recollect the minute description of the locality in whichthe opening scenes take place. The author and I "talked it over. " Hetold me the exact spot where the story was laid--a village a good manymiles from London. The next day, provided with exact information, mywife and I went by train to the station nearest to the village inquestion, and then, taking a "trap, " went on a voyage of discovery. First, however, we endeavoured to gain some useful directions from theproprietor of the hotel where we lunched, but, to our surprise, he knewof no such village. The driver of our "conveyance" was equally unlearnedconcerning the object of our search. [Illustration: [Handwritten note]] "Strange, " said I, "how these country people ignore all the beauties andgraceful associations that are around them--they don't even know of theexistence of this idyllic village. " Nothing daunted, I undertook to pilot the party to the place, and aftera lovely drive we reached the spot where the village ought to be. Here Isaw a kind of model hotel, and, I think, a shanty of some description;the rest was an ordinary English landscape. I hardened my heart, andpatiently sketched the building, which, of course, was not there at theperiod the story referred to, and some details of the place where avillage only existed in the author's imagination. When next I saw Sir Walter Besant, he tried to console me with theassurance that there certainly must have been a village there somecenturies ago! [Illustration: THE LATE SIR WALTER BESANT. ] Besides being a wit and a delightful conversationalist, Sir Walter wasthe most practical and businesslike of authors. It was a treat to meethim, as I frequently did, walking into Town, and enjoy his vivacioushumour. I recollect one morning, speaking of illustrators, mentioningthe fact that Cruikshank always imagined that Dickens had taken "OliverTwist, " merely endowing it with literary merit here and there, andpalming it off as his own! "Ah!" said Besant, "how funny! Do you know, I overheard two of my littlegirls talking a few mornings ago, and one said to the other, 'Papa doesnot write all his stories, you know--Charlie Green helps him. '" (Green was at the time illustrating Besant's "Chaplain of the Fleet. ") [Illustration: THE "JETTY. "] My second instance occurred about the same period. The author was themost delightful and entertaining of literary men of our time, Mr. JamesPayn. I was selected to illustrate the serial story in the _IllustratedLondon News_, and as in that also the author minutely describes thescene of the semi-historical romance, I, being a thoroughlyconscientious artist, visited James Payn, then editor of _Cornhill_, inhis editorial den in Waterloo Place, to talk the matter over. My noteswere: "Jetty--Lovers meet--Ancient church--Old houses. " But the "Jetty"was _the_ important object--I must get that. I therefore started for theSouth Coast. Again I was forced to bow down before my author'swonderful powers of imagination, for once more, in company with my wife, with a hireling to carry my sketching stool and materials, I walked agreat distance in search of the jetty. Vain, vain! not a ghost of ajetty was to be seen. The menial could not enlighten us. At last weunearthed the "oldest inhabitant, " who took us back to where a fewsticks in the water alone marked where it stood "a many years ago. " Itried to develop some of the powers of the late Professor Owen, when heconstructed an animal from the smallest bone, and succeeded in"evolving" a jetty from the green remains of four wooden posts. I forgave Payn as I forgave Besant. Both men were as genial as they wereeminent, and but for the circumstances of illustrating their stories Imight not have enjoyed their acquaintanceship. I also illustrated Payn'smost charming story, "The Talk of the Town, " for _Cornhill Magazine_. Inever enjoyed any work of the kind so well as this--it has always beenmy regret Payn did not write another of the same period. I recollect, when I first saw him in Waterloo Place, I had just read an article ofhis in which he gave a recipe for getting rid of callers, which was tobring the conversation to an abrupt termination, say absolutely nothing, but steadfastly stare at your visitor until he left. I can vouch for itsbeing a simple and effective plan. [Illustration: ILLUSTRATION FOR "THE TALK OF THE TOWN" (REDUCED). _By permission of the proprietors of "Cornhill Magazine. "_] When I entered his editorial sanctum the genial essayist received memost cordially, and looked the picture of comfort, surrounded as he wasby a heterogeneous collection of pipes. Presently, through the clouds ofsmoke through which he had chatted in that lively, vivacious mannerpeculiarly his own, he knocked the ashes out of his finished pipe andmutely stared point-blank at me till I, like the pipe, went out also. But before making my exit I reminded him that I had read the article Irefer to, up to which he was no doubt acting, and that I was pleased andinterested that he practised the doctrine he preached. Possibly thisremark of mine was unexpected, and therefore somewhat disconcerted himfor a moment, for he quickly replied, "Not at all! not at all! Fact is, I was rather upset before you came in by a miserable man who called tosee me, and at the moment I was, _à propos_ of him, thinking of a funnystory about Theodore Hook I came across last night I never heard before. Poor Hook was at a smart dinner one evening, but instead of being asusual the life and soul of the party, he proved the wet blanket on themerry meeting, despite the fact that he, in all probability, had imbibedhis stiff glass of brandy to get him up to his usual form beforeentering the house at which he was entertained. This most unusual phaseof Hook's character surprised everybody present, so much so that hishost ventured to remark that the volatile Theodore did not seem so merryas usual. "'Merry? I should think not! I should like to see anyone merry who hasgone through what I have this afternoon!' "'What was that?' asked everyone, with one voice. "'Well, I'll tell you, ' said Hook. 'I have just come up from York in thestage coach, and I was rather late in taking my seat; the top wasoccupied to the full, so I had no alternative but to become an insidepassenger. The only other occupant of the interior was a melancholyindividual rolled up in a corner. He had donned his great-coat, thecollar of which was turned right up over his ears. He stolidly satthere, never uttering a word, until I became fascinated by his weirdappearance. By-and-by the sun sank below the western horizon, the insideof the coach became darker and darker, and more ghastly seemed thecadaverous stranger as the blackness increased. The strain was too muchfor me. I could not keep silent another minute. "'My good sir, ' I said, 'whatever is the matter with you?'" "'I'll tell you, ' he slowly muttered. 'Some months ago I invested in twotickets in a great lottery, but when I told my wife of the speculation Ihad indulged in she nagged and nagged at me to such a frightful extentthat at last I sold the tickets. ' "'Well?' "'Well, do you know, sir, to-day those two numbers won the two firstprizes, and those two prizes represent a sum of money of colossalmagnitude!' "'Goodness gracious me!' I shouted. 'If that had happened to me it wouldhave driven me to desperation! In fact I really believe that I shouldhave been frantic enough to cut my throat!' "'Why, that's just what I have done!' replied the stranger, as he turneddown his collar. 'Look here!'" [Illustration: "THAT'S JUST WHAT I HAVE DONE!"] This ghastly tale reminds me of one of my earliest and most tryingexperiences in illustrating stories. I had made a very careful drawingto illustrate a startling episode in a novel by Mrs. Henry Wood. Naturally it was designed on a block, and represented the hero havingjust swallowed poison after committing a murder. The face in the drawingwas everything, and I had taken the greatest pains to depict in thedistorted features all the authoress desired--in fact, I was ratherproud of it. The authoress was pleased, and the block was sent to theengraver. I was then about twenty--photographing a drawing on to woodwas unknown, and process work was not invented--all drawings were madeon boxwood and engraved by hand. To my horror the engraver returned theblock to me a week afterwards with an apologetic note. The face had beendestroyed in the engraver's hands, and he had "plugged the block"--thatis, another piece of wood had been inserted where the hero's head hadbeen, and whitened over, for me to draw another. The rest of the designhad been engraved. That face gone! How could I conjure it up again onthat unsightly, isolated patch of block, with all the rest of thedrawing engraved and therefore my lines undiscernible? I did my best. When it was printed it was seen that the face did not fit on the neckproperly, and to my chagrin I received a sarcastic letter from theeditor to inform me that I had made a mistake. The hero had swallowedpoison and had not, as I supposed, cut his head off! [Illustration: SPECIMEN OF JAMES PAYN'S WRITING. ] Another illustration of the conscientious illustrator in search of thetruth. I had to introduce the Reformers' Tree, Hyde Park, into apicture. Now we are always hearing about the Reformers' Tree inreference to demonstrations in the Park, so I went in search of thehistorical stump. The first person to whom I put a question as to itswhereabouts pointed to a huge tree in flourishing condition. I had justsketched in its upper branches when it somehow occurred to me that itwould be just as well to ask someone else and make assurance doublysure. This time I interrogated a policeman. "No, that ain't it; that there row of hoaks is wot people calls theReformers' Tree. " I started another sketch on the strength of this statement, but feelinga bit dubious over his assertion that the one tree was comprised of awhole row, I tackled the "oldest inhabitant, " an ancient and pensionedpark-keeper, who luckily hove in sight. "Hover there, " he replied, gruffly, pointing to a stump that resembledthe sole remaining molar the old man possessed. This stump was picturesque. It must be the Reformers' Tree. Result--another sketch, which I showed to the gatekeeper at the MarbleArch. "Reformers' Tree? Why, there ain't no such thing in the Park. " And Ireally believe there isn't. It is a myth, and merely exists in thefertile brain of the descriptive author or the imagination of theagitator. After James Payn's "Talk of the Town" no book has given me such pleasureto illustrate as F. C. Burnand's "Incompleat Angler. " The combination ofthe picturesqueness of Isaak Walton with the humour of Burnand could notbe otherwise, but most unfortunately the form of its publication ruinedthe effect of the drawings. Over this, too, the author and I talked--no, not exactly--to be exact we laughed over it. I dined with Burnand, andafterwards in his study he read it to me, and as he frankly admitted henever laughed so much at anything before. [Illustration: THE TYPICAL LOVERS IN ILLUSTRATIONS OF NOVELS. ] The illustrator's difficulties by no means end when the author issatisfied. Many authors give you every facility, and hamper you with noimpossibilities; but then steps in the editor, especially if he be theeditor of a "goody" magazine. Novels will be novels, and love and loverswill find their way even into the immaculate pages of our monthlyelevators. I once found it so, and certainly I thought that here wasplain sailing. A tender interview at the garden gate. She "sighed andlooked down as Charles Thorndike took her hand"--unavoidable and notunacceptable subject. Lovers are all commonplace young men with largeeyes, long legs, and small moustaches (villains' moustaches grow apace);moreover, lovers, I believe, generally take care to avoid observation;but no! it appears that "our subscribers" have a stern code which maynot be lightly infringed. A letter from the editor rebukes my worldlyways: "DEAR SIR, --Will you kindly give Charles Thorndike a beard, and show an aunt or uncle or some chaperon in the distance; the subject and treatment is hardly suitable otherwise to our young readers. " Sometimes a publisher steps in and arranges everything, regardless ofall the author and artist may cherish. Years ago a well-known but not very prosperous publisher sent for me, and spoke as follows: "Now, Mr. F. , what I want is to knock the B. P. With Christmas. The storyis all blood and murder, but don't mind that--you must supply theantidote; put in the holly and mistletoe, plenty of snow andplum-pudding (the story was a seaside one in summer time). I like JohnTenniel's work--give us a bit of him, with a dash of Du Maurier and asprinkling of Leech here and there; but none of your Rembrandteffects--they are too dark, and don't print up well. Never mind what theauthor says; he hasn't made it Christmas, so you must!" It is equally difficult to comply with an editorial request such asthis: "The story I send you is as dull as ditch-water; do please read itover and illustrate it with lively pictures. " But some authors are their own publishers, and they are then generallymore careful of the illustrations. Perhaps the most exacting of allauthors was "Lewis Carroll. " [Illustration: T] The name of Charles Lutwidge Dodgson is practically unknown outside ofOxford University, where he was mathematical lecturer of Christ Church;but the name and fame of "Lewis Carroll, " author of those inimitablebooks for children, both young and old, "Alice's Adventures inWonderland" and "Through the Looking-glass and what Alice found there, "are known and beloved all over the world. His first book for children, "Alice's Adventures, " was published at a time exactly to suit me. I wasjust eleven--_the_ age to be first impressed by the pen of Carroll andthe pencil of Tenniel. When I, a little, a very little boy in knickerbockers, first enjoyed theadventures of Alice and worshipped the pen and the pencil which recordedthem, I little thought I would some day work hand in hand with theauthor, and when that day did arrive I regretted that I had not beenborn twenty-two years before I had, for for me to follow Tenniel wasquite as difficult and unsatisfactory a task as for Carroll to followCarroll. The worst of it was that I was conscious of this, and LewisCarroll was not. Fortunately for me Sylvie was not like her prototypeAlice; the illustrations for Sylvie would not have suited Tenniel asAlice did. I therefore did not fear comparison, but what I did fear wasthat Carroll would not be Carroll, and Carroll wasn't--he was Dodgson. Iwish I had illustrated him when he was Carroll; that he was not theCarroll of "Alice" is plainly indicated in his life in the followingpassage:[1] "The publication of 'Sylvie and Bruno' marks an epoch in itsauthor's life, for it was the publication of all the ideals andsentiments which he held most dear. It was a book with a definitepurpose; it would be more true to say with several definite purposes. For this very reason it is not an artistic triumph as the two 'Alice'books undoubtedly are; it is on a lower literary level, there is nounity in the story. But from a higher standpoint, that of the Christianand the philanthropist, the book is the best thing he ever wrote. It isa noble effort to uphold the right, or what he thought to be the right, without fear of contempt or unpopularity. The influence which hisearlier books had given him he was determined to use in assertingneglected truths. [1] "The Life and Letters of Lewis Carroll, " by Stuart Dodgson Collingwood (Fisher Unwin). "Of course the story has other features--delightful nonsense notsurpassed by anything in 'Wonderland, ' childish prattle with all thecharm of reality about it, and pictures which may fairly be said torival those of Sir John Tenniel. Had these been all, the book would havebeen a great success. As things are, there are probably hundreds ofreaders who have been scared by the religious arguments and politicaldiscussions which make up a large part of it, and who have neverdiscovered that Sylvie is just as entrancing a personage as Alice whenyou get to know her. " [Illustration: INSTRUCTIONS IN A LETTER FROM LEWIS CARROLL. ] The character of the book was a bitter disappointment to me. I did notwant to illustrate a book of his with any "purpose" other than thepurpose of delightful amusement, as "Alice" was. Tenniel had point-blankrefused to illustrate another story for Carroll--he was, Tenniel toldme, "impossible"--and Carroll evidently was not satisfied with otherartists he had tried, as he wrote me: "I have a considerable mass ofchaotic materials for a story, but have never had the heart to go towork to construct the story as a whole, owing to its seeming so hopelessthat I should ever find a suitable artist. Now that _you_ are found, "etc. That was in 1885, and we worked together for seven years. Tennieland other artists declared I would not work with Carroll for sevenweeks! I accepted the challenge, but I, for that purpose, adopted quitea new method. No artist is more matter-of-fact or businesslike thanmyself: to Carroll I was not Hy. F. , but someone else, as _he_ wassomeone else. I was wilful and erratic, bordering on insanity. Wetherefore got on splendidly. Of course it was most interesting to me to study such a genius at such atime, and in recording my experiences and impressions of Lewis Carrollmy object is not so much to deal with the actual illustration to thoseill-conceived books "Sylvie and Bruno, " but to deal with my impressionsof the man obtained by working with him for so long, for to have knownthe man was even as great a treat as to read his books. Lewis Carrollwas as unlike any other man as his books were unlike any other author'sbooks. It was a relief to meet the pure simple, innocent dreamer ofchildren, after the selfish commercial mind of most authors. Carroll wasa wit, a gentleman, a bore and an egotist--and, like Hans Andersen, aspoilt child. It is recorded of Andersen that he actually shed tears, even in late life, should the cake at tea be handed to anyone before hechose the largest slice. Carroll was not selfish, but a liberal-minded, liberal-handed philanthropist, but his egotism was all but secondchildhood. He informed my wife that she was the most privileged woman in the world, for she knew the man who knew his (Lewis Carroll's) ideas--that ought tocontent her. She must not _see_ a picture or read a line of the MS. ; itwas sufficient for her to gaze at me outside of my studio withadmiration and respect, as the only man besides Lewis Carroll himselfwith a knowledge of Lewis Carroll's forthcoming work. Furthermore hesent me an elaborate document to sign committing myself to secrecy. ThisI indignantly declined to sign. "My word was as good as my bond, " Isaid, and, striking an attitude, I hinted that I would "strike, "inasmuch as I would not work for years isolated from my wife andfriends. I was therefore no doubt looked upon by him as a lunatic. Thatwas what I wanted. I was allowed to show my wife the drawings, and hewrote: "For my own part I have shown _none_ of the MS. To anybody; and, though I have let some special friends see the pictures, I haveuniformly declined to _explain_ them. 'May I ask so-and-so?' theyenquire. 'Certainly!' I reply; "you may _ask_ as many questions as youlike!' That is all they get out of me. " But his egotism carried him still further. He was determined no oneshould read his MS. But he and I; so in the dead of night (he sometimeswrote up to 4 a. M. ) he cut his MS. Into horizontal strips of four orfive lines, then placed the whole of it in a sack and shook it up;taking out piece by piece, he pasted the strips down as they happened tocome. The result, in such an MS. , dealing with nonsense on one page andtheology on another, was audacious in the extreme, if not absolutelyprofane--for example: "And I found myself repeating, as I left the Church, the words of Jacob, when he '_awaked out of his sleep_, ' surely the Lord is in this. "And once more those shrill discordant tones rang out:-- "'He thought he saw a Banker's Clerk Descending from a bus; He looked again, and found it was-- A Hippopotamus. '" These incongruous strips were elaborately and mysteriously marked withnumbers and letters and various hieroglyphics, to decipher which wouldreally have turned my assumed eccentricity into positive madness. Itherefore sent the whole MS. Back to him, and again threatened tostrike! This had the desired effect. I then received MS. I could read, although frequently puzzled by its being mixed up with Euclid andproblems in abstruse mathematics. I soon discovered that I had undertaken a far more difficult task than Ianticipated, for in the first letter of instructions I received from theauthor he frankly acknowledged I had my work "cut out. " "Cut out"suggests dressmaking, the very subject first chosen for discussion andcorrespondence. The extraordinary workings of this unique mind are shown by quotationsfrom his letters to me: "I think I had better explain part of the plot, as to these two--Sylvie and Bruno. They are not fairies right through the book--but _children_. All these conditions make their _dress_ rather a puzzle. They mustn't have _wings_; that is clear. And it must be _quite_ the common dress of London life. It should be as fanciful as possible, so as _just_ to be presentable in Society. The friends might be able to say 'What oddly-dressed children!' but they oughtn't to say 'They are not human!' "Now I think you'll say you have 'got your work cut out for you, ' to invent a suitable dress!" How I wish I had had those dresses cut out for me! The aboveinstructions were quickly followed by other suggestions which added tomy already scanty idea of a costume suitable to Kensington Gardens andto fairyland! I was thinking this difficulty would be lessened if thestory took place in winter, when I received another letter, which I mustfrankly confess rather alarmed me: [Illustration: SPECIMEN OF LEWIS CARROLL'S DRAWING AND WRITING. ] "As to the dresses of these children in their fairy state (we shall sometimes have them mixing in Society, and supposed to be real children; and for _that_ they must, I suppose, be dressed as in ordinary life, but _eccentrically_, so as to make a little distinction). I _wish_ I dared dispense with _all_ costume; naked children are so perfectly pure and lovely, but Mrs. Grundy would be furious--it would never do. Then the question is, how little dress will content her? Bare legs and feet we _must_ have, at any rate. I so entirely detest that monstrous fashion _high heels_ (and in fact have planned an attack on it in this very book), that I cannot possibly allow my sweet little heroine to be victimised by it. " Another monstrous fashion he condemns refers to a picture of hisgrown-up heroine in London Society: "Could you cut off those high shoulders from her sleeves? Why should we pay any deference to a hideous fashion that will be extinct a year hence? Next to the unapproachable ugliness of 'crinoline, ' I think these high-shouldered sleeves are the worst things invented for ladies in our time. Imagine how horrified they would be if one of their daughters were _really_ shaped like that!" I did make a note of a horrified mother with a nineteenth centurymalformation, but I did not send it to the author, as it struck me, whenre-reading his letter, he was possibly serious. Still we had Sylvie'sdress, Mrs. Grundy, crinolines, and high heels to discuss: [Illustration: ORIGINAL SKETCH BY LEWIS CARROLL OF HIS CHARMING HERO ANDHEROINE. ] "As to your Sylvie I am charmed with your idea of dressing her in _white_; it exactly fits my own idea of her; I want her to be a sort of embodiment of Purity. So I think that, in Society, she should be wholly in white--white frock ('clinging' certainly; I _hate_ crinoline fashion): also I _think_ we might venture on making her _fairy_ dress transparent. Don't you think we might face Mrs. Grundy to _that_ extent? In fact I think Mrs. G. Would be fairly content at finding her _dressed_, and would not mind whether the material was silk, or muslin, or even gauze. One thing more. _Please_ don't give Sylvie high heels! They are an abomination to me. " Then for months we corresponded about the face of the Heroine alone. Mydifficulty was increased by the fact that the fairy child Sylvie and theSociety grown-up Lady Muriel were one and the same person! So I receivedreams of written descriptions and piles of useless photographs intendedto inspire me to draw with a few lines a face embodying his ideal in aspace not larger than a threepenny-piece. By one post I would receive abatch of photographs of some young lady Lewis Carroll fancied had onefeature, or half a feature, of that ideal he had conjured up in his ownmind as his heroine. [Illustration: LEWIS CARROLL'S NOTE TO ME FOR A PATHETIC PICTURE. ] He invited me to visit friends of his, and strangers too, from John o'Groats to Land's End, so as to collect fragments of faces. _A propos_ ofthis I wrote in an artists' magazine a brief account of artists'difficulties with the too exacting author. (It is quite safe to writeanything about Judges and Dons: they never read anything. ) I describedhow I received the author's recipe for constructing the ideal heroine. Iam not to take _one_ model for the lady-child or child-lady. I am totake _several_; for all know no face--at least, no face with expression, or with plenty of life or good abilities, or when showing depth ofreligious thought--is perfect. I am therefore to go to Eastbourne to seeand study the face of Miss Matilda Smith, in a pastry-cook's shop, forthe eyes. I am to visit Eastbourne and eat buns and cakes, gazing thewhile into the beauteous eyes of Miss Smith. Then in Glasgow there is aMiss O'Grady, "with oh, such a perfect nose! Could I run up to Scotlandto make a sketch of it?" A letter of introduction is enclosed, and, as aprecaution, I am enjoined that I "must not mind her squint. " But I _do_mind, and I am sure the blemish would sadly mar my proper judgment ofthe lovely feature for gazing on which those eyes have lost theirrectitude. For the ears a journey to Brighton to see Miss Robinson, theVicar's daughter, is recommended. No, she may listen, think I, to the"sad sea-waves, " or to her father's sermons, but never to any flatteryfrom me. The mouth I shall find in Cardiff--not an English or Welshmouth, but a sweet Spaniard's Señora Niccolomino, the daughter of amerchant there. In imagination I picture that cigarette held so lovinglyin those perfect lips. But I am to draw an English heroine of fifteeninnocent summers--how those curly wreaths of pearly smoke woulddisenchant my mind of the spell of youth and innocence! For the hair Imust go to Brighton; for the figure to a number of different places. Infact, my author had mapped out a complete tour for me. Had he neverheard the old story of the artist who was determined to paint aperfectly correct figure, strictly in accordance with the orthodox rulesof art? As he painted a portion he covered it up, and so went on untilthe figure was complete. When it was finished he tore off the covering. The result was hideous! He went mad! I feel sure that fate would havebeen mine had I attempted to carry out Lewis Carroll's instructions. Itherefore worked on my own lines with success. As his biographer states:"Meanwhile, with much interchange of correspondence between author andartist, the pictures for the new fairy tale, 'Sylvie and Bruno, ' werebeing gradually evolved. Each of them was subjected by Lewis Carroll tothe most minute criticism--hypercriticism, perhaps, occasionally. " Stillhe was enthusiastic in his praise, and absurdly generous in his thanks. He was jealous that I would not disclose to him who my model was forSylvie. When dining with us many a smile played over the features of mychildren when he cross-questioned me on this point. Repeatedly he wroteto me: "How old is your model for Sylvie? And may I have her name andaddress?" "My friend Miss E. G. Thomson, an artist great in 'fairies, 'would be glad to know of her, I'm sure, " and so on. The fairy Sylvie was my own daughter! All the children in his books Iillustrated were my own children; yet this fact never struck him! Hevisited us in the country when I was at work, and I soon afterwardsreceived the following letter: "Thanks. I was not aware that the boy, whose photo I sent you, had far-apart eyes. If you think (and you are _quite_ the best judge of the point) that these eyes are needed in order to give to the face the fun and roguery I want expressed, by all means retain them. "It had occurred to me to write and beg that, if Arundel did not furnish all requisite models for drawing from life, you would let all portions of pictures which would have to be done without models or wait till you return to town, _wait_. But as I think you definitely told me that you never do the finished pictures _except_ from life, I presume the petition to be superfluous. " When I received this letter at Arundel my second boy was sitting in hisbathing costume on a garden-roller on the lawn for a picture of Brunositting on a dead mouse. I was chaffing my model about flirting with ayoung lady he met at a children's garden party, and threatened to informhis sweetheart in London, when he assured me with knowingness, "Fact is, papa, the young lady here is all right for the country, you know--butshe would _never_ do in town!" [Illustration: SYLVIE AND BRUNO. MY ORIGINAL DRAWING FOR LEWIS CARROLL. (_Never published. _)] It was the same idea as Lewis Carroll's about models. As I have brought my family into this, I may mention that there is onepicture in "Sylvie and Bruno" (vol. I. , p. 134) which brings back to methe only sorrowful hour I had in connection with the otherwise enjoyablework. My wife was very ill--so ill it was a question of life and death. Expert opinion was called in, and the afternoon I had to make thatdrawing--with my own children as models--the "consultation" was beingheld in my wife's room. Carroll was on his way from Oxford to see thework, and I was drawing against time. It's the old story of the clownwith the sick wife. Caricaturists are after all but clowns of thepencil. They must raise a laugh whatever their state of mind may be. Fora long time I never would show Lewis Carroll my work, for the simplereason I did not do it. He thought I was at work, but I was not. That'swhere my acting eccentricity came in. I knew that I would have to drawthe subjects "right off, " not one a month or one in six months. Correspondence for three months, as a rule, led to work for one week. Isolated verse I did let him have the illustrations for, but not thebody of the book. This was my only chance, and I arrived at this secrecyby the following bold stroke. [Illustration: I GO MAD!] Lewis Carroll came from Oxford one evening, early in the history of thework, to dine, and afterwards to see a batch of work. He ate little, drank little, but enjoyed a few glasses of sherry, his favourite wine. "Now, " he said, "for the studio!" I rose and led the way. My wife sat inastonishment. She knew I had nothing to show. Through the drawing-room, down the steps of the conservatory to the door of my studio. My hand ison the handle. Through excitement Lewis Carroll stammers worse thanever. Now to see the work for his great book! I pause, turn my back tothe closed door, and thus address the astonished Don: "Mr. Dodgson, I am_very_ eccentric--I cannot help it! Let me explain to you clearly, before you enter my studio, that my eccentricity sometimes takes aviolent form. If I, in showing my work, discover in your face theslightest sign that you are not _absolutely_ satisfied with any particleof this work in progress, the _whole_ of it goes into the fire! It is arisk: will you accept it, or will you wait till I have the drawings_quite_ finished and send them to Oxford?" "I--I--I ap--appreciate your feelings--I--I--should feel the samemyself. I am off to Oxford!" and he went. [Illustration: Handwritten note] I sent him drawings as they were finished, and each parcel brought backa budget of letter-writing, each page being carefully numbered. This isthe top of page 5 in his 49, 874th letter. I am not sure if I receivedall the remaining 49, 873 letters in the seven years. To meet him and towork for him was to me a great treat. I put up with hiseccentricities--real ones, not sham like mine. --I put up with a greatdeal of boredom, for he was a bore at times, and I worked over sevenyears with his illustrations, in which the actual working hours wouldnot have occupied me more than seven weeks, purely out of respect forhis genius. I treated him as a problem, and I solved him, and had helived I would probably have still worked with him. He remunerated meliberally for my work; still, he actually proposed that in addition Ishould partake of the profits; his gratitude was overwhelming. "I amgrateful; and I feel sure that if _pictures_ could sell a book 'Sylvieand Bruno' would sell like wildfire. " Perhaps the most pleasant confession I have to make is my fondness forchildren. They always interest and amuse me more than "grown-ups. " Thecommonplace talk is to them unknown; it is full of surprises. Perhaps the nursery's record of my family is not longer or any moreinteresting than the sayings and doings of the youngsters of any otherfamily; still a few extracts may interest those who, like myself, areinterested in first impressions. My eldest, just entering on his teens, had as companions two brothersand one sister. Hearing there was an addition to this little familygroup, he, dressed in flannels, ran into my studio, bat in hand, "Papa, is it a boy or a girl?" "A boy. " "Oh, I am so glad. I do want a wicket-keeper, and Dorothy can'twicket-keep a bit. " [Illustration: "I DO WANT A WICKET-KEEPER!"] A stoutly-made little fellow of eight, to his mother, who happened to beextremely thin: "Oh, mother, I do believe you must be the very sweetest woman in theworld!" "Thanks very much, Lawrence. But why so affectionate? What do you want?" "I don't want anything. I only know you must be the very sweetest womanin the world. " "Really, you are too flattering. Why this sudden outburst of affection?" "Well, you know, I've been thinking over the old, old saying, 'Thenearer the bone the sweeter the meat. '" Children, I think, have the art of "leading up" to jokes better thanadults. They hear some strange remark, they naturally analyse it, and itsuggests an application. For instance, this brat possibly objected tosome portion of meat at table. His mother had reminded of the oldsaying, "The nearer the bone the sweeter the meat. " Thinmother, --there's the application. One of my youngsters ran into the drawing-room at five o'clock tea. Alady visitor thus addressed him: "Come here, my little man. I suppose when you grow up you will be anartist, like your father?" "My father is not an artist. " "Oh, my dear, he _is_ an artist. " "Oh, no, no, no, my father is not an artist--he's only a black and whiteman. I am going to be an artist in all colours. " [Illustration: PORTION OF LETTER FROM LAWRENCE, AGE 9. ] My own children have been my models, not only for Lewis Carroll's books, but for all my drawings of children. I have three boys and one girl. Dorothy is now a successful artist, and Lawrence is, at the age ofeighteen, a professional draughtsman of mechanical subjects; my youngestis just out of his teens. Their portraits manifolded will be found inthe page sketch from "Romps" Du Maurier wrote me a most gracefulappreciation of these books, which, considering his delightful picturesof children in _Punch_, was most gratifying to me. [Illustration: REDUCTION FROM A DESIGN FOR MY "ROMPS. "] [Illustration: PORTION OF A LETTER FROM GEORGE DU MAURIER. ] An artist for whose work I have the greatest admiration was the lateRandolph Caldecott, and the only occasion on which I had the pleasure ofmeeting him was of a semi-theatrical kind. It was at one of the"Artists' Tableaux" which were given in London some years ago. In thoseproduced in Piccadilly I took no part, and the entertainment to which Irefer was held at the Mansion House. At the last moment, in order tocomplete one of the pictures, a portly Dutchman was required, and atelegram was despatched to me to enquire whether I would represent thecharacter. A dress, which was not a very good fit, was provided for meby the costumier of the show, and with the aid of a little padding, agood deal of rouge, a long clay pipe, and a bottle of schnapps, Imanaged to look something like the inflated Hollander I wasrepresenting, in the centre of the group, where I was supposed to belooking on at a game of bowls. Caldecott, who was placed at a window, flirting with the maids of the Queen, was attired in a graceful costumeof the most faultless description, surmounted by a magnificent hat witha sweeping brim and splendid feathers, upon which he had expended nolittle pains and money. My head-gear consisted of a very insignificantstage property hat, but as I was not intended to contribute an elementof beauty to the picture, that didn't matter. The tableau was arrangedby Mr. E. A. Abbey, and when taking his last look round before thecurtain was raised, his artistic eye detected that more black wasrequired in the centre. While we were thus in our allotted positions, and straining every nerve to remain perfectly rigid--an ordeal which, bythe way, I never wish to go through again, as I had hard work torestrain myself from breaking out into a Highland fling or an Irish jig, or calling out "Boo!" to the audience to relieve my pent-upfeelings--Mr. Abbey suddenly seized the superb hat on Caldecott's head, which the latter had had specially made, and in which he really fanciedhimself, handed it to me, and to Caldecott's horror, and almost beforehe was conscious that he had been made ridiculous by the wretchedremnant which had been sent from Bow Street for me, the curtain was rungup. I confess I have a certain amount of pity, closely akin to contempt, forthe artist who must have the actual character he wants to paint, whocannot use a model merely for reference, but paints in everything like aphotograph. Some artists call such feebleness conscientiousness, but tome it seems mere weakness. Must an author paint each character in hisbook, or an actor take his every impersonation on the stage, minutelyfrom some living model? Surely observation and natural originality ismore than the photographic copying of your "conscientious" artist! Worsefeebleness still it is when an artist has to paint a well-knowncharacter, say King Lear or Mary Queen of Scots, and goes about huntingfor a living person as near as possible in appearance to the original, and then costumes and slavishly reproduces him or her, without any showof judgment or insight after the model is once selected. And this lackof insight into character seems deplorably prevalent among our figurepainters, for how often we see in the exhibitions the model with a "goodhead" tamely reproduced over and over again--here as a monk, there as aPolonius, Thomas à Becket, a "blind beggar, " "His Excellency, " apensioner, or painted by some artist who wants to make a bid forportraiture as "A portrait of a gentleman"! Black and white men have to introduce so many characters into theirwork, they are obliged to invent them; but it is a curious fact thatthis facility disappears at times. The late Mr. Fred Barnard, clever ashe was at inventing character for his black and white work, found, whenhe was painting in oil, that confidence had left him, and he spentseveral days wandering about London to find real characters for apicture he was painting representing the jury in "Pilgrim's Progress. "One day in Oxford Street he saw a hansom-cab driver with a face besottedwith drink and "ripe" for production as a slave to Bacchus. Barnardhailed the hansom, jumped in, and directed the jehu to drive him to hisstudio on Haverstock Hill. In going up the Hampstead Road a tram-car ranover a child. Barnard was terribly upset by the touching sight, and toldthe driver to pull up at the nearest tavern. Getting out, he looked athis "subject, " intending to invite him to refreshment before taking himon to his studio, where he intended to paint him. To his horror the faceof the bibulous cabman had lost all its "colour, " and was of a palegreenish hue. [Illustration: A TRANSFORMATION. ] "That was horful, sir, warn't it? It'll upset me for a week. " The disappointed artist dismissed his "subject. " [Illustration] Much could be written of this genuine humourist. His buoyant fun wasirrepressible; indoors and out of doors he entertained himself--andsometimes his friends--with his jokes. In his studio he kept as petssome little tortoises. They were allowed to crawl about as they liked, but he had painted on their backs caricatures--a laughing face, asour-green face, one with a look of horror, another of mischief. Avisitor seated unaware of these would suddenly spring off the sofa asthe walking mask slowly appeared from underneath it! Barnard's power ofmimicry was great, and his jokes were as excellent as his drawings. Evenwhen sitting before the camera for his photograph, he had his littlejoke. [Illustration: BARNARD AND THE MODELS. ] There are a number of girls who go the round of the studios, but have noright whatever to do so. They generally hunt in pairs, and this habitsurely distinguishes them from the real model. They are more easilydrawn than described. Two of this class once called on Barnard. "What do you sit for?" he asked. "Oh, anything, sir. " "Ah, I am a figure man, you are no use to me, but there is a friend ofmine over there who is now painting a landscape--I think you might dovery well for a haystack; and your friend might try studio No. 5 and sitfor a thunder-cloud, the artist there is starting a stormy piece--oh, good morning. " Tableau! A wretched individual once called upon me and begged me to give him asitting. I asked him to sit for what I was at work upon: this was awicket-keeper in a cricket match bending over the wicket. I assured theman he need not apologise, as he had really turned up at an opportunemoment; the drawing was "news, " and it had to be finished that day. WhenI had shown my model the position and made him understand exactly what Iwanted, I noticed to my surprise that he was trembling all over. Iimmediately asked him if he were cold. "No. " "Nervous?" "No. " "Then why not keep still?" "Well, that's just what I can't do, sir! I had to give up my occupationbecause, sir, I am hafflicted with the palsy, and when I bend I dotremble so. I only sit for 'ands, sir--for 'ands to portrait painters. Iclose 'em for a military gent--I open 'em for a bishop--but when thehartist is hin a 'urry I know as 'ow to 'ide one 'and in my pocket andthe hother hunder a cocked 'at. " [Illustration: "I SIT FOR 'ANDS, SIR. "] Hiding hands recalls to me a fact I may mention in justice to our modernEnglish caricaturists. We never make capital out of our subjects'deformities. This I pointed out at a dinner in Birmingham a few yearsago, at which I was the guest of the evening, and as I was addressingjournalists I mention this fact in justice to myself and my brothercaricaturists. As it happened, that afternoon I had heard Mr. Gladstonemaking his first speech in the opening of Parliament, 1886, after beingreturned in Opposition. Turning round to his young supporters, he usedfor the first time the now famous expression "an old Parliamentaryhand, " holding up at the same time a hand on which there were only threefingers. Now had I drawn that hand as it was, minus the first finger, showing the black patch? It would have been tempting on the part of aforeign caricaturist, because it had a curious application under thecircumstances. (But it would be noticed that in my sketch in _Punch_ thefirst finger, which really did not exist, is prominently shown. ) Thiswas the first time the fact was made public that Mr. Gladstone had notthe first finger on the left hand; since then, however, all artists, humorous or serious, were careful to show Mr. Gladstone's left hand aspointed out by me. Now I had noticed this for years in the House, and I hold as an argumentthat men are not observant the fact that Members who had sat in theHouse with Mr. Gladstone, on the same benches, for years, assured methat they had never noticed his hand before I made this matter public. So that when I am told that I misrepresent portraits of prominent men Ialways point to this fact. Mr. Gladstone was careful to hide the deformity in his photographs, butin his usual energetic manner in the House the black patch in place ofthe finger was on many occasions in no way concealed. These are plebeian models, but sometimes artists' friends recommendamateur models--a broken-down gentleman or some other poor relation--andwhen you are drawing social modern subjects, of course these are reallyof more use than the badly-dressed professional model. [Illustration: A _PUNCH_ ENGRAVING, DRAWN ON WOOD. ] On "Private View Day" at the Royal Academy a few years ago a knot ofartists and their wives were in one of the rooms; it was late, and fewof the visitors remained. The attention of the artists was attracted bya stately and beautiful being who entered and went round examining thepictures. "How charming!" remarked one. "Delightful!" replied another. "Oh, if she would but sit to me!" prayed a third. "Why not ask her?" asked the practical one. "If anyone can, you can; soremember that faint heart never won fair sitter!" "Well, here goes!" whispered the cavalier, Mr. Val Prinsep, R. A. , in thetone of one about to lead a forlorn hope, and he charged desperatelyacross the gallery. He approached the fair stranger, and politely takingoff his hat said diffidently: "Madam, I am one of the Academy. Should you wish to know anything aboutthe pictures I shall be glad----" "Oh, thanks. I know a good deal about them. " "Indeed! Then you will understand how we artists are always on thelook-out for beauty to paint--and--ah--hm--well, you see I--that is we"(pointing to the group) "were so struck with your presencethat--ah--pardon my abruptness--we thought that if such a thing werepossible you might condescend to allow one of us to make a study of yourhead--ah. " "Oh, with pleasure, " said the fair visitor, taking from her hand-bag aneat little note-book, and opening it, she said: "Well, I have only got Sundays and one Wednesday next monthdisengaged, --I have got sittings on every other day. Will this be of anyuse to you?" She was a model! The first house I occupied after I married faced one occupied by awell-known and worthy fiery-tempered man of letters, and it so happenedthat one evening my wife and I were dining at the house of anotherneighbour. We were gratified to learn that our celebrated _vis-à-vis_, hearing we had come to live in the same square, was anxious to make ouracquaintance. On our return home that night we discovered the latch-keyhad been forgotten, and unfortunately our knocking and ringing failed toarouse the domestics. It was not long, however, before we awoke ourneighbours, and a window of the house opposite was violently thrownopen, and language all the stronger by being endowed with literary meritcame from that man of letters, who in the dark was unable to see theparticular neighbours offending him, and he referred to my wife andmyself in a way that could not be passed over. A battle of words ensuedin which I was proved the victor, and my neighbour beat a hasty retreat. Before retiring I wrote a note to the friend we had just left to saythat in the circumstances I refused to know my neighbour, and he hadbetter inform him that I would on the first opportunity punch his head. By the same post I wrote for a particular model, --a retired pugilist. Assoon as he arrived next morning I placed him at the window of my studiofacing the opposite house, now and then sending him down to the frontdoor to stand on the doorstep to await some imaginary person, and tokeep his eye on the house opposite. I went on with my work in peace. Presently a note came: "DEAR FURNISS, --Your neighbour has sent round to ask me what you are like. He has never seen you till this morning, and he is frightened to leave his house. He implores me to apologise for him. " He departed from the neighbourhood shortly afterwards. [Illustration: MY FIGHTING DOUBLE. ] Sad to relate that all Governmental undertakings of an artistic nature, from our most colossal public building or monument to the design of apostage stamp, are fair game for ridicule! The outward manifest recordof the Post Office Jubilee--rather the "Post Office Jumble"--was theenvelope and post card published by the Government and sold for oneshilling. The pitiful character of the design, from an artistic point ofview, shocked every person of taste; so I set to work and burlesqued it, strictly following the lines of the genuine article. A glance at myenvelope alone, therefore, is sufficient to show the wretched quality ofthe original. It happened that the postmen's grievances were veryprominent at that time. The Postmaster-General and the trade unionistsand others were at fever heat, and excitement ran high. Thiscaricature-parody, therefore, was a sketch with a purpose. It was saidat one of the meetings that my pencil "may perhaps touch the publicsympathy in behalf of the postman more effectually than any language hasbeen able to do. " The wretched thing was thought worthy of an articleby Mr. M. H. Spielmann. My skit, it is needless to add, was very popularwith the postmen. They showed their gratitude by saving many amisdirected letter. A letter addressed "Harry Furniss, London, " hasfrequently found me, without the loss of a post. [Illustration: SPECIMEN OF MR. LINLEY SAMBOURNE'S ENVELOPES TO ME. ] I signed a certain number, which sold at 10_s. _ 6_d. _ each, and werebought up principally by the members of the Philatelic Society. Perhaps the publication of this "Post Office Jumble" card was also thecause of the puzzled postmen taking the trouble to decipher and deliverthe far more amusing artistic jokes of that irrepressible joker, Mr. Linley Sambourne. By his permission I here publish a page, a selectionof the envelopes he has sent me from time to time. It is bad enough purposely to puzzle the overworkedletter-carriers--they are too often tried by unintentional touches ofhumour emanating from the most innocent and unsuspected members of thepublic--but I confess that I was once the innocent cause of Mr. Sambourne trying the same thing on with the overworked bank clerk. [Illustration: CHEQUE FOR 5-1/2D. PASSED THROUGH TWO BANKS AND PAID. ISIGNED IT _backwards_, AND IT WAS CANCELLED BY CLERK _backwards_. ] I sent my _Punch_ friend a cheque, here reproduced, for the sum of5-1/2_d. _, payable to "Lynnlay Sam Bourne, Esqre, " signed by mebackwards, crossed "Don't you wish you may get it and go. " Sambourneendorsed it "L. Sam. Bourne, " and sent it to his bank. The clerk wentone better, and wrote "Cancelled" _backwards_ across my reversedsignature. It passed through my bank, and the money was paid. This isprobably unique in the history of banking. [Illustration: SIR HENRY IRVING WRITES HIS NAME BACKWARDS. ] _A propos_ of writing backwards, in days when artists made theirdrawings on wood everything of course had to be reversed, and writingbackwards became quite easy. To this day I can write backwards nearly asquickly as I write in the ordinary way. One night at supper I wasexplaining this, and furthermore told my friends that they themselvescould write backwards--in fact, they could not avoid doing so. Not ofcourse on the table, as I was doing, but by placing the sheet of paperagainst the table underneath, and writing with the point upwards. Perhaps my reader will try--and see the effect. For encouragement hereare a few of the first attempts on that particular evening. [Illustration: SIR HENRY IRVING'S ATTEMPT. ] [Illustration: MR. J. L. TOOLE'S FIRST ATTEMPT. ] [Illustration: MR. J. L. TOOLE'S SECOND ATTEMPT. ] A few years ago a banquet was given at the Mansion House to therepresentatives of French art; several English painters and othersinterested in art were invited to meet them. Previous to being presentedto the Lord Mayor, every guest was requested to sign an autographalbum--an unusual proceeding, I think, at a City dinner. Were I LordMayor I would compel my guests to sign their names--not on arrival, butwhen leaving the Mansion House, and thus possess an autograph album oferratic graphology, and one worth studying. In company with my friendMr. Whitworth Wallis, the curator of the Birmingham Museum and ArtGallery, I entered the Mansion House, when we were immediately accostedby a powdered flunkey in gorgeous uniform, in possession of theautograph album, who presented a truly magnificent pen at us, and inperemptory tones demanded our life or our signatures. Whitworth Walliswrote his first, with a dash and confidence. I stood by and admired. "Oh, " I said, taking the pen, "that's not half a dash; let me show youmine. " [Illustration] Jeames, in taking the pen from me, looked condescendingly over the page, and with the air of a justice delivering judgment said to me: "Beaten 'im by hinches, sir. Beaten 'im by hinches!" Months after that I gave an entertainment one evening at Woolwich. Myaudience was principally composed of Arsenal hands. On leaving theplatform I was taken into the Athletic Club rooms, and asked to signtheir autograph book and say a "few words" to the members. The few wordsconsisted of the "record" I had made in the signing match I had with Mr. Wallis at the Mansion House--an incident which was brought to my mindsuddenly when I took the pen in my hand. It so happened that WhitworthWallis, who is a well-known lecturer on art matters, was on that samenight lecturing in the North of England, and as he left the platform atthe same hour as I at Woolwich, he was, like me, asked to sign anautograph book, and told the very same story to his friends in the Northas I was telling under exactly similar circumstances, the same evening, at the same hour, in the South. Neither of us knew that the other waslecturing that night. It is not by any means a usual thing to be askedto sign a club album, and Wallis and I had not met or corresponded sincethe evening at the Mansion House. After working many years for the _Illustrated London News_, I became acontributor to the _Graphic_, and for that journal wrote and illustrateda series of supplements upon "Life in Parliament"; but from this timeforward it would be difficult to name any illustrated paper with which Ihave not at some time or other been connected. For instance, the_Yorkshire Post_ a few years ago started a halfpenny evening paper, andsent their manager down to me to ask my honorarium to illustrate thefirst few numbers with character sketches of the members of the BritishAssociation, who were holding their meetings that week in Leeds. Thiswas a happy thought, as the "British Asses, " as they are too familiarlycalled, sent these first numbers of the paper all over the country; thenew ship had something to start upon, and is now a prosperous concern. There are various stories about the sum I received for this work. It wasa large sum for England, where enterprise of this kind is very rare. Iwas "billed" all over the town as if I were a Patti or Paderewski, andtelegrams were sent to the London papers by the special reportersannouncing the terms upon which I was at work; altogether it was a bitof Yankee booming that would have made a Harmsworth or a Newnes greenwith envy. CARICATURE. CHAPTER V. A CHAT BETWEEN MY PEN AND PENCIL. What is Caricature?--Interviewing--Catching Caricatures--Pellegrini--The "Ha! Ha!"--Black and White _v. _ Paint--How to make a Caricature--M. P. 's--My System--Mr. Labouchere's Attitude--Do the Subjects object?--Colour in Caricature--Caught!--A Pocket Caricature--The Danger of the Shirt-cuff--The Danger of a Marble Table--Quick Change--Advice to those about to Caricature. [Illustration: If] If I am asked what is caricature, how can I define it? Ah, here it isexplained by some great authority--whom I cannot say, for I have itunder the heading of "Cuttings from Colney Hatch, " undated, unnamed. Kindly read it carefully: [Illustration: THE STUDIO OF A CARICATURIST. ] "The word itself, 'caricature, ' is related etymologically to our own'cargo, ' and means, in all Italian simplicity, a _loading_. So, then, the finely analytical quality of the Italian intellect, disengaging theultimate (material) element out of all the (spiritual) elements ofpictorial distortion and travesty, called it simply a 'loading. ' Afterall, 'exageration' only substitutes the idea of mound, or _agger_ for_carica_--the heaping up of a mound--for the common Italian word 'load'or 'cartload. ' One can easily understand how a cold, cynical, and hatingNeapolitan, pushed about by the police for a likeness much too like, would shrug his shoulders, and say, possibly, the likeness was loaded. But when we look at the character of the loading, there may be anythingthere, from diabolical and malignant spite up to the simplest fun, tosay nothing of the almost impossibility of drawing the real truth, andthe almost necessary tendency to exaggerate one thing and diminishanother. But if the Italian mind, with a head to be chopped off by adespot for a joke, discovered the colourless and impregnable word'load, ' the French _gamin_, on his own responsibility, hit upon theidentical word in French, namely, 'charge'--_une charge_ meaning both apictorial or verbal goak or caricature, and a load. When did the word'caricature' first obtain in the Italian language, and how? When did theword 'charge' acquire a similar meaning in France, and was it or notsuggested by the Italian word? But the thing caricature goes back to thenight of ages, and is in its origin connected with the subjectiverisible faculty on the one side and the objective tendency to makingfaces on the other. Curiously enough, the original German ideas ofcaricature appear to have hinged precisely upon the distortion of thecountenance, since _Fratze_, the leading word for caricature, signifiesoriginally a grimace. Then we have _Posse_, buffoonery (Italian, _pazzie_), which, without original reference to drawing, would exactlyexpress many of Mr. ----'s very exquisite drolleries, diving as they dointo the weirdest genius--conceptions of night and of day, of dawn andof twilight--the mixture of the terrible, the grotesque, the gigantic, the infinitely little, the animal, the beast, the ethereal, the divinelyloving, the diabolically cynical, the crawling, the high-bred, all in auniversal salmagundi and lobster nightmare, mixing up the loveliestconceptions with croaking horrors, the eternal aurora with theeverlasting _nitschewo_ of the frozen, blinding steppe. Caricature! Whatcan we English call it?" What indeed after this? Except in despair we adopt the child'swell-known definition--"First you think, and then you draw round thethink. " I have been more than once asked to deliver a lecture explainingthe process. Of course such an idea is too absurd for seriousconsideration. The comic writer cannot give anyone a recipe for makingjokes, nor can a comic actor show you how to grimace so as to makeothers laugh in this serious country. We are not taught to look at thecomic side of things--any humorous element may grow, like Topsy, unaided--nor is the power given to many to explain to others theirinventions. Bessemer, the inventor of the steel bearing his name, whenhe first made his discovery was asked to read a paper explaining hisinvention to a large meeting of experts. He had his carefully-preparednotes in front of him, but they only embarrassed him. He struggled tospeak, but failed. Only the weight of the lumps of metal dangling in hiscoattail pocket kept him from collapsing. Suddenly he dived his handinto the pocket and produced a piece of steel, which he thumped on thetable. "Bother the paper! Here is my steel, and I'll tell you how I madeit!" So would it be with a caricaturist. After a struggle he would say, "Bother words, words, words! Here is a pencil, and here is some paper. I'll show you how I caricature. " Personally, I have no objection to being caricatured--I frequently makecaricatures of myself. Nor have I any objection to being interviewed--Iinterview myself. What else are these pages but interviews? I confess Ifail to see any objection to a legitimate caricature or a legitimateinterview. On the contrary, I look upon interviewing by an experiencedand sympathetic writer as invaluable to a public man who is bringing outsomething novel and of interest to the public at large. It certainlyseems to me judicious that he should give his preliminary ideasregarding it to the public firsthand, instead of allowing them to leakout in an unauthentic and disfigured form through the fervidimaginations of irresponsible scribes, leading to much misconception. [Illustration: CARICATURE OF ME BY MY DAUGHTER, AGE 15. ] But I do object to the incapable, be he an interviewer wielding thepencil or the pen. To illustrate my meaning I shall take the latterfirst. The pen in this case did his work in true professional style. Hecame to interview me, and by doing so to "boom" me for a journal whichwas about to make a feature of my contributions to its pages. He broughtwith him a new note-book of remarkable size; an artist with a portfolio, pencils, and other artistic necessities; and a photographer! Theinterviewer shall describe the scene in his own words. [Illustration: A SERIOUS PORTRAIT--FROM LIFE. ] The interviewer remarked that the readers of the ----"would be veryinterested in knowing exactly how the thing (interviewing) was done. Howdid the ideas come? How did they take shape? And what was the method ofwork? Neither at these nor at any other questions did Mr. Furniss wince. It must not be forgotten that when he was in America last year he wasinterviewed, on an average, once a day; and a man who has passed throughsuch an experience as that is unlikely to recoil before any ordinaryordeal; although Mr. Furniss was bound to admit that a combination ofinterviewer, artist, and photographer had never before got him into hisgrip. The situation would have had its ludicrous side for anybody whohad chanced to peep through the skylight. The spectacle of five men (forthe presence of the indefatigable secretary was an indispensable part ofthe proceedings) all solemnly drinking tea, while a deer-hound kept awistful eye on the sugar-basin, was unusual, and perhaps a littlegrotesque--to all save the participants. Seated at his easel in thecharacteristic position represented in our sketch, Mr. Furniss would nowand again ask permission to move his arm towards his cup of tea, andwould then bend back to the make-belief work at which he was posing. "There is a picture of interviewing! Everything so prepared, so studied, so well described to impress the subscribers of the enterprisingjournal. The photographer with a wide angle lens took in all that was inmy studio--to "make-believe, " as the camera invariably does, that theapartment was six times larger than it really is. But the artist, who_should_ idealise if the photographer could not, who so sadly interferedwith my enjoying my tea, who was sent to make the most of me to raisethe enthusiasm of the readers and to increase the subscriptions, succeeded in doing with his pencil what no interviewer has done with hispen, --he made me wince! Here is a reduction of the serious portraitpublished. I have sat down time after time to answer young correspondents'questions about the "system" to adopt for the production of caricature. I invariably end by drawing imaginary caricatures of my correspondentand fail to reply. When interviewed on the subject of caricature, Idiscourse on the history of the Pre-Raphaelite movement, and thetechnique in the work of Burne-Jones, Rossetti, and Holman Hunt, andcaricature is therefore driven from our minds. However, the difficulty was solved in a very unexpected manner. One day, whilst smoking my cigar after lunch, I overheard an interview in mystudio, which I here reproduce. A Pencil of mine was working away merrily shortly after the opening ofthe Session, when suddenly my favourite Pen flew off the writing-table, where it had been enjoying a quiet forty winks, and alighted on theeasel. [Illustration] "How very awkward you are!" cried the Pencil. "See, you have knockedagainst and so agitated me that I have actually given Sir William anextra chin. " "One more or less does not matter, does it?" rejoined the Pen. "Iapologise, and trust you will make allowances for me, as I am only anartist's Pen, don't you know, and naturally rather uncouth, I fear. " "Pray take a seat upon the indiarubber, and let me know to what I amindebted for the honour of this visit. " "Well, " continued the Pen, "I have flown over here to remind you of yourpromise to confess to me some of the secrets of caricature. " "Ah, yes, " replied the Pencil, "I remember now. I have really been sobusy sketching Members of Parliament at St. Stephen's, that I had almostforgotten my promise. " "A poor Pen is out of place in an artist's studio, except to minister tothe requirements of the autograph hunter. Well, you need not be jealous. My literary flight is not intended to be a very high one after all. Nowyou know more about the secrets of the studio than I do; so tell me, isit the custom of H. F. To have a regular sitting for a caricature, afterthe fashion of the portrait painters?" "Oh, you are too delightfully innocent altogether, " laughed the Pencil, rubbing its leaden head rapidly on a piece of paper, to sharpen itspoint. "A regular sitting! What do _you_ think? No, sir, no, emphatically never. Such an operation would be fatal to the delicateconstitution of a caricature, and the result would not be worth thepaper upon which it is drawn. It is only in ordinary portraiture that asitting is required, and upon that point I have a theory. " "Oh, never mind your theories now, old fellow, " rejoined the Pen, as ittook a sip of ink and prepared to chronicle the reply. "What I want tochat to you about at present is how to catch a caricature. " The Pencil pricked up his ears, and with a knowing wink, said: "Ah, I see! You want to know secrets. Well, I will tell you 'how it'sdone. ' The great point about a caricature is that it must be caughtunawares. A man when he thinks he is unobserved struts about gaily, justfor all the world like a hedgehog. All his peculiarities are then asevident as your cousins the quills upon the back of the fretfulporcupine. But the moment the man or woman who is about to becaricatured observes H. F. Take me in hand, I always notice that heshrivels up and collapses as quickly as one of the insectivora surprisedat his feast. But wait a moment: now you ask me, I do recollect oneunfortunate man who, despite H. F. 's protest, insisted upon coming hereonce to sit for a caricature. He looked the picture of misery, and satin the chair there, just as if he were at a dentist's. H. F. Made a mostflattering portrait. Indeed, so much too handsome was it that I couldhardly follow the workings of his fingers, I was laughing so. " "'Oh, what a relief!' cried the sitter, when H. F. Showed him thedrawing. 'You have certainly made a pretty guy of me, but, thank heaven, I am not thin-skinned. ' "'Only thick-headed, ' muttered H. F. _sotto voce_ to me as he continuedto chat with the sitter. "No sooner had he left the studio than the 'study' was in the fire, andthe caricature which afterwards came from the Furniss was drawn entirelyfrom memory. "The artist is in more evil case when he has absolutely no chancewhatever of making the slightest memorandum, for he must trust to memoryalone, " remarked the Pencil. "Yet Pellegrini boasted that he always trusted to memory, " said the Pen. "I know he did, " replied the Pencil, "and more than once chaffed H. F. For bringing me out. H. F. , I know, has the greatest admiration for mostof Pellegrini's work, but thinks that 'Ape' certainly had the failingcommon to all Italian caricaturists of being cruel rather than funny. Imay mention too, here, an incident for the truth of which H. F. Canvouch, and which illustrates another weakness of the inhabitants of theSunny South. When the poor fellow was ill a friend of his one day set towork to put his room in order, and in moving a screen was surprised tofind behind it a number of soiled shirts. He began to count them overwith a view to sending them to the laundry, when Pellegrini starting upexclaimed, 'You fellow! you leave my shirts there, or I am a ruined man. Don't you see they are my "shtock in drade"?' And sure enough upon thehuge familiar linen cuffs were numerous notes in pencil--sketches, infact, from life for coming caricatures. Now, when H. F. Intends to trustentirely to memory, I often find that he makes a note in writing afterthis fashion: 'Like So-and-so, with a difference, '--and the differenceis noted. Or 'Think of an animal, a bird, or a fish, and to that addSo-and-so, and subtract So-and-so, ' and this results in a portrait. Forinstance, if he saw a man like this, I should not be surprised by hiswriting a single word as 'Penguin' for his guidance, and so on. " [Illustration: "PENGUIN. "] "The old caricaturists, I suppose, had a decided advantage over themoderns in having artistic costumes to depict?" asked the Pen. "Of course, " replied the Pencil. "Even up to the time of Seymour thetailor made the man, and was, therefore, largely responsible for thecaricature. You have only to see Mr. Brown in the ordinary attire ofto-day and also in Court dress to appreciate this, and sympathise withme. " [Illustration: MR. BROWN, ORDINARY ATTIRE. ] [Illustration: COURT DRESS. ] "Now here is another point, " continued the Pen, "upon which you canthrow some light, old fellow. I have often seen letters on thewriting-table from people asking H. F. For his recipe for the making ofcaricatures. I invariably scribble the same reply, 'Find out the chiefpoints and exaggerate them. ' Not satisfied with this, some have askedhim to explain his _modus operandi_. " "I recollect an instance, " repliedthe Pencil. "It was in the studio here. An interviewer called, and askedH. F. To explain the art of caricature. So he took down a volume ofportraits from the book-shelves, and opened it at this one. You see itis the head of a man who should be universally respected by us of thegrey goose fraternity. 'Well, you see there is not much to caricature, 'said H. F. ; 'it is simply the portrait of a kindly, intellectual-lookingman, the late Chief Librarian of the British Museum, I remember well, "continued the Pencil, brightening up, "H. F. Took me in hand, andtelling me to knock over the forehead, keep in the eyes, pull the nose, and wipe off the chin, produced a caricature 'on the spot. '" [Illustration] "I suppose sometimes you find caricatures ready-made, Mr. Pencil?"continued the Pen. [Illustration: A CARICATURE. ] [Illustration: _NOT_ A CARICATURE. ] "Of course we do, " replied the Pencil. "Nature will have her jokesometimes, nor can we blame her, for it is only by reason of contrastthat we admire the beautiful. _A propos_ of this, my dear Pen, I maytell you that in county Wexford, in Ireland, there is a certain verybeautiful estate, round which runs a carefully-built wall. At aparticular point the regularity ceases, and the wall runs on, constructed in every conceivable style, and contrary to all the canonsof masonry. There is a legend that the owner of the estate, tired of themonotonous appearance of the wall, ordered that a certain space shouldbe left in it which should be filled up with a barrier as irregular inconstruction as possible. This was done, and that portion of the wall iscalled the 'Ha-ha!' because so funny does it look that everyone whopasses is observed to laugh. Now is it not much the same in Nature? Aworld full of Venuses and Adonises would soon pall. So now and then wefind a human 'Ha-ha!' interspersed among them. In that case, I say, thecaricaturist's work is already done. He has simply to copy Nature. Yetthere are some who actually find fault with H. F. For doing that verything, saying that his pencil (that's me) is 'unkind, ' 'cruel, ' 'gross, 'and so on. There are many M. P. 's whom he habitually draws without theslightest exaggeration, notwithstanding which, Mr. Pen, there aremembers of your calling who do not scruple to inform the world that indrawing the Parliamentary 'Ha-ha!' as he is, H. F. Is libelling him. There is one M. P. In particular---- No, I shall not give his name orshow his portrait. I believe him to be very clever, very interesting, undeniably a great man, and extremely vain of his personal appearance. But he is built contrary to all the laws of Nature, and if H. F. Drawshim as he is, he is accused of libelling him. If he improves him, no oneknows him. Oh, Mr. Pen, you may take it from me that the lot of thecaricaturist is not a happy one. " "For the matter of that, " put in the Pen, "neither is the painter's. Youknow Gay's lines: "So very like, a painter drew, That every eye the picture knew, He hit complexion, feature, air, So just, the life itself was there. He gave each muscle all its strength, The mouth, the chin, the nose's length, His honest pencil touched with truth, And marked the date of age and youth. He lost his friends, his practice failed, -- Truth should not always be revealed. " But Gay did not live in the days of Sargent!" "We are getting on nicely, " said the Pen. "Now answer a question whichis often put to me--viz. , why caricaturists eschew paint?" "Because, " replied the Pencil, "people often seem to forget that in thepresent day, when events follow each other in quick succession, asubject becomes stale almost before the traditional nine days' interestin it has expired--that paint is no longer the medium by which acaricaturist can possibly express his thoughts. Of course, I am notreferring to mere tinting, such as that in which the old caricaturistshad their drawings reproduced, but to colouring in oils, after themanner of the great satirist Hogarth. Some may remember H. F. 'scaricature in _Punch_ of the late Serjeant-at-Arms, Captain Gosset, as ablack-beetle. Now, had he painted a full-length portrait of him, andsent it elaborately framed to the Royal Academy, it would not only havetaken him very much longer to execute, but the Captain would not havelooked a whit more like a black-beetle than he did in black and white inthe pages of _Punch_. "It must be remembered, also, that in caricature everything depends uponcontrast. For instance, in a Parliamentary sketch he can easily make SirWilliam Harcourt inflate himself to such an extent that he occupies agood third of the picture, but were he to paint a portrait of him ofsimilar proportions it would be necessary to take the roof offBurlington House and bring over the Eiffel Tower to which to hang theenormous frame that would be requisite. Moreover, there would be anadditional disadvantage, for it would be impossible to take in the wholefigure at once, and it would be necessary to mount the first platform atleast to obtain a peep at even the lowest of the series of chins whichdistinguishes the descendant of kings. However, it is just on the cardsthat some day he may open a Parliamentary Portrait Gallery, and then Ican promise that Sir William will have justice done to him at last. Sixteen yards of 'Historicus' would assuredly be enough to draw thetown. But, in point of fact, it would be just as reasonable to ask anactor why he is not an opera singer as well, or to ask an opera singerwhy he does not dispense with the music and play in legitimate tragedy, as to enquire of a modern caricaturist why he does not work in colours. " The Pencil, after the delivery of this discourse, rolled over to thebarber-knife, who trimmed him up. "There are some people, " continued the Pen, "who object to be sketchedin any shape or form. I recollect an editor once challenging H. F. Toget a sketch of an interesting man who had defied photographers andartists alike, and absolutely refused to have his portrait taken. Youwill find a paragraph about this in press-cutting book, marked 'Pritt. 'Just read it when I'm being attended to. " "Mr. Pritt, Leeds, is reckoned chief of the Yorkshire anglers. 'A striking peculiarity with him, ' a Yorkshire correspondent says, 'is that he never will sit for his likeness. Mr. Harry Furniss, however, the well-known artist of _Punch_, during his recent visit to Leeds, on the occasion of the meeting of the British Association, managed to 'take' Mr. Pritt; and the portrait, drawn in characteristic style, appears in the _Yorkshire Weekly_ under the heading 'Caught at Last'. " "Yes, that's it. H. F. Was invited to dine by this curious and cleverindividual. "'Delighted to see you, Mr. Furniss; but _one_ thing I must ask you tounderstand _at once_--I'm not going to be sketched. ' "'I assure you, ' he said, 'I shall not sketch you unless you are wellaware I am drawing you, and, in fact, willingly give me assistance. ' "'That's very good of you. Now I am happy. I have made up my mind Ishall never allow my face to be drawn or photographed, and once I makeup my mind nothing in the world will move me. ' "'Indeed!' he replied. 'But, pardon me, you have not always had thatantipathy. I am looking at a photograph of you hanging on the wallthere, taken when you were a baby. ' "'Oh, ah! Do you detect that? No one knows it to be me. Of course, I wasnot accountable for my actions at that age. ' "'Ah, how you have altered! Dear me! why, your nose is not that shapenow. Here it is Roman; you have a sort of----' "'Have a--what, eh?' "'Have you a pencil?' (Taking me out. ) 'This will do. Now, your nose islike that. ' "'Is it? But my mouth is the same, isn't it?' "'Not quite--I will show you. ' "'Of course, my chin isn't as round?' "'Oh, no! It's more like this. And you have less hair--see here. ' "'Dear me! Of course, one can see who this is. This astonishes me. ' "Someone else coming in at that moment, he quickly pocketed the sketchand me, and, much to his host's chagrin, it was duly published as aportrait of the gentleman from a 'special sitting'--'Caught at Last. ' [Illustration: THE EDITOR OF _PUNCH_ SITS FOR HIS PORTRAIT. ] "This reminds me, by the way, of a portrait which H. F. Once drew of theauthor of 'Happy Thoughts' as a frontispiece to a new edition of thathumorous book of books. Our guv'nor's first effort at this portrait wasdistinctly a failure, and no wonder, for the moment I was produced theeditor of _Punch_ turned his back upon us, and, with the greatestvigour, commenced writing at his table. Not being so intimate then withMr. Burnand as we subsequently became, both I and the guv'nor thoughthim peculiar. But after a considerable time the editorial chair waswheeled round, and with a smile its genial occupant said calmly, 'Well, let me see the result. ' "'The result is _nil_ at present, ' replied H. F. , 'for I have not yetcaught a glimpse of your face. ' "Mr. Burnand looked surprised. 'Dear me!' he said; 'I thought you weremaking a study of me at work, you know. ' "'All I could see was the back of your head in silhouette. Therenow--sit just as you are, please. That's exactly the pose and expressionwhich I want to catch. Thanks!' cried the guv'nor, as he rapidly set towork, when suddenly all cheerfulness vanished from Mr. Burnand'scountenance, as with a horrified look he pointed to the table by myside, where lay the sketching materials. "'What's that?' he cried, dismayed. "'Oh, a lump of bread, useful in touching up high lights, ' said H. F. "'You don't say so! The sight of it quite upset me. I really thought youhad brought your supper with you, and intended to work from me allnight. I shall never recover my natural expression this evening, soplease call again. ' And as H. F. Closed his sketch-book, the followingbrief colloquy took place: "The editor of 'Happy Thoughts': 'Caught anything?' "H. F. : 'No. ' "The editor: 'Good evening!' "And the door closed. [Illustration] "Frequently a subject has posed for H. F. Without being aware of thefact that he was making a sketch. For instance, in his happy huntingground--Parliament--Brown, M. P. , say, comes up to him in the Lobby: 'Ha!I see you are up to mischief--taking someone off. ' "H. F. Gives a knowing look, and points to Jones. "'Ha! ha! I see. I'll talk to him. Ha! ha! and I'll look out for thecaricature. Don't be too hard on poor Jones!' "'Thanks, awfully, ' replies H. F. He makes a rapid sketch, nods to Brownas much as to say, 'That'll do, ' smiles, and walks off. He has of coursenever troubled about Jones at all; it's Brown he has been sketching allthe time. "It is utterly absurd to imagine you can escape from the caricaturist. "H. F. Trained himself to make sketches with his hand in his pocket, andworked away with me and his book--or rather cards, which he hadspecially for the purpose--whilst looking straight into the face of hisvictim. He manages in this way to sketch people sitting opposite to himin the train, and sometimes when talking to them all the time. "You know that without special permission from the Lord High GreatChamberlain no stranger is allowed to pass the door of the English Houseof Lords, even when it is empty; but when the precious Peers aresitting, the difficulty of making a sketch is too great for description. You are not allowed to sit down, speak, smile, sneeze, or sketch. H. F. Once produced me in the House of Lords. Had he drawn a sword instead ofa pencil he could not have created greater consternation. Explanationwas useless. The officials knew that he was only for 'takkin' notes' for_Punch_, but the vision of a pencil produced an effect upon them thesame as if they had caught sight of an infernal machine. But necessityis the mother of invention. It was then he hit upon the plan I have justtold you about. He draws in his pocket. Keeping the card against hisleg, he sketches quite easily. A pocket Hercules is an oft enoughheard-of individual--so why not a pocket artist? [Illustration: SKETCH ON A SHIRT-CUFF. ] "Previous to this he used to make a rapid note on his shirt-cuff; butthat is a dangerous practice. Wives might resent the face if it were toopretty, and your washerwoman might recognise a Member of Parliament asher intimate friend. The incident which cured him of using hisshirt-cuff for sketching happened at a large dinner, where he wasintroduced to the wife of a well-known public man, who soon showed shewas not altogether pleased by the introduction, and truly at the momenthe had forgotten that he had made a sketch of the lady on hisshirt-cuff, which he did not take sufficient care to conceal. [Illustration] "I recollect once on the terrace of the House of Commons he wassketching a lady of foreign extraction, the wife of a gentlemanwell-known to the Irish Party, with a profile something like this. Imade the sketch, unfortunately, on the marble tea-table. When H. F. 'sfriends were leaving, he found he could not rub this off the table, andwhat embarrassed him more was the fact that some Irish Members werebearing down to take possession of the table as soon as we left. I had arapid vision of our guv'nor floating in the Thames, being hurled over bythe infuriated Members from the Emerald Isle; so I quickly transformedthe lady into something resembling a popular Member of Parliament at thetime, and, as we were leaving, I overheard an Irish Member say, 'Bedad!and Furniss has been dhrawin' that owld beauty, Mundella!' [Illustration: "MUNDELLA. "] "Have you anything new?" asked the Pen. "May I look? I know that St. Stephen's is your happy hunting ground. " "Ah, yes, " responded the Pencil, "I know it well. But I can tell you itis not altogether a bed of roses. When we come across Members who havetaken liberties with their personal appearance during the recess, H. F. And I resent it, I can tell you. " "Naturally, " observed the Pen in a voice of the utmost sympathy, "for itmeans more work. " "Of course, " continued the Pencil. "Now I have always held that model M. P. 's have no right to alter. They are the property of the politicalcaricaturist, and what on earth is to become of him if the bearded menbegin to shave and the smooth-faced to disguise themselves in'mutton-chops' or 'Dundrearys'? Yet they _will_ do it. We may draw themin their new guise, but the public won't have them at any price. Theywant their old favourites, and if they miss a well-known 'Imperial, ' amoustache, a pair of dyed whiskers, or other such hall-mark in thepicture, or on the other hand find a set of familiar chins concealedbeneath an incipient Newgate fringe, a nose and chin which have beenaccustomed to meet for many a long year suddenly divided by theintrusion of a bristly moustache, or a delightfully asinine expressionlost under the influence of a pair of bushy side-whiskers, recognitionbecomes impossible and the caricature falls flat. The fact is, my friendPen, it is not only their features, but their characteristic attitudeswhich we make familiar, and their political differences cause theartistic effect. To me it is marvellous to note how differently artistsdraw the same head. Expression of course varies, but the construction ofthe head must always remain the same. Yet I have seen no less a headthan that of Mr. Gladstone so altered in appearance in the work ofdifferent artists that I have been forcibly reminded of the old story ofSt. Peter's skull. A tourist travelling in Italy was shown a cranium atRome which he was assured was the veritable relic. In Florence he wasshown another, and somewhere else he was shown a third. Upon hisremonstrating the guide observed, 'It is quite right, sir: the skull yousaw at Rome was that of St. Peter when he was a boy; that at Florencewas his when he was a young man, and this was his skull when he died. ' "Then again, familiarity with the subject is only arrived at bycontinually watching and sketching a Member. A few years ago I was lyingdown in my berth in the sketch-book which was in H. F. 's pocket, when Ioverheard a conversation between him and Mr. Labouchere uponParliamentary portraits. " "What did H. F. Say about them?" asked the Pen. "He ought to know thealphabet of Parliamentary portraiture at all events by this time. " "You're right, " nodded the Pencil. "He's drawn a few thousand of them inhis time. What did H. F. Say? Well, he told Labouchere that he alwayscreated a type for each Member, and to that he adheres. " "'Yes, ' said the Sage, late of Queen Anne's Gate, 'and when the originalturns up, those who derive their impression of a Member from yoursketches are disappointed if the two do not exactly tally. '" "But surely our guv'nor does not sketch direct from life?" asked thePen, amazed. "Of course he does, " indignantly replied the Pencil. "He whips me out ofmy bed at all times, but as he pointed out to the Member for Northampton(see how Parliamentary I am getting), it would never do invariably tosketch a man as you see him. 'For instance, ' went on H. F. Addressinghim, 'I made a sketch of you, Mr. Labouchere, in the corridor of theHouse of Commons, kneeling on a seat, and had I never seen you before, Ishould have no doubt used this as a characteristic instead of anaccidental attitude of yours. ' "Just fancy what you would have written, my dear Pen, if you had seen in_Punch_ one of H. F. 's portraits of Lord Hartington with his hat uponthe back of his head instead of over his eyes, or Mr. Gladstone depictedwith a Shakespeare collar, or Mr. Cyril Flower without one, or Mr. Arnold Morley smiling, or Mr. Balfour looking cross, or Mr. Broadhurstin evening dress, or Mr. Chamberlain without an orchid in thebutton-hole of his coat! Yet I venture to say the time has been when Mr. Chamberlain may have had to rush down to the House orchidless, and whenMr. Broadhurst may have worn evening dress. Stranger things than thathave happened, I can tell you. I have actually seen the irrepressiblesmile vanish from the face of Mr. John Morley. But never--no, never, will I believe that the ex-Chief Liberal Whip has ever looked jovial, that Mr. Gladstone and Mr. Cyril Flower ever exchanged collars, or thatLord Hartington ever wore his hat at the back of his head. [Illustration: MR. LABOUCHERE. ] "On the other hand, my dear Pen, you know as well as I do that LordRandolph Churchill did not wear imitation G. O. M. Collars, that Mr. Herbert Gladstone is no longer in his teens, that Mr. Gladstone was notalways so wild-looking as H. F. Usually represented him, and thatperhaps Sir William Harcourt is not simply an elephantine mass ofegotism. " "Then why did he draw them so?" enquired the Pen. "Ah! that is the secret of the caricaturist, " laughed the Pencil. "Thereis something more in politicians, you know, than meets the eye, and thecaricaturist tries to record it. You're so captious, my dear Pen. It isnot given to everyone to see a portrait properly, however true it maybe. Some folks there are who are colour-blind. There are others who areportrait-blind. Others again are blind to the humorous. An old M. P. Came up to H. F. One day in the Lobby of the House of Commons when a newParliament had assembled for the first time, and said to him, 'Well, youhave a rich harvest for your pencil (that was me). I never saw such oddspecimens of humanity assembled together before. ' [Illustration: THE M. P. REAL AND IDEAL. ] "'That may be so, ' replied H. F. , 'but mark my words, after a session ortwo, my comic sketches of the Members--for which, by the way, thespecimens you are looking at are merely notes, and which you are nowgood enough to call faithful portraits--will become so familiar to youthat they will cease to amuse you. And you may even come to pronouncethem gross libels. In other words, you will find that their frequentrepetition will rob them in your eyes of their comic characteraltogether, just as in the case with the attendants at the Zoo, on whosefaces you will fail to detect the ghost of a smile at the mostoutrageous pranks of the monkeys, although you shall see everyone elsein the place convulsed with laughter. '" "But surely, Mr. Pencil, " argued the Pen, "you lose friends bycaricaturing them?" "Not those who are worthy of friendship, " replied the Pencil, with asolemn air. "And those who cannot take a joke are not worthy of it. H. F. Is not a portrait painter. It makes the lead turn in my case towitness the snobbishness which exists nowadays among certainthin-skinned artists and writers. The Society grub has eaten the heartout of all true artistic ambitions. An honest satirist has no chancenowadays. He must not draw what he sees, or write what he really thinksabout it. Pleasing wishy-washiness is idolised, whilst Hogarth is votedcoarse. Great Scott! How this age of cigarettes and lemon squash wouldhave stirred the pulse and nerved the brush of the greatest of Englishcaricaturists!" [Illustration: THE PHOTO. AS HE REALLY IS. ] Then as the Pencil wiped away a tear of regret for the decadence ofEnglish satirical art the Pen jotted down the following lines culledfrom the old tomb-stone at Chiswick: "If Genius fire thee Stranger stay, If Nature touch thee, drop a tear. If neither move thee, turn away, For Hogarth's honoured dust lies here. " "When he has not seen a Member, and has no reference to go by, how doeshe manage?" "He does not find photography of much use. Sometimes, if he has to drawa man for some special reason, and has not seen him, a photograph is, ofcourse, the only means possible; then he generally gets a lettersomething like this: "'Dear Sir, --I enclose you a photograph of myself, the only one I possess. It belongs to my wife, and she has reluctantly lent it, and trusts you will take every care of it and return it at once. It was taken on our wedding trip. I may mention that I have less hair at the top of my head and more on my face, and I may seem to some a trifle older. ' "Well, here, you see, H. F. Has to use his judgment. "But to my surprise H. F. Received a visit from the original of thephotograph shortly after his sketch was published, who came to informthe guv'nor that no one could possibly recognise him in the sketch; andwhen I saw him in the flesh I quite believed him. You can judge from thesketch how useful the photograph was. "The second appearance of the new and ambitious M. P. In the pages of_Punch_ did not satisfy the legislator either. It was not his face hetook exception to, but his boots, like Mr. Goldfinch in 'A Pair ofSpectacles. ' He lost faith in his bootmaker, squeezed his extremitiesinto patent leather shoes of the most approved and uncomfortable make, and hobbled through the Lobbies doing penance at the shrine ofcaricature. A caricature, you see, does not depend upon the face alone. "One of H. F. 's earliest Parliamentary caricatures was a sketch of Mr. Henry Broadhurst, the deservedly popular representative of the workingclasses. He was Member for Stoke when the sketch was made. There is noaffectation about him. Neither the skin that covers his solid frame northat which encases his active feet is thin. His figure is one of thebest known and most characteristic in Parliament. Who is not familiarwith the round, determined little head, with the short cropped hair, thesquare-cut beard, the shrewd expression, the genial smile, the shortjacket, the horsey trousers, the round hat, and the thick boots? Thefigure often appeared in Mr. Punch's Parliamentary Portrait Gallery. When our friend the late William Woodall introduced his fellow-candidateto the electors of Stoke a voice cried out, 'We know 'im! we know 'im!We've seen 'is boots in _Punch!_' "No one can deny that the potters of Staffordshire are an artisticpublic. "The late chief proprietor of the leading paper had the largest feetever seen in the House of Commons, and a certain noble lord whose namewill ever be connected with Majuba carries off the palm for the largestin the Upper House. The new Member for ---- will, in due course, owe hisParliamentary fame to the extraordinary heels of his boots, if nothingelse, just as the late Lord Hardwicke's reputation was due to themysterious shine of his hat. "But, judging from the illustrated papers, M. P. 's all wear spats, newtrousers every day (for they never have a crease), the mostbeautifully-fitting coats, and white hats with black bands round them. Why are they drawn so?" asked the Pen. "Excuse the familiar vulgar rejoinder--Ask me another. " "I hear it said that you never caricature women. " "What rot! Have I not worked in illustrating the Members of the Housesof Parliament for years, to say nothing of Judges and--their wives?" "I mean young women. " "Oh, really I have no time to answer these questions; here are a bundleof my unpublished caricatures; take them and be off. " CHAPTER VI. PARLIAMENTARY CONFESSIONS. Gladstone and Disraeli--A Contrast--An unauthenticated Incident--Lord Beaconsfield's last Visit to the House of Commons--My Serious Sketch--Historical--Mr. Gladstone--His Portraits--What he thought of the Artists--Sir J. E. Millais--Frank Holl--The Despatch Boxes--Impressions--Disraeli--Dan O'Connell--Procedure--American Wit--Toys--Wine--Pressure--Sandwich Soirée--The G. O. M. Dines with "Toby, M. P. "--Walking--Quivering--My Desk--An Interview--Political Caricaturists--Signature in Sycamore--Scenes in the Commons--Joseph Gillis Biggar--My Double--Scenes--Divisions--Puck--Sir R. Temple--Charles Stewart Parnell--A Study--Quick Changes--His Fall--Room 15--The last Time I saw him--Lord Randolph Churchill--His Youth--His Height--His Fickleness--His Hair--His Health--His Fall--Lord Iddesleigh--Sir Stafford and Mr. Gladstone--Bradlaugh--His Youth--His Parents--His Tactics--His Fight--His Extinction--John Bright--Jacob Bright--Sir Isaac Holden--Lord Derby--A Political Prophecy--A Lucky Guess--My Confession in the _Times_--The Joke that Failed--The Seer--Fair Play--I deny being a Conservative--I am Encouraged--Chaff--Reprimanded--Misprinted--Misunderstood. [Illustration] [Illustration: THE INNER LOBBY OF THE HOUSE OF COMMONS. ] [Illustration: 1. Dr. Tanner 2. Rt. Hon. A. Akers-Douglas 3. Lord A. Hill 4. G. Cavendish-Bentinck 5. J. A. Pinton 6. Sir W. H. Houldaworth 7. Sir Albert K. Rollit 8. Rt. Hon. H. Chaplin 9. Sir E. Waskin 10. T. W. Rusell 11. Rt. Hon. C. B. Spencer 12. Christopher Sykes 13. Lord Halabury 14. H. Lubouchere 15. T. Sexton 16. Sir R. H. Fowler 17. Earl Spencer 18. Rt. Hon. J. Chamberlain 19. Admiral Field 20. Sir Frank Lockwood 21. Rt. Hon J. B. Balfour 22. Wm. Woodall 23. F. Ashmead Bartlett 24. Baden-Powell 25. Sir T. W. Maclure 26. Marquis of Hartington (Duke of Devonshire) 27. Sir R. Temple 28. } 29. } Press 30. } 31. } 32. H. W. Lucy (_Toby M. P. _). 33. Rt. Hon. John Morley 34. Lord Randolph Churchill 35. Press (_Times_) 36. " " 37. J. Henniker Heaton 38. James A. Jacoby 39. Sir H. H. Howorth 40. P. Power 41. C. S. Parnell] Some years before Mr. Disraeli quitted the House of Commons upon hiselevation to the Peerage, I enjoyed witnessing a very remarkableencounter between him and Mr. Gladstone. It was one of those passageof arms, or to be more correct I should say, perhaps, of words, which inthe days of their Parliamentary youth were so frequent between the greatpolitical rivals; and although I am unable to recall the particularsubject of the debate, or the exact date of its occurrence, I wellremember that Mr. Gladstone had launched a tremendous attack against hisopponent. However, notwithstanding the fact that from the outset of hisspeech it was evident that Mr. Gladstone meant war to the knife, that asit proceeded he waxed more and more hostile, and that his peroration wascouched in the most vehement terms, Disraeli remained to the finish asif utterly unmoved, sitting in his customary attitude as though he wereasleep, with his arms hanging listlessly at his sides. Once only duringthe progress of the attack he appeared to wake up, when, taking hissingle eye-glass, which he usually kept in a pocket of his waistcoat, between his finger and thumb, he calmly surveyed the House as if tosatisfy himself how it was composed, just as an experienced cricketereyes the field before batting, in order to see how the enemy areplaced. Then, having taken stock of those present, the eye-glass wasreplaced in his pocket, and to all appearance he once more subsided intoa tranquil slumber. But this was only a feint, for the very instant thatMr. Gladstone sat down up jumped Disraeli. The contrast between hismethod and that of Mr. Gladstone was very noticeable. Placing one handartistically upon the box in front of him, and the other under his coattails, he commenced to speak, and in the calmest manner possible, although with the most telling and polished satire, he aimed dart afterdart across the table at Mr. Gladstone. As he proceeded to traverse thespeech of his distinguished opponent with the most perfect and effectiveskill, it soon became evident that in reality he had slept with one eyeopen. With masterly tact, he had reserved the principal point in hisreply to the end, and then, bringing his full force to bear upon it, theconclusion of his speech told with redoubled effect. [Illustration: LORD BEACONSFIELD. A SKETCH FROM LIFE. ] Whilst upon the subject of Mr. Gladstone and Lord Beaconsfield, I maynarrate a remarkable story, although I am unable to vouch for theaccuracy of it, as I cannot remember who was my original informant, noramong my friends in or out of Parliament have I succeeded in discoveringanyone who actually witnessed the incident to which it refers. Should itturn out to be an invention, like the champagne jelly of LordBeaconsfield or the eye-glass of Mr. Bright, I shall no doubt becorrected. But if on the contrary the anecdote be authentic, I may earnsome thanks for resuscitating it. In any case I can testify that at thetime the story was told to me I had undoubtedly every reason to believethat it was true. A similar scene to that which I have described above was taking place inthe House between Mr. Gladstone and Mr. Disraeli, when the latter in thecourse of his remarks had occasion to quote a passage from a recentspeech made by his rival upon some platform in the country. Suddenly Mr. Gladstone started up and exclaimed: "I never said that in my life!" Disraeli was silent, and, putting his hands behind his back, simplygazed apparently in blank astonishment at the box in front of him. Several seconds went by, but he never moved. The members in the crowdedHouse looked from one to the other, and many imagined that Disraeli wasmerely waiting for his opponent to apologise. But Mr. Gladstone, who hada habit, which he developed in later years, of chatting volubly to hisneighbour during any interruption of this kind in which he wasconcerned, made no sign. A minute passed, but the sphinx did not move. A minute and a quarter, but he was still motionless. A minute and a half of this silence seemed as if it was an hour. When the second minute was completed, the excitement in the House beganto grow intense. Disraeli seemed to be transfixed. Was he ill? Was thegreat man sulking? What could this strange silence portend? Two minutes and a half! Some Members rose and approached him, but Disraeli raised his hand as ifto deprecate their interference, and they stole back to their placesconscious that they were forbidden to interrupt. Then, at last, when thesecond hand of the clock had passed three times round its course, themost remarkable silence which the House had ever experienced withinliving memory was broken as the Tory leader slowly began once more tospeak. "'Mr. Chairman, '" he said, "'and gentlemen, '" and then word for word herepeated the whole speech of Mr. Gladstone from which he had made hisquotation, duly introducing the particular passage which the Liberalleader had denied. Then he paused and looked across at his rival. Thechallenge was not to be avoided, and Mr. Gladstone bowed. He would haveraised his hat did he wear one in the House, which, in the phraseologyof the ring, was equivalent to throwing up the sponge. Mr. Disraeliafterwards informed a friend that, working backwards, he had recalledthe whole of Mr. Gladstone's speech to his mind. Beginning at thedisputed quotation, he recovered the context which led up to it, and sostep by step the entire oration. Then he was enabled to repeat it fromthe outset, exactly as he had read it. I saw Lord Beaconsfield in the House of Commons on the occasion of hislast visit to that chamber in which he had been the moving spirit. Iwell recollect that morning. There had been an Irish all-night sitting:the House was supposed to be listening to the droning of some Irish"Mimber. " The officials were weary, the legislative chamber was untidyand dusty, and many of those present had not had their clothes off allnight. Lord Beaconsfield, scented, oiled, and curled, the daintiest ofdandies, sits in the gallery, examining the scene through his singleeye-glass. Leaning over him stands the ever-faithful Monty Corry--nowLord Rowton. I sat within a few yards of them, and made a sketch whichhappens to be the most successful study I ever made. The _Academy_ wroteof it: "In humour Mr. Harry Furniss generally excels; but his portraitof Lord Beaconsfield on his last appearance in the House of Commons issomething else than amusing--it is pathetic, almost tragic, and will behistorical;" and columns of flattering notices must be my excuse forconfessing in these pages that I myself consider it to be the bestportrait of Lord Beaconsfield, and in no way a caricature. [Illustration: THE LAST VISIT OF LORD BEACONSFIELD TO THE HOUSE. ] A caricaturist is an artistic contortionist. He is grotesque for effect. A contortionist twists and distorts himself to cause amusement, but heis by nature straight of limb and a student of grace before he cancontort his body in burlesque of the "human form divine. " Thus also isit with the caricaturist and his pencil. The good points of his subjectmust be plainly apparent to him before he can twist his study into thegrotesque; to him it is necessary that the sublime should be known andappreciated ere he can convert it into the ridiculous, and without theaid of serious studies it is impossible for him fully to analyse andsuccessfully produce the humorous and the satirical. Perchance he mayeven entertain a feeling of admiration for the subject he is holding upto ridicule, for serious moments and serious work are no strangers tothe caricaturist. [Illustration: MR. GLADSTONE. A SKETCH FROM LIFE. ] The famous collars I "invented" for grotesque effect, but I always sawMr. Gladstone without them, for to me his head has never been, as somesuppose, a mere block around which to wreathe a fantastic andexaggerated collar. "I am told a Japanese artist who wishes to study a particular flower, for instance, travels to the part of the country where it is to befound; he takes no photographic camera, no superb sketching pad or boxof paints, but he lives by the plant, watches day by day the flowergrow, blossom, and decay, under every condition, and mentally notesevery detail, so that ever afterwards he can paint that flower in everypossible way with facility and knowledge. I have myself treated Mr. Gladstone as that Japanese artist treats the beautiful flower. I havefrequently sat for many many hours watching every gesture, every changeof expression. I have watched the colour leave his cheeks, and the hairhis head; I have marked time contract his mouth, and have noted thedevelopment of each additional wrinkle. I have mused under the shade ofhis collars, and wondered at the cut of his clothes, sketched his threehats and his historical umbrella. More than that; during a great speechI have seen the flower in his button-hole fade under his flow ofeloquence, seen the bow of his tie travel round to the back of hisneck. " [Illustration: MR. GLADSTONE. "I have seen the flower in his buttonhole fade under his flow ofeloquence. " _Engraved on wood from an original study. _] Thus I spoke night after night from the platform, and the laugh alwayscame with the collars. It was not as a serious critic that I was posingbefore the audience, so I could fittingly describe the collars ratherthan the man. But when I had left the platform and the limelight, and mycaricatures, I have had many a chat with Mr. Gladstone's admirers, withregard to the light in which I saw the great man without his collars, and this fact I will put forward as my excuse for publishing in my"Confessions" a few studies that I have made from time to time of theGrand Old Man, as an antidote not only to my own caricatures, but to themass of Gladstone portraits published, which, with very few exceptions, are idealised, perfunctory, stereotyped, and worthless. Generations tocome will not take their impressions of this great man's appearance fromthese unsatisfactory canvases, or from the cuts in old-fashionedillustrated papers, in which all public men are drawn in a purelyconventional tailor's advertisement fashion, with perfect-fitting coats, trousers without a crease, faces of wax, and figures of the fashionablefop of the period. The camera killed all this. But the photographer, although he cannot alter the cut of the clothes, can alter, and doesalter, everything else. He touches up the face beyond recognition, andthe pose is the pose the sitter takes before the camera, and probablyquite different from his usual attitude. So it will be the caricatures, or, to be correct, the character sketches, that will leave the bestimpressions of Mr. Gladstone's extraordinary individuality. [Illustration: MR. GLADSTONE--CONVENTIONAL PORTRAIT. ] I heard Mr. Gladstone express his own views on portraiture one eveningat a small dinner-party. My host of that evening had hit on the happyidea of having portraits of the celebrities of the age painted for himby a rising young artist. It was curious to note Mr. Gladstone as heexamined these portraits. His manner was a strange comment on thepolitical changes which had taken place, for as he came to the portraitsof those of his old supporters who no longer fought under his colours, he would pass them by as though he had not seen them, or if hisattention were called to any of them he would seem not to recognise thelikeness, and pass on till his eye lighted on some political ally stillnumbered among the faithful, when he would at once pronounce theportrait excellent, and dwell upon its merits with apparent delight. Aportrait of Mr. Labouchere, however, he generally failed to recognise. The portrait represented the Member for Northampton in a contemplativemood, certainly not characteristic of his habitual demeanour in theHouse. "I have found, " said he, "the artist I have been looking for for years. I have found an artist who can paint my portrait in four hours and ahalf; he has painted three in thirteen hours; that is Millais. " I was much surprised by this curious criticism on portrait painting. Surely, if the portrait of the great orator is to be painted in fourhours and a half, the same limitation, if carried out, would confine thegreatest speech ever made to a period of four-and-a-half seconds! Someone pointedly asked Mr. Gladstone whether he liked Millais'portraits. "Well, " he replied, evading any brutal directness of reply, "I have beenvery much interested with his energy; he is the hardest-working man Iever saw. " "Do you prefer his result to Holl's?" "Ah, Holl took double the time, and put me in such a very strainedposition, nearly on tiptoe. I know my heels were off the ground; ittired me out, and I was really obliged to lie down and sleepafterwards. " "You found Millais charming in conversation?" "He never spoke when at work; his interest in his work fascinated me. " "Mr. Watts?" "Ah, there is a delightful conversationalist, and a wonderful artist; hehas attempted my portrait often--three attempts of late years--but hehas not satisfied himself, and I am bound to say that my friends are ofthe same mind. " "I well remember, " remarked Lord Granville, who was one of the party, "how uneasy poor Holl was before he painted your portrait. He came to meand said, 'I think if you would speak to Mr. Gladstone on some subjectthat would interest him, I would watch him, and that would aid me verymuch. '" In this picture of Mr. Gladstone the late Frank Holl failed to maintainhis reputation as an artist of the highest class: that picture of thegreat Liberal leader was disappointing and altogether unworthy of hisname. This was the more unfortunate because, by the exercise of a littleforethought, the artist might easily have avoided that pitfall ofportrait-painters, an awkward, constrained, and unaccustomed attitude, which Mr. Gladstone confessed was torturing him, and by a very simpleexpedient have succeeded in placing Mr. Gladstone in the position whicheveryone who has seen him in the act of delivering a speech in the Houseof Commons would have recognised at once as a true and characteristicpose. Here I have mentioned Mr. Gladstone himself, saying how uncomfortable hefelt upon the occasion of Mr. Holl's visit to his house for the purposeof obtaining a sitting; but I should add that the genial artist who wasto do the work informed me that he also was no less ill at ease. WhenMr. Gladstone enquired how he should sit for the portrait, Mr. Holl, anxious no doubt to secure a natural pose, replied, "Oh, just as youlike!" This appeared to disconcert the great statesman somewhat, and heappeared to be ruminating as to what sedentary attitude was really hisfavourite one, when Holl came to the rescue. [Illustration: CARICATURE OF THE HOLL PORTRAIT. ] "I happened, " said Mr. Gladstone, "to be standing at my library tablewith my hands upon a book, when Mr. Holl said, 'That will do, Mr. Gladstone, exactly, ' and the result was that he painted me in thatposition. But I felt uncommonly awkward and uncomfortable the wholetime, and as I have just said, I had to lie down and sleep after eachsitting. " Now why was this? It was the very attitude of all others with which wewho have studied it so often when the ex-Premier has been standing atthe table in the House are so familiar. No artist who had once seen himin that position would have failed to select it as the most favourableand characteristic for the purposes of a historical portrait. And yetthe picture, when it was completed, was a failure, and the artisthimself knew that it was. The explanation is, I think, very simple, andit exemplifies once more the truth of the formula which defines geniusto be "an infinite capacity for taking pains. " Frank Holl undoubtedlyhad talent, but his omission of an important detail in this picture--adetail which would have probably made all the difference between successand failure--shows once more by how narrow a line the highest art isoften divided from the next best, that art of which we have such aplethora nowadays--which just contrives to miss hitting the bullseye ofperfection. When Mr. Holl exclaimed, "That will do, Mr. Gladstone, exactly, " he wasno doubt impressed with the idea that the great orator was more at easestanding at the table in the House of Commons than in any otherposition, and he therefore selected it for his picture. But he forgotthat upon the table in the House there stands a box on which Mr. Gladstone was always in the habit, when he was speaking, of resting oneof his hands, and that if that box was missing he would naturally, although perhaps unconsciously, be sensible that something to which hewas accustomed was absent, and that he would therefore be asuncomfortable as a fish out of water. This was actually the case. But ifsome substitute for the box, of the proper height and size, had beenforthcoming, I have not the slightest doubt, from my long and closeobservation of the habits and movements of Mr. Gladstone in the House, that he would at once have dropped easily into his customary attitude, and that the picture in the hands of so true an artist as Holl wouldthen have been a conspicuous success. Mr. Gladstone was asked whether he thought the tone of the House haddegenerated in recent times. He replied that he did not think so at all, quoting in proof that after the introduction of the first Reform Billmany Members used to express their feelings in cock-crows and otheroffensive ways. Mr. Gladstone, however, at the time I met him, wasgetting decidedly deaf, and no doubt much that went on behind him in theHouse "did not reach" him. Asked if the "count out" ought to be abolished, Mr. Gladstone said itwas too convenient a custom to be abolished, but that he noticed a veryimportant alteration of late years in the mode of conducting it. Yearsago he recollected it was the rule that, when a Member moved that"forty Members were not present, he was obliged to remain in his placewhile the 'count out' was in progress. " "Now, " said Mr. Gladstone, "hegets up and rushes out. "Indeed, " continued the veteran statesman, "I understand very littleabout the rules and regulations of the House now. I am very ignorantindeed; I believe I am the most ignorant man in the House, and I mean tocontinue so; it is not worth my while to begin now to learn freshrules. " [Illustration: NOTE OF MR. GLADSTONE MADE IN THE PRESS GALLERY WITH THEWRONG END OF A QUILL PEN. ] He told us of a curious incident which happened in the House when he wasa young Parliamentary hand. Members did not leave the House for adivision, but it was left to the discretion of the Speaker to decidewhich side was in the majority. He would then order them to walk to theother side of the House, and anyone remaining would of course be countedwith the opposite side. Old Sir Watkin Wynn, I believe, was determinedto vote against a certain Bill. He had been hunting all day, and rode upto town in time to vote. Arriving in his hunting costume and muddyboots, he took his seat tired out, and soon went fast asleep. Thedivision came on, and his party were ordered to go over to the otherside of the House. He slept in blissful ignorance, waking some timeafterwards to find to his horror that he had been counted with those infavour of the Bill. Mr. Gladstone remarked that it was curious that in the old days theWhips could tell to a vote how a division would go. He recollected well, in 1841, a vote of no confidence in Lord Melbourne was moved. The pointwas going to be decided by one vote. I shall never forget the "Grand OldMan's" graphic description of that vote. There was an old Member who wasknown to be to all intents and purposes as dead as a door-nail. Theexcitement was intense to know if that still breathing corpse could bebrought to vote. Mr. Gladstone, with other young Tory Members, stoodanxiously round the lobby door watching, and just at the critical momentwhen the vote was to be taken the all but lifeless body was borne alongignorant of all that was going around him, his vote was recorded, andthat one vote sealed the fate of a Ministry. In Mr. Gladstone's opinion, American humour invariably consisted indealing with magnitudes. He preferred to hear American stories on thisside of the Atlantic. He never had been in America, and never intendedgoing. He expressed himself as apprehensive of the effect on the nervoussystem of the vibration caused by the engines of a steamer travelling ata high speed, but spoke with admiration of the rapid travelling at seaperformed by the Continental mail packets, saying that a few daysbefore, returning from the Continent, he had only just settled down toread when he was told to disembark, for the steamer had reached Dover. I overheard Mr. Gladstone asking the question: "Why is it that when weget a good thing we do not stick to it?" I fully expected him to launchinto some huge political question, such as the "Unity of the Empire" or"Universal Franchise. " Instead of this, I was somewhat surprised to hearhim proceed: "Now, I recollect an excruciatingly funny toy which youwound up, and it danced about in a most comical way. I have watched thatlittle nigger many and many a time, but lately I have been lookingeverywhere to get one. I have asked at the shops in the Strand andelsewhere, and they show me other things, but not the funny nigger Irecollect, so I have given up my search in despair. " I noticed that Mr. Gladstone took champagne at dinner, and after dinnera glass of port. Some conversation arising with reference to the historyof wines, the old politician seemed to know more on the subject thananyone else at table; in fact, during the whole evening, there was not asubject touched upon on which he did not give the heads for aninteresting essay. The only time Mr. Gladstone mentioned Ireland was inconnection with the subject of wines, when he dilated upon the beautiesof Newfoundland port, which was to be found in Ireland in the good olddays. In one respect Mr. Gladstone was not an exception among the old, for heseemed fond of dwelling upon the great age which men have attained. Heseemed to think that the high pressure at which we live nowadays wouldshow its effect on the longevity of the rising generation, and remarked: "You young men will have a very bad time of it. " [Illustration] It is curious that very few statesmen indeed have led the House ofCommons in their old age. It may be said that Lord John Russell was thefirst to do so; Lord Palmerston also was very old before he obtainedoffice. And so chatted the Grand Old Man, in the most fascinating anddelightful manner. He was always the same on such occasions, enteringinto the spirit of the entertainment, and, as was his habit, forgettingfor the time everything else. When my old friend William Woodall, M. P. For Stoke (Governor-General of the Ordnance in Mr. Gladstone'sGovernment 1885), gave at St. Anne's Mansions his famous "SandwichSoirées" to his friends, the spacious ballroom on the ground floorpacked with his many friends--a characteristic, polyglot gathering ofMinisters and Parliamentarians of all kinds, musicians, dramatists, authors, artists, actors, and journalists, who sang, recited, and gave agratuitous entertainment (for some of these I acted as his hon. Secretary, and helped to get together a collection of modern paintingson the walls, besides designing the invitations)--I recollect thegreatest success was the Grand Old Man. There was "standing room" only, but a chair was provided for Mr. Gladstone in the centre of the hugecircle which had formed around the mesmerist Verbeck. Many guests sat onthe floor, to afford those behind a better chance of seeing. The PrimeMinister, noticing this, absolutely declined to be an exception, and hesquatted "à la Turk" on the floor. I confess this struck me as "playingto the gallery. " It certainly was playing to the Press, for Mr. Gladstone's attitude on that occasion was paragraphed all over thecountry, by means of which fact I have here refreshed my memory. Infact, Mr. Gladstone was always _en évidence_. When the great statesmandined with Toby, M. P. , I was sitting close to him. He had dispensed withhis own shirt-collars, and wore quite the smallest, slenderest, and mostinconspicuous of narrow, turn-down collars, assumed for that occasiononly. "One of Herbert's cast-offs, " someone whispered to me. "That'sstrange, " said another guest to me. "Last night at dinner the pin in theback of Gladstone's collar came out, and as he got excited, the collarrose round his head, and we all agreed that 'Furniss ought to havewitnessed what he has so often drawn, but never seen. '" [Illustration: MR. GLADSTONE SITS ON THE FLOOR. ] Mr. Lucy has made the statement that Mr. Gladstone was "a constantstudent of _Punch_" and "knew no occasion upon which he was not able tojoin in the general merriment of the public; but hadn't there beenenough about the fabulous collars?" I received an editorial order to bury them, "but before long they wereout again, flapping their folds in the political breeze. " [Illustration: THE FRAGMENT OF _PUNCH_ MR. GLADSTONE DID _NOT_ SEE. ] Well, I have no doubt that Mr. Gladstone for many years was "a constantstudent of _Punch_, " for during the greater portion of his politicalcareer he was idealised in the pages of _Punch_, and not caricatured. Idoubt very much, however, if he made _Punch_ an exception in his latterperiod, for it is well known that for years he was only allowed to seeflattering notices of himself, and all references at all likely todisturb him were kept from his sight. At Mr. Lucy's own house, the nightMr. Gladstone dined with him, a copy of _Punch_ was lying on the table, containing a rare thing for _Punch_--a supplement. In this case it tookthe shape of my caricatures of the Royal Academy, 1889. Just as dinnerwas announced Mr. Gladstone saw the paper, and was on the point oftaking it up. I handed it to him, but at the same moment slipped thesupplement out of the number and threw it under the table, for itcontained a caricature of Professor Herkomer's Academy portrait of Mrs. Gladstone, objecting to being placed next to a lady by Mr. Val Prinsepsitting for the "altogether. " During dinner Mr. Gladstone mentioned thisportrait of Mrs. Gladstone, and expressed great delight with Herkomer'swork: it showed her mature age, he said, and as a portrait was veryhappy and true--he did not say anything about the hanging of it! Mr. Gladstone was the life and soul of a party, and seemed to enjoybeing the centre of attraction wherever he was. [Illustration: THE GLADSTONE MATCHBOX. ] Mr. Gladstone's portrait has been adopted by others besidescaricaturists. It is carved as a gargoyle in the stone-work of a church, and the head of the Grand Old Man has been turned into a match-box. Thelatter I here reproduce. It was shown to me one evening when I was theguest at the Guard Mess at St. James's Palace. A clever young Guardsman, who had a taste for turning, worked this out in wood from my caricaturesof Mr. Gladstone, and I advised his having it reproduced in pottery. Thesuggestion was carried out by the late Mr. Woodall, the Member for thePotteries, and was largely distributed at the time the G. O. M. Waspolitically meeting his match and thought by some to be a littlelight-headed. In being shown round the beautiful municipal buildings in Glasgow Ifound my caricature there accidentally figuring in the marble-work; andthe guides at Antwerp Cathedral (as I have mentioned in the firstchapter) point out a grotesque figure in the wood carving of the choirstalls which resembles almost exactly Mr. Gladstone's head as depictedby me. I find a note which I introduce here, as I hardly know where to place itin this hotch-potch of confessions. Is it a fact that Mr. Gladstoneonce signed a caricature of himself? In 1896 a Mr. J. T. Cox, of the"Norwich school" of amateurs, procured a slab of a sycamore tree felledby Mr. Gladstone, and on it reproduced in pencil my _Punch_ cartoondepicting a visit of the "Grand Old Undergrad" to his Alma Mater, Oxford. This was sent to Hawarden, and returned signed with thefollowing note: "HAWARDEN CASTLE. "Mr. Gladstone is obliged to refuse his signature, but Mrs. Drew asked him for it for herself on enclosed--it was so cleverly arranged. "_May 5th_, 1896. " Here is to me, I confess, a first-he-would-and-then-he-wouldn't, Cox andBox mystery I fail to explain. I drew the G. O. M. , Mr. Cox drew me, he drew Mrs. Drew, and Mrs. Drewdrew Mr. Gladstone. Mr. Gladstone refused his signature, and yet hesigned it. I think he signed his cut of sycamore, and not my cut at him. Both as a "special artist" for the _Illustrated London News_ in mypre-_Punch_ days, and later for various periodicals, I saw and sketchedMr. Gladstone on many important occasions, but towards the end of hiscareer it was sad to see the great man. The _Daily News_ once gave me achance in the following account of Mr. Gladstone during one of thesescenes; when Mr. Gladstone, having accidentally mentioned the approachof his eightieth birthday, "the vast audience suddenly leapt to its feetand burst into ringing cheers. Mr. Gladstone was evidently deeplytouched by this spontaneous outburst of almost personal affection. Hestood with hands folded, head bent down, and _legs quivering_. " The funof this joke, however, lies in the fact that the "legs" which quiveredwere the telegraph operators'. The reporter wrote "lips. " So great was the public admiration for the illustrious leader of theLiberal Party that merely to see him was, to the majority of hisaudience, enough. In later years he could not be heard at publicmeetings. Penetrating as his voice was, it was absolutely impossible forany but those standing immediately around the platform to hear him uponsuch occasions as that of the famous Blackheath meeting, or those atBirmingham or elsewhere; but the masses nevertheless came in theirthousands, and were more than repaid for their trouble by catching onlya distant glimpse of William Ewart Gladstone. Whatever one may think of Mr. Gladstone as a politician (and some saythat he was no statesman, and others that he was never sincere, whilemany maintain that he was merely a "dangerous old woman"), all mustagree that as a man he was a figure that England might well be proud of. It will be interesting to see what historians will make of him. When theglamour of his personality is forgotten, what will be remembered? Hisfigure, his face--and shall I say his collars? [Illustration] In my time Mr. Parnell was the most interesting figure in Parliament, and, after Mr. Gladstone, had the greatest influence in the House. Mr. Gladstone was, politically speaking, Parliament itself (at one time hewas the Country); but I doubt if even Mr. Gladstone ever hypnotised theHouse by his personality as Parnell did. There was a mystery ineverything connected with the great Irish leader; no mystery hung aboutMr. Gladstone. Mr. Gladstone in the House was voluble, eloquent, communicative. Mr. Parnell was silent, a poor speaker, and asuncommunicative as the Sphinx. Mr. Gladstone's power lay in hisunreservedness; Mr. Parnell's lay in his absolute reserve. His orderswere "No one to speak to the man at the wheel, " and the man at the wheelspoke to no one. He guided the Irish ship just as he liked over thetroubled waters of a political crisis, and not one of his men knew whatmove would be his next. By this means, so foreign to the Irishcharacter, he held that excitable, rebellious, irrepressible crew inthrall. He made them dance, sleep, roar; he made them obstructionists, orators, buffoons, at his will. He made them everything but friends. Acharacteristic story was circulated when Parnell was known as "theuncrowned king. " Accompanied by his faithful private secretary, he waswalking from the House, when he met one of his colleagues. The satellitesaluted his chief and "smiled affably at the private secretary. " Mr. Parnell took no notice whatever of Mr. ----, but after a few seconds hadelapsed, turned to his companion and said, "Who was that, Campbell?" "Why, ----" (mentioning the name of the hon. Member), was the reply. "What a horrible-looking scoundrel!" exclaimed the uncrowned king in hismost supercilious manner, and then began to talk of something else. He was a study as fascinating to the artist as to the politician, and noportrait ever drawn by pen or pencil can hand down to future generationsthe mysterious subtlety in the personality of the all-powerful leader. [Illustration: PARNELL. ] He was as puzzling to the Parliamentary artist as he was to thepolitician: he never appeared just as one expected him. When I firstmade a sketch of him he had short hair, a well-trimmed moustache, shortly-cut side whiskers, a neat-fitting coat and trousers, andwell-shaped boots. He then let his beard and hair grow, and his coat andtrousers seemed to grow also--the coat in length and the trousers inwidth; and his boots grew with the rest--they were ugly and enormous. His hat didn't grow, but it was out of date. Then he would cut his beardand hair again, wear a short coat, a sort of pilot jacket, andeventually a long black coat. So that if a drawing was not published atonce it would have been out of date. Some artists have been flattering enough to take my sketches asreferences for Parliamentarians, but others depended on photographs, andfor years I have seen Mr. Parnell represented with the neatly-trimmedmoustache and closely-cut side whiskers. _A propos_ of this, I maymention here how mistakes often become perpetuated. John Bright, forinstance, was generally represented in political sketches with aneye-glass. This was a slip made by an artist in _Punch_ many years ago. But ever after John Bright was represented with an eye-glass--which henever wore, except on one occasion just to see how he liked it. The effect upon the House when Mr. Parnell rose was always dramatic. Hesat there during a debate, seldom, if ever, taking a note, with his hatwell over his eyes and his arms crossed, in strong contrast to therestlessness of those around him. When he rose, it seemed an effort tolift his voice, and he spoke in a hesitating, ineffective manner. Neither was there much in what he said, but he was _Parnell_, and thefact that he said little and said it quietly, that what he said was notprepared in consultation with his Whips or with his Party, that in facthe was playing a game in which his closest friends were not consulted, made his rising interesting from the reporters' gallery to thedoorkeepers in the Lobby the other side. Mr. Parnell seemed to have been very little affected by his continuedreverses; and perhaps the only visible effect of his loss of power wasthat the "uncrowned king" of Ireland changed his top-hat to a plebeianbowler, but he did not change his coat. He was always careless about hisdress, and his tall, handsome figure looked somewhat ridiculous when hewore a bowler, black frock coat, and his hair as usual unkempt. The fall of Parnell was one of the most sensational and certainly themost dramatic incident in the history of Parliament. Mr. Parnell was politically ruined and the Irish Party smashed beyondrecovery in the famous Committee Room No. 15, after the disclosures inthe Divorce Court in which Mr. Parnell figured as co-respondent. Mr. Parnell had found the Irish Party without a leader, without a programme, without a future. He had by his individual force made it a power whichhad to be reckoned with, and which practically controlled Parliament. Hehad been attacked by the most important paper in the world. He had comeout of the affair, in the eyes of many, a hero; he made his Partystronger than their wildest dreams ever anticipated. But his followerslittle thought that in hiding from them his tactics he had also hiddenthe weakness which caused his ultimate downfall. Howbeit the IrishParty, whom he held in a hypnotic trance, agreed to stand by him still. Then, suddenly, Mr. Gladstone made his demand for a sacrifice to Mrs. Grundy. His famous letter, written November 24th, 1894, to Mr. Morley, was the death-warrant to Parnellism, and, as it subsequently proved, toGladstonianism as well. There was a strange fascination in watching the mysterious Leader of theIrish Party during the crisis, and I took full advantage of my privilegein the House to do so. I was in and about the House early and late, andprobably saw more of Mr. Parnell than anyone else not connected withhim. It was just before his exposure that I happened to be in anout-of-the-way passage leading from the House, making a little note inmy sketch-book on a corner of the building, when Mr. Parnell walked out. He stood close by, not observing me, and was occupied for a minute intaking letters out of the pocket on the right side of his overcoat: theywere unopened. He looked at them singly; now and then he would tap oneon the other, as much as to say, "I wonder what is in that?" Then hepassed it over with the others and put them all into the pocket on theleft side of his overcoat, and strolled off to catch his train toBrighton. That incident, as I subsequently found out, was the cause ofmuch of his trouble; for I was informed, when I mentioned it to a greatfriend of Mr. Parnell's and of mine--Mr. Richard Power--that about thattime he had written him important letters which might have saved him ifthey had been attended to in time. But those who saw the fallen chief during the sittings in Committee RoomNo. 15, when, through the letter of Mr. Gladstone to which I havereferred, he was denounced, and had to fight with his back to the wall, can never forget his tragic figure during that exciting time. No oneknew better than he that the tactics of his lieutenant would be cunningand perhaps treacherous; so this lazy, self-composed man suddenly awokeas a general who finds himself surprised in the camp, and determines tokeep watch himself. Every day he took by right the chair at themeetings. Had he not been present, who knows that it would not have beenwrested from him? In the early afternoon I saw him more than once walkwith a firm step, with an ashy pale face, his eyes fixed straight infront of him, through the yard, through the Lobby, up the stairs, andinto Room 15, accompanied by his secretary, Mr. Campbell. The members ofhis Party, on their arrival, found him sitting where they had left himthe night before. I recollect one morning, as he passed where I wasstanding, he never moved his head, but I heard him say to Mr. Campbell, "Who's that? what does he want?" in a sharp, nervous manner. He neverseemed to recognise anyone, or wish them to recognise him. His one ideawas to face the man who wished to fight him in the little ring they hadselected in the Committee Room No. 15. [Illustration: TO ROOM 15. ] No outsider but myself heard any portion of that debate, for at thebeginning of it the reporters, who were standing round the doors outsideto hear what they could, were ordered away; and I was left there, notbeing a reporter, to finish a rather tedious sketch of the corridor. Apoliceman was placed at either end of this very long passage, and ifanyone had to pass that way he was not allowed to pause for a moment atthe door of the room upon which the interest of the political world wascentred at the moment. Nearly all the time I was there I only saw thepoliceman at either end, and one solitary figure seated on the benchoutside the door. It was the figure of a woman with a kind, homely-looking face, resting with her head upon her hand. She seemed notto be aware of, or at least not interested in what was going on inside;she simply sighed as Big Ben tolled on toward the hour for the dismissalof the Leader of the Irish Party. She was the wife of a blind Member ofParliament who was taking part in the proceedings, and her thoughts wereevidently more intent upon seeing that her husband was not worn out bythat strange, long struggle than in the political significance of themeeting. [Illustration: OUTSIDE ROOM 15. ] It was my good fortune to hear what was perhaps the most interesting ofthe speeches--John Redmond's defence of his chief--and I never wish tolisten to a finer oration. Everyone admits that the Irish are, bynature, good speakers, but they are not always sincere. Here was acombat in which there was no quarter, no gallery, and no reporters. Themen spoke from their hearts, and if any orator could have moved anassembly by his power and genius, Mr. Redmond ought to have had aunanimous vote recorded in favour of his chief. I am not a phonograph, nor was I a journalist privileged to record what passed, and have nointention of breaking their trust. I shall never forget the scene one Wednesday afternoon when Mr. MauriceHealy, brother of "Tim, " and one of the Members for Cork, challenged Mr. Parnell to retire and so enable their respective claims to theconfidence of the people of Cork to be tested. He tried to drag Mr. Parnell into a newspaper controversy upon this point, but failing to doso repeated in tragic tones his somewhat Hibernian sentiment that Mr. Parnell did not represent the constituency which elected him. Mr. Maurice Healy, a somewhat sickly-looking young man, with a familyresemblance to his brother, is much taller than his more famousrelative, but lacks the stamina and vivacity of the Member for Longford. At this moment, when the Irish Party might have been likened tomachinery deprived of its principal wheel, it was curious to notice howenergetic Mr. Parnell became. He tried to cover his position by beingunusually active in Parliament; he followed the Chief Secretary forIreland in the debates upon the Land Purchase Bill, to the obviousdiscomfort of Mr. Morley, and rather delighted the young Conservativesby twitting the faction which had thrown him over. His speeches, however, were laboured, and, as one of the Irish Members remarked to mein the Lobby, it had a curious effect on them to see Mr. Parnell sitdown after making an important speech without hearing a single cheer. And whereas for years he had addressed the House with the greatestcalmness, his chief characteristic being his "reserve force, " he nowchanged all this, and one Friday night caused quite a sensation in theHouse in his attack upon Mr. Gladstone, not so much by what he said asby the manner in which he said it. His excitement was visible to all, and he was observed to be positively convulsed with anger. He alsoremained, contrary to his previous custom, late in the House. The last occasion on which I saw Charles Stewart Parnell was a fewmonths before his death. I was in Dublin during the Horse Show week, giving my "Humours of Parliament" to crowded houses in the "AncientConcert Rooms, " and my ancient hotel rooms were at Morrison'sHotel--"Parnell's Hotel, " for the "uncrowned king" (at that timedeposed) always stopped there--in fact it was said he had an interest inthe property. It was late on Sunday afternoon. I was writing in mysitting-room on the first floor, next to Parnell's room, when thestrains of national music of approaching bands smote my ear, and soonthe hotel was surrounded by a cheering, shouting crowd. Banners wereflying, bands were playing, thousands of voices were shouting. Standingin a brake haranguing the surging mass of people was the familiar figureof Charles Stewart Parnell. With difficulty he descended from the brake, and had literally to fight his way into the hotel, while his worshippersclung on to him into the building, till they were seized and ejected bythe servants. I went out of my door to see the scene, and in the passageoutside, between Parnell's sitting-room and mine, he sat apparentlyexhausted. His flesh seemed transparent--I could fancy I saw thepattern of the wall-paper through his pallid cheeks. The next moment, before I was aware, another figure sat on the same seat, arms werethrown round my neck. It was my old Irish nurse, who had come up fromWexford to see me, and had been lying in wait for me. [Illustration: OUTSIDE MY ROOM. ] The first picture I drew for _Punch's_ essence of Parliament was aportrait of Lord Randolph Churchill, "Caught on the Hip, " to illustratethe following truly prophetic words of Toby, M. P. : "The new delight youhave given us is the spectacle of an undisciplined Tory--a man who willnot march at the word of command and snaps his fingers at his captain. You won't last long, Randolph; you are rather funny than witty--moreimpudent than important. " That was written at the opening of Parliament, 1891. [Illustration: "THE G. O. M. " AND "RANDY. "] I must plead guilty to being the cause of giving an erroneous impressionof Lord Randolph's height. He was not a small man, but he _looked_small; and when he first came into notoriety, with a small following, was considered of small importance and, by some, small-minded. It was toshow this political insignificance in humorous contrast to his bombasticaudacity that I represented him as a midget; but the idea was alsosuggested from time to time by his opponents in debate. Did not Mr. Gladstone once call him a gnat? and do we not find the following linesunder _Punch's_ Fancy Portraits, No. 47, drawn by Mr. Sambourne? "There is a Midge at Westminster, A Gnatty little Thing, It bites at Night This mighty Mite, But no one feels its sting. " Two gentlemen of Yorkshire had a dispute about his correct height, andone of them, anxious to have an authoritative pronouncement, wrote tothe noble Lord, and received the following reply: "2, CONNAUGHT PLACE, W. "Dear Sir, --Lord Randolph Churchill desires me to say, in reply to your letter of the 21st inst. , that his height is just under 5ft. 10in. "I am, yours faithfully, "CECIL DRUMMOND-WOLFF, Secretary. " [Illustration: MR. LOUIS JENNINGS. ] Lord Randolph Churchill was a mere creature of impulse, the spoilt petof Parliament--what you will--but no one can deny that he was the mostinteresting figure in the House since Disraeli. He had none ofDisraeli's chief attraction--namely, mystery. Nor had he Disraeli'spower of organisation, for, although Lord Randolph "educated a party" ofthree--the first step to his eventually becoming Leader of the House--itcannot be said that at any time afterwards he really had, in the strictsense of the word, a party at all. He was a political Don Quixote, andhe had his Sancho Panza in the person of Mr. Louis Jennings. Perhapsnothing can show the impulsive nature of Lord Randolph more than theincident which was the cause of Mr. Jennings breaking with LordRandolph. Mr. Louis Jennings was, in many ways, his chief's superior: abrilliant journalist, originally on the _Times_, afterwards editor ofthe _New York World_, when, by dint of his energy and pluck, he was thechief cause of breaking up the notorious Tammany Ring; a charming writerof picturesque country scenes--in fact, an accomplished man, and oneharshly treated by that fickle dame Fortune by being branded, rightly orwrongly, as the mere creature of a political adventurer. One afternoon I was standing in the Inner Lobby when Mr. Jennings askedme to go into the House to a seat under the Gallery to hear him delivera speech he had been requested to make by the Government Party, and onehe thought something of. At that moment Lord Randolph came up and said, "I am going in to hear you, Jennings; I have arranged not to speak tillafter dinner. " And we all three entered the House. Lord Randolph, who had then left the Ministry, sat on the bench in thesecond row below the gangway, on the Government side of the House. Mr. Jennings was seated on the bench behind, close to where he had found aplace for me under the Gallery. He carefully arranged the notes for hisspeech, and directly the Member who had been addressing the House satdown, Mr. Jennings jumped to his feet to "catch the Speaker's eye. " ButLord Randolph, who had been very restless all through the speech justdelivered, sprang to his feet. Jennings leant over to him and saidsomething, but Churchill waved him impatiently away, and the Speakercalled upon Lord Randolph. Jennings sank back with a look of disgust andchagrin, which changed to astonishment when Lord Randolph fired out thatfamous Pigott speech, in which he attacked his late colleagues with avituperation and vulgarity he had never before betrayed. His speechelectrified the House and disgusted his friends--none more so than hisfaithful Jennings, who left the Chamber directly after his "friend's"tirade of abuse, returning later in the evening to make a capitalspeech, full of feeling and power, in which he finally threw over LordRandolph. In the meantime, meeting me, he did not hide the fact that theincident had determined him to have nothing more to say to Churchill. And this was the man I once drew a cartoon of in _Punch_ on all fours, with a coat covering his head (suspiciously like a donkey's head), with"Little Randy" riding on his back! [Illustration: LORD RANDOLPH AND LOUIS JENNINGS. ] If Samson's strength vanished with his hair, Lord Randolph's strengthvanished with the growing of his beard. The real reason why LordRandolph so strangely transformed himself is not generally known, but itwas for the simplest of all reasons--like that of the gentleman whocommitted suicide because he was "tired of buttoning and unbuttoning, "Lord Randolph was tired of shaving or being shaved; hence the heroicbeard, which has offended certain political purists who think that a manwith an established reputation has no right to alter his establishedappearance. Still, if he had not vanished to grow his beard, I doubt ifhe would have survived the winter; and probably he discovered that itwas good for any man to escape now and then from what the late Mr. R. L. Stevenson called "the servile life of cities. " Perhaps no one receivedsuch a "sending off, " or was more fêted, than Lord Randolph Churchill. Happening to be a guest at more than one of those festive littlegatherings, I heard Lord Randolph say that all the literary food that hewas taking out with him to Mashonaland consisted of the works of twoauthors--one English, and the other French. We were asked who they were. "In Darkest England, " suggested one. "Ruff's Guide to the Turf, " saidanother. Both were wrong. And it ultimately transpired that, togetherwith his friends' best wishes for his safe return, Lord Randolph wascarrying with him complete sets of the works of Shakespeare and Molière. The deafness which attacked Lord Randolph led to his making mistakes, and to others making a scene, particularly when the noise in the Housewas so great through the excitement on the Home Rule question. I find anote made then upon this point, alluding to a little incident _à propos_of Lord Randolph Churchill's deafness: "It is really dangerous, considering the high state of feeling in the House, that Membersantagonistic to each other should have to sit side by side. During thestormy scene to which I have just alluded, I was sitting in one of thefront boxes directly over the Speaker's chair, and, although remarkskept flying about from the benches below, it was difficult to catch thewords, and still more difficult to stop the utterer; so I don't wonderthat Lord Randolph Churchill--who is rather deaf--should havemisconstrued the words, 'You are not dumb!' as 'You are knocked up!'Later on, however, an Irish Member knocked down another one who wasopposed to him in politics; and this the Press called 'coming intocollision. '" [Illustration: LORD RANDOLPH CHURCHILL. ] There is little doubt that ill-health was the cause of thatquerulousness which led to Lord Randolph's curious and fatal move. Irecollect being introduced to an American doctor in the Lobby oneafternoon when Lord Randolph was at the zenith of his height and fame. Lord Randolph passed close to us, and stood for a few minutes talking tothe Member who had introduced the doctor to me. I whispered to theAmerican to take stock of the Member his friend was talking to. He did, and when Lord Randolph walked away he said, "Well, I don't know who thatman is, but he won't live five years. " It was unfortunate for thereputation of Lord Randolph that the doctor's words did not come true. Many efforts were made by the friends of Lord Randolph to bring LordSalisbury and his lieutenant together again. A deputation of a fewintimate friends, ladies as well as gentlemen, called on Lord Salisbury, presumably on quite a different matter, but led up to Lord Randolph. Lord Salisbury, seeing through their object, asked the question, "Haveany of you ever had a carbuncle on the back of your neck?" "No. " "Then I have, and I do not want another. " But perhaps Lord Salisbury saw more than anyone else that Lord Randolphwas not the man he once was. It was painful in his latter days to seethe Members run out of the House when he rose to speak, and to recollectthat but a few years before they poured in to listen to the "pluckylittle Randy"; and the sympathy of everyone for him was shown in a verymarked way by the kindness of the Press when one of the mostextraordinary figures in the Parliamentary world had passed away. [Illustration: BEHIND THE SPEAKER'S CHAIR. ] Lord Randolph Churchill recalls another familiar figure Icaricatured--Lord Iddesleigh, a statesman who will always be rememberedwith respect. No statue has ever been erected in the buildings of theHouse of Commons to any Member who better deserves it, and, strange tosay, the white marble took the character and style of the man, chilliness, pure, and firm. A country gentleman in politics and out ofit, free from flashy party-colour rhetoric. * * * * * [Illustration] Sir Stafford Northcote, as he was known in the House of Commons, thegentlest of statesmen, had by no means a peaceful career in politics. Hewas at one time Mr. Gladstone's secretary, and those who knew himdeclare that he never lost his respect and admiration for his formermaster, although time took him from Mr. Gladstone's flock to the fold ofLord Beaconsfield. I recollect on one occasion, when I was seated in aPress box directly over the Speaker's chair, seeing Mr. Gladstone writea memorandum on a piece of paper and throw it across the table to SirStafford, who was at that time Leader of the House of Commons; afterreading it, Sir Stafford nodded to Mr. Gladstone, and they both rosetogether and went behind the Speaker's chair. One could easily detect inthe manner of the two old friends an existence of personal regard, andtheir estrangement on political circumstances must have been a matter ofmutual regret. Sir Stafford and Mr. Gladstone towards the end, however, did not show that friendliness that had gone on for so many years. Thismay have been brought about by many causes, not the least of which wasthe fact that Mr. Gladstone refused to lead the House during theBradlaugh scene, and left it to Sir Stafford, then Leader of theOpposition. For instance, after the division in which Mr. Bradlaugh wasrefused the House by a vote of 383 to 233, the Speaker appealed to theHouse to know what to do. Mr. Bradlaugh stood at the table and refusedto leave it. Mr. Gladstone lay back on the seat of the Government benchmotionless, so Sir Stafford took up the leadership of the House, andasked the Prime Minister, whom he facetiously called the Leader of theHouse, "whether he intended to propose any counsel, any course for thepurpose of maintaining the authority of the House and of the Chair. " Andso it was on many occasions. When Mr. Bradlaugh did rush up to the tableof the House, escorted by Mr. Labouchere and Mr. Bass, and went throughthe amusing part of taking the oath, he brought the book which he kissedand the papers which he signed, and then rushed back into his seat. TheHouse witnessed the scene indescribable by either pen or pencil. Buthere again Mr. Gladstone refused to lead the House. There had been adivision, and Mr. Bradlaugh had once more been refused admission; so SirStafford Northcote came forward, as he always did on these occasions, inthe mildest possible way and the most gentlemanly manner, which ratheradded to the effect of his taking the reins left dangling uselessly bythe Leader of the House. He said: "Mr. Speaker, I need hardly say thatif the Leader of the House desires to rise, I will give him theopportunity; but assuming that he does not, I intend to do so, and as Isee no indication of his consent to do so, I shall call the attention ofthe House to the position in which we stand, " and so on. Sir StaffordNorthcote was not a man to stand the rough treatment which Members havehad in the House during the last fifteen years. Had he been a Membertwenty years before that, or even a little more, he would have been morein tone with the "best club in London. " He was perplexed by Mr. Gladstone, he was bullied by Lord Randolph Churchill, and he wasgenerally looked upon as an old woman, and eventually he was simply sentup to the other House. It was not until his sad and tragic deathoccurred that everyone realised that they had lost one of the most ablestatesmen and one of the finest gentlemen that ever sat in the House ofCommons. [Illustration: H] Had Mr. Bradlaugh taken the oath with the rest of the Members when firstintroduced to the House, or had he, after refusing to take it, behavedwith less violence, I doubt if he would have made any name inParliament. The House was determined to fight Bradlaugh, and it is notto be wondered at, for he paraded his atheism, and his views on othermatters, in the most repulsive manner possible. But Bradlaugh did notrun the risk of fighting down mere prejudice. Had he taken the oath, hewould only have won the ear of the House by proving himself a greatpolitician. This he was not, though he was a hard-working one, and amodel Member from a constituency's point of view. But the only bigquestion he mastered was his own right to take his seat. Once he got it, he became a respectable and respected Member of Parliament, and nothingmore. So, with the wisdom of the serpent, he did not enter the Housequietly to fight a wearisome and impossible battle against theinveterate prejudices of the Members. No, Bradlaugh defied the House ofCommons; he horrified it, he insulted it, he lectured it, he laughed atit, he tricked it, he shamed it, he humiliated it, he conquered it. Hebrought to their knees the men who howled at him--as no other man hasever been howled at before--by sheer force of character. [Illustration: BRADLAUGH TRIUMPHANT. _From "Punch. "_] Bradlaugh's bitter struggle would fill a volume. Select Committees wereappointed, and they declared against him. Ignoring them, Bradlaughmarched up to the table and demanded to be sworn. The Fourth Party wouldnot let him touch the Testament. Three days followed of angry debate onBradlaughism, with more scenes. A new Committee reversed the decision ofits predecessor, and said that Bradlaugh might affirm. Two days wereconsumed in discussing this, and the present Lord Chancellor, then SirHardinge Giffard, swayed the House against the report of the Committee. Nothing daunted, Mr. Bradlaugh the very next day was back at the tableof the House, clamouring to be allowed to address the House on his case. A scene of wild confusion resulted, Mr. Bradlaugh endeavouring to speak, the House howling to prevent him. Eventually he was ordered below theBar--that is, nominally outside the House, although within the fourwalls. After much acrimonious chatter from all sides, he was allowed tomake his speech. His hour had come. He stood like a prisoner pleadingbefore a single judge and a jury of 670 of his fellow-men. His speechwas more worthy of the Surrey Theatre than of the "Best Club. " It wasbombastic and theatrical. He was ordered to withdraw, while the juryconsidered their verdict. When he was recalled, it was to hear sentenceof expulsion passed on him. But he would not depart, and anothertremendous uproar took place. Mr. Bradlaugh's well-trained platformvoice rose above all others in loud assertion of his "rights, " and hecontinued to call for them all through the House, the Lobbies, thecorridors, up the winding stair into the Clock Tower, where he wasimmured by the Sergeant-at-Arms. The following day he was released afteranother angry debate, and he quickly returned to the forbiddenprecincts. Then he was induced to quit, but on the next day he came downto the House with his family, and with a triumphant procession enteredthe House amid the cheers of the crowd. So the drama went on day afterday, like a Chinese play. The characters in it were acted by the leadingplayers on both sides of the House, and the excitement never flagged fora moment until Mr. Bradlaugh was allowed to affirm. He was told that hewould vote at his own risk. He voted repeatedly, and by so doingincurred a fine, at the hands of Mr. Justice Mathew, of the little roundsum of £100, 000 (he never had 100, 000 farthings), nor could he even openhis mouth in the House without savage interruption. Finally, Mr. Labouchere, his colleague, moved for a new writ for the borough ofNorthampton. Bradlaugh re-won the seat by the small majority of 132votes, and the Bradlaugh incubus lay once more on Parliament. Thenfollowed the same old cycle of events, the same scene at the table, thesame angry religious warfare in debate (Mr. Bright's great oratoricaleffort will be remembered), the same speech from Mr. Bradlaugh at theBar, the same division, the same result. Scene followed scene, andscandal scandal for weeks, months, years. [Illustration: CHARLES BRADLAUGH. ] To appreciate Mr. John Bright fully, one must have heard him. Really tocomprehend his power and greatness, one must have heard him at his best. Yet the greatness of his oratory lay not so much in what he said as inthe beautiful way he said it. Previous to my having the opportunity of listening to the debates, Mr. Bright had reached that stage a singer reaches who has to all intentsretired from the stage, and merely makes an appearance for someone'sbenefit now and then. In the first two or three years which I recall inthese pages Mr. Bright was making his last appearance in grand politicalopera. He was in the Government, but although he assured the House that"he was not going to turn his back upon himself"--an assertion of hispowers as a contortionist I endeavoured to depict in _Punch_ thefollowing week--Mr. Bright had practically turned his back upon makinggreat oratorical displays. The Bradlaugh scandal was in 1881 the subjectof the hour, and it was whilst appearing for Mr. Bradlaugh's benefit, onthe occasion of one of the numerous matinées arranged by the elected forNorthampton, that Mr. Bright used the words. But on no occasion in mymemory did he rise in a full-dress debate to make one of those grandefforts with which his name will ever be remembered as the great orator. Statesmanship was not so much to him as speechifying. He was not adiplomatist such as Beaconsfield, a tactician like Mr. Gladstone, afearless, dashing debater like Lord Derby the elder, "The Rupert ofDebate"; nor had he the weight of Lord Salisbury, nor the æstheticism ofMr. Balfour. But as a mere voice in the political opera he had a charmabove them all. In appearance he was commonplace compared with theseothers I have mentioned. Often the most indifferent-looking horse in thestable or in the paddock is the best in action. You would not give £40for some standing at ease; but in action, moving to perfection, withfire and speed and staying power, the price is more like £20, 000. Mr. Bright never got into his stride at any time or in any event while hecame under my observation. [Illustration: THE MEET AT ST. STEPHEN'S. ] These equine remarks about a great politician bring to mind a protest Ireceived about a drawing of mine, which appeared a year or two ago, representing Mr. Gladstone as a Grand Old Horse, hearing the horn at themeet, cantering towards his companions in so many runs in which he hadtaken the lead, and for which his day had gone. The protest came from aQuaker, horrified at my depicting Mr. Gladstone as a gee-gee! as if hehad not been so depicted often enough before. Jacob Bright was the very antithesis to his brother, both in appearanceand manner--tall, of a nervous, wiry frame, rigid face, severeexpression. He, like others without a spark of humour, was often themeans of unconscious merriment. For instance, when Lord RandolphChurchill was Member for Woodstock, Mr. Jacob Bright referred to him asthe noble lord "the Member for Woodcock. " Sir John Tenniel in thecartoon in _Punch_, and myself in the minor pictures of Parliament inthat journal, made full use of the "woodcock, " and, therefore, revellingin heraldry, quickly added the woodcock to the Churchill arms. Half the bores in London clubs are Indian officials returned to us withtheir digestion and their temper destroyed, to spend the rest of theirdays in fighting their poor livers and their unhappy friends. Theetiquette of Clubland prevents one from protesting. But in the "BestClub" they are not spared. They are either howled at, or left to speakto empty benches. Perhaps Sir George Campbell, who had been Governor of Bombay, was themost eccentric bore we have ever had in the House of Commons. Sir Georgehas acknowledged that he could not resist the temptation to speak. Onone occasion he made no less than fifty-five speeches on the StandingCommittee of one Bill. At breakfast in the morning he read in the_Times_ his heated, unconsidered interruptions in the House the nightbefore, and he read of the contempt with which they were received--the"Loud laughter, " cries of "Order!" "Divide! divide! divide!" and thesnubs administered to him by the wearied and disgusted Members. He readafter lunch at his club the jeering remarks of the evening Press. He waswell aware he was a nuisance to the House, and he resolved as he walkeddown Whitehall not to open his mouth. But as soon as he crossed PalaceYard and entered the corridors of the House he sniffed the odour ofauthority and the fever of debate. He, the Great Sir George ofIndia, --silent? Never! Whether there was a question about thebathing-machines on the beach at Hastings, or the spread of scarletfever at Battersea, or about an old pump at Littleshrimpton, he carednot: he must act his part--that of the Pantaloon in Parliament. [Illustration: SIR GEORGE CAMPBELL. ] In appearance he was a striking, handsome man, with a strongindividuality. A good head, piercing eye, well-shaped nose, and tall, active frame no doubt added to his authority in India. He struck me as aman who had been taken to pieces on his way home to this country, andput together again badly, for his joints were all wrong. Certainly hishead was, and he was over wound up. His tongue never ceased, and theworst of it was he had a rasping, penetrating voice, with the strongestScotch accent. One afternoon in the House this accent led to one ofthose frequent outbursts of merriment and protest combined--so commonwhen Sir George bored the House, as he was always doing. Sometimes hemade over thirty speeches in one evening. A question was asked about theobstructive methods of the irrepressible Sir George, who on thisparticular afternoon was supported in his boredom by two other bores, the Member for Sunderland and Mr. Conybeare. These three had the Houseto themselves, and peppered the Government benches with question afterquestion, speech after speech. Sir George alluded to themselves as "aband of devoted guerillas. " The weary House, not paying particularattention to every accent, failed to catch most of what Sir George said, as his rasping Scotch accent left them no escape. But the last word wasmisunderstood, and an outburst of laughter, long, loud, and hearty, followed, and, in a Parliamentary sense, killed Sir George for the day. The House understood him to say "a band of us devoted gorillas. " Perhaps the neatest rebuke Sir George ever had in the House--or, as amatter of fact, any Member ever had--was administered by that mostpolished wit, Mr. Plunket (now Lord Rathmore). Sir George solemnly roseand asked Mr. Plunket, who happened at the time to be Minister of PublicWorks, whether he (Mr. Plunket) was responsible for the "fearfulcreatures" whose effigies adorn the staircase of Westminster Hall. Mr. Plunket rose and quietly replied, in his effective, hesitating manner, "I am not responsible for the fearful creatures either in WestminsterHall or in this House, " a retort which "brought down the House" andcaused it to laugh loud and long. This I chronicled in a drawing for_Punch_ the following week. The subject of gargoyles recalls another witticism, which, however, hasthe light touch that failed. Now there is nothing so disappointing to a humorist as to lead up to aninterruption, and then find he is not interrupted. Mr. Chamberlainseldom fails to bring off his little unsuspected repartee, and it is hismastery of this art that make his speeches sparkle with diamondbrilliancy, but then these are usually serious, and he can afford a fewmiss-fires. Mr. Goschen, in the Commons, romped through his "plants" forhis opponents; his interruptions were three or four deep, but he wasready for all of them. He may be likened to a professional chess player, playing a dozen opponents at once, and remembering all the moves on theseparate boards. But for a humorist to miss fire--after an elaboratejoke is prepared--is a catastrophe. Colonel Sanderson rose on a very important and ticklish occasion to"draw" Mr. Labouchere. The Member for Northampton had been electrifyingthe House by his free handling of a matter affecting the morality ofprivate individuals, a course of action for which, later on, he wassuspended. Colonel Sanderson, alluding to Mr. Labouchere, called him a"political gargoyle. " Mr. Labouchere did not, as was expected, rise in afurious state and demand an explanation. The Colonel paused andrepeated, "I say the hon. Gentleman, the Member for Northampton, is apolitical gargoyle. " No notice was taken by the gentleman compared tothe architectural adornment of past days; it was evident that, like thegargoyle in ancient architecture, the remark of the humorous Colonel wassome elaboration too lofty to be noticed. A few days afterwards Mr. Labouchere met the Colonel, and asked him what he meant by calling him apolitical gargoyle. "Well, " said the Colonel, "rather late to ask me;you will find the definition in the dictionary. It is a grotesquegutter-spout. " Said Mr. Labouchere, "You're a very clever fellow, Colonel; that would have been a capital point--if you had made it. " [Illustration: HERALDIC DESIGN ILLUSTRATING MR. PLUNKET'S (NOW LORDRATHMORE) JOKE. _From "Punch. "_] Mr. Farmer Atkinson, who succeeded Sir William Ingram of the_Illustrated London News_ and the _Sketch_ as Member for Boston, Lincolnshire, was an invaluable "subject" for me during his brief hourupon the Parliamentary stage. Our introduction was peculiar. It sohappened that when Mr. (now Sir) Christopher Furness was first returnedfor Hartlepool, Mr. Atkinson, although of opposite politics, was mostanxious to welcome him to Parliament as a companion Dissenter. Afterdiligent inquiries for Mr. Furness, I was by mistake pointed out to him. I suddenly found both my hands clasped and warmly shaken by the mistakenM. P. "Delighted to meet you, Mr. Furness! Allow me to congratulate you. We are both Dissenters, you know, --what a pity we are on different sidesof the House!" "Yes, " I replied, "a thousand pities, --you see, you are inside and I amoutside. [Illustration: MR. FARMER ATKINSON. ] My introduction to Mr. Christopher Furness a day or two afterwards wasin a way similar, but rather more embarrassing. Perhaps there are not two men with surnames so similar and yet sodifferent in every other way than that great man of business, SirChristopher Furness, and myself. He has an eye for business, but not onefor his surname--I have an "I" in my name, and two for art only. WhenMr. Furness was first returned to Parliament, plain Mr. , neither aknight nor a millionaire, _then_ he asked to see me alone in one of theLobbies of the House of Commons. He held a note in his hand, _strangely_and nervously, --so I knew at once it was not a bank-note. "I--ah--am very sorry, --you are a stranger to me, I--a--stranger to theHouse. This note from a stranger was handed to me by a strangeofficial. I read it before I noticed the mistake. It is addressed toyou. " "Oh, that is of no consequence, I assure you, " I said. "Oh, but it is--it must be of consequence. It is--of--such a privatenature, and so brief. I feel extremely awkward in having to acknowledgeI read it, --a pure accident, I assure you!" He handed me the note and was running away, when I called him back. Itread:-- "Meet me under the clock at 8. "LUCY. " "I must introduce you to Lucy. " "No, no! not for worlds, " But I did. Here he is. [Illustration] There were more "scenes" in Parliament in the few sessions that I haveselected to write about in this volume than there were in the rest ofthe last century put together. This was largely due to the climax ofIrish affairs in the House. For effect in debate the English and ScotchMembers, --not to speak of the Welsh Representatives, --are failurescompared with those Members from across the water. No matter how hardthe phlegmatic Englishman, the querulous Scotchman, or the whinings ofthose from gallant little Wales may try for effect, they have to giveway to the Irish in the art of making a scene in the House. Occasionally, as when Dr. Kenealy shook some pepper over the House, andin the case of Mr. Plimsoll--or some other honourable gentleman--whowent so far as to hang his umbrella on the Mace, an English Membercauses a sensation which might almost excite a pang of envy in thebreast of Dr. Tanner or Mr. Healy. No Englishman, however, has exceededMr. Bradlaugh in the persistent quality of sensationalism in Parliament, which now is sadly in want of another political phenomenon to enlivenits proceedings. One of the best studies in those days of good subjects for theParliamentary caricaturist was the figure of that "squat and leeringQuilp, " Joseph Gillis Biggar, Member for County Cavan. Mr. Lucy (Toby, M. P. ), who acted as Biggar's Boswell, records the interesting fact thatwhen Mr. Biggar rose for the first time in the House (1874) to put asupplementary question to a Minister, Mr. Disraeli, startled by theapparition, turned to Lord Barrington as if he had seen seated in theIrish quarter an ourang-outang or some other strange creature, --"What'sthat?" [Illustration: JOSEPH GILLIS BIGGAR. ] From that moment Mr. Biggar was a continual source of amusement--and"copy. " I venture to say that Toby, M. P. , has written a good-sizedvolume about Mr. Biggar's waistcoat alone. What he saw in the waistcoatto chronicle I confess I have failed to see. "A fearsome garment, " Mr. Lucy called it, "which, at a distance, might be taken for sealskin, butwas understood to be of native manufacture. " Mr. Biggar--waistcoat and all--was certainly seen and heard to advantage"at a distance. " He was no doubt useful to his Party, acting, as Ibelieve he did, as a kind of good-natured nurse to them, looking aftertheir comfort and seeing they kept in bounds. Mr. Biggar was always repulsive in both appearance and manner. Hisunfortunate deformity, his gargoyle-like face, his long, bony hands, large feet, the black tail coat and baggy black trousers, the grin andthe grating voice, and the fact that pork was his study beforeParliament, made Joseph Gillis Biggar's appearance as ugly as his name. His chief claim to a niche in Parliamentary history is the fact that heoriginated Obstruction, and showed the manner in which it should beapplied by making a speech occupying four hours of valuable time. Healso showed the length to which gross impertinence can be carried tobring the House into contempt. He "spied" His Royal Highness, ourpresent King, one day in the gallery, and by the law of Parliament aMember by suddenly observing that he "spies" a stranger may have theHouse cleared of all but its Members, including Royalty--worse than thathe on one occasion alluded to Mr. Gladstone as "a vain old gentleman. " The nearest approach I ever had to enter into practical politics was arequest I received in March, 1892, to become the successor of Lord (thenSir Charles) Russell, as chairman of a local Radical association. Inreply I confessed my political creed, and I see no reason to alter it. MY POLITICAL CONFESSION. "I have just received your flattering communication asking me to become the chairman of No. 2 Ward of the East Marylebone Liberal and Radical Association. It is the first time my name has ever been associated with Party politics, and I am puzzled to know myself whether I am a Radical, a Tory, a Liberal, or a Liberal Unionist! "I read the _Times_ every morning, and the _Star_ and the _Pall Mall Gazette_ every evening. I read the sporting papers for their politics, and the political papers for their literary and artistic notes. "I work sixteen hours a day myself, and would agree to any law prohibiting others in my profession from working more than three hours. "I am strongly opposed to Home Rule, as the disappearance of the Irish Members (who are invaluable to me in my profession) from St. Stephen's would be a serious loss to me. "I agree to paying Members of Parliament, but would propose that they should be fined for non-attendance, and for the privilege of speaking too long, too often, or not often enough. These fines, in the majority of cases, would come to three times the amount of the Member's income. "I am not in favour of capital punishment, and would do away with all judges and trials by jury, leaving the Press to fight out the criminal cases between themselves. "I believe in free education, free libraries, and a free breakfast table, and would propose that free book-stalls and free restaurants should be compulsory on all railways. "I am strongly opposed to vivisection, and hold that the life of a rabbit is quite as valuable as that of a professor. At the same time I would not countenance any law making it a punishable offence to boil a lobster alive. "I am a believer in hypnotism, thought-reading, and theosophy (I have been a bit of an amateur conjurer myself). "Right of public meeting? Certainly. This should be a free country--everyone do as he likes. Football in Hyde Park, and fairs in Trafalgar Square. Equal freedom for all processions--if Booth can stop the traffic, why not Sanger's menagerie? "As to local option, by all means let all public-houses be closed. (I never enter one. ) And all clubs, too, so long as my own are not interfered with. "I am not at present a member of any political club, but if you wish me to become one I will put up at the Reform, either as a fervent Gladstonian or a red-hot Unionist; I don't mind which, as neither have the slightest chance of getting in now. "If, after considering these qualifications, you are of opinion that I would be the right man in the right place, I shall be most happy and willing to become your chairman. --Yours, etc. " [Illustration] I regret to have to confess that I once posed as a political prophet. Iwas encouraged to prophesy the fact that six months before the electionof July, 1892, when Mr. Gladstone was confident of "sweeping thecountry" and coming back with a majority of 170 or so, when both sidespredicted a decisive result, and political prophets were cocksure oflarge figures, I luckily happened to be more successful in myvaticinations than they, giving the Gladstonians a majority of somethingbetween forty and forty-five. The actual majority turned out, sixmonths afterwards, to be forty-two. This encouraged me to write thefollowing letter to the _Times_, and it appeared July 19th: "_A Parliamentary Prophecy. _ "Sir, --I am surprised that no Parliamentary chronicler has written to the papers to thank the electors of the United Kingdom for the happy result of the General Election. The jaded journalist is the only person to whom the result is pleasing, as he will have no lack of material for descriptive matter in the coming Parliament. "The Gladstonians are not pleased, because they have barely got a working majority. The Conservatives are not pleased, because they have not got one at all. The Liberal Unionists are not pleased, because they go with the Conservatives. The Irish Nationalists are chagrined, because of the success of five Unionists in Ireland. The Parnellites feel mischievous but unhappy. The Labour representatives mischievous and happy--they are the heroes of the hour--and, although the members of the Labour Party have hitherto been nonentities in the House, they will probably be 'named' several times in the future. But Parliament is a refrigerator for red-hot rhetoric, and such Members will, in time, find respectability and aspirants, [2] and grow dull. [2] See page 212. "A harassed leader, an ambitious Opposition, the balance of power resting in the hands of the Irish, divided amongst themselves, a new and probably noisy party, boredom increased, faddism intensified--such are the ingredients of the new House; and with little spice thrown in in the shape of a revived morality scandal, the new Parliament promises to be a hotch-potch of surprises. I myself take no side in politics, and am glad to say that I have numerous friends in all parties. Perhaps it was in consequence of this that I heard all sides of opinion, thereby enabling me six months ago to weigh all my information correctly and predict the result of the General Election--a Gladstonian majority of between forty and forty-five votes--and to this opinion I have firmly adhered in spite of the fluctuating prospects before the fight. Even on Wednesday, the 6th inst. , when the returns pouring in seemed to point to a Government majority, I stuck to my prophecy. "I am now receiving from my friends (more especially from my Liberal friends) congratulations upon my perspicacity, and, although I am no Schnadhorst, I must now regard myself in the light of a Parliamentary prophet. Having in that capacity chanted my incantations and calculated the number of square feet of Irish linen in one of Mr. Gladstone's collars to be in inverse ratio to the dimensions of his Mid-Lothian majority, and having by abstruse computations discovered the hitherto unknown quantity of Sir William Harcourt's chins, I can safely predict that there will be another General Election within the space of thirteen months, and that the result of the same will be the return of the Unionists with a majority of fifteen. "Yours truly, "HARRY FURNISS. "Garrick Club, London, July 19. " [Illustration: THE HOUSE OF COMMONS FROM TOBY'S PRIVATE BOX. ] The regret I felt was not caused by any failure of my predictioncontained in the last paragraph in that letter, but that the whole of itwas taken seriously. Editorial leaders appeared in the principal papersall over the kingdom. Letters followed, discussions took place, andpoliticians referred to it in their speeches. "Mr. Harry Furniss hastaken the public into his confidence, as one who is thoroughlyacquainted with Party politics, though he takes no personal interest inthem. Men who can thus truthfully describe themselves are excessivelyrare, as far as we know. It is usually the person who does notunderstand politics who takes no interest in them. A man who understandspolitics, but does not concern himself to take sides, is in the positionof the looker-on who sees most of the game, " was truthfully written ofme _à propos_ of this letter--but why _à propos_ of this letter? Why notof my serious work instead? No, my "airy persiflage" was only a cloak. Iwas seriously and instantaneously accepted as a serious politicalprophet, and otherwise criticised: "_To the Editor of the 'Times. '_ "Sir, In a letter signed by Mr. Harry Furniss, which appeared in the _Times_ of the 21st inst. , the writer concluded by predicting that there would be another general election within thirteen months, and that the result would be a Unionist majority of fifteen. "Mr. Furniss is evidently fond of odd numbers, but may I point out to him, and to many other political prophets who have fallen into the same trap, that the fulfilment of his prediction is an impossibility? "In a House of 670 Members, or any other even number, if divided into two parties, the majority (in the sense he uses the word--viz. , the difference) must always be an even number. It is true that the division lists sometimes show a majority which is an odd number, but in such a case an odd number of Members must have been absent from the division. Mr. Furniss must prophesy either fourteen or sixteen. "The English language is so defective that the word 'majority' is used to mean 'the greater number, ' and also 'the difference between the greater number and the less. ' Cannot a new word be invented to replace 'majority' in one or other of these meanings, and so avoid the use of the same word for two distinct ideas? "Your obedient servant, "GEORGE R. GALLAHER, "Fellow of the Institute of Bankers. "44, Fenchurch Street, London, E. C. " I suppose F. I. B. Stands for "Fellow of the Institute of Bankers. "Anyway, before I had time to reply to the courteous captious critic the_Times_ published the following: "_Political Prophecy. _ "Sir, --In endeavouring to correct Mr. Furniss your correspondent Mr. Gallaher has forgotten that, although the House of Commons consists of an even number of Members, one of those Members will be elected Speaker; and that consequently, if all the Members were on any occasion to attend, the majority would be an odd, and not an even number. There is therefore no necessity for Mr. Furniss to alter his prophecy at present. "Your obedient servant, "FAIR PLAY. " Other correspondents, less technical but strongly political, accused meof being "an inspired Conservative spy. " Others that I was an oracleworth "rigging. " And the Irish and Radical Press questioning myimpartiality, I published this letter: "_To the Editor of the 'Manchester City News. '_ "Sir, --My attention has been called to a paragraph in your issue of July 23rd, stating that I am a Conservative, an assertion which has highly amused those who know me well, for I am one of the strongest of Radicals in some things and the hottest of Tories in others. I earnestly advocate the claims of the working man, and sometimes I feel myself a Whig of the old school. Whether I am a Tory, a Liberal or a Radical, troubles me very little, but as you seem to take a kind interest in my political opinions I should have preferred you to have styled me an Independent, which I understand means nothing. "HARRY FURNISS. "Garrick Club, London. " But neither "Independent" nor humorous would the partisanPress allow me to be. Certainly I was applauded by some forhaving held steadfastly to my prophecy, despite temptationswhich would have made Cassandra succumb. I was flatteredby being held up as an exception among the prophets. FromMr. Gladstone to Mr. T. P. O'Connor politicians had prophesiedand were hopelessly wide of the mark. Mr. Chamberlain, speaking at Birmingham that week, said, "The gravity of theweighty man of the House of Commons, gentlemen, is a thingto which there is no parallel in the world, " and oh! so serious! [Illustration: THE GOVERNMENT--BENCH BEFORE HOME RULE. A rough Sketch made in the House. Mr. W. E. Foster. Mr. Gladstone. Mr. John Bright. Lord E. Fitzmaurice. Lord Hartington. ] "Prophets--at any rate political prophets--are chiefly distinguishedfrom other people by being always dull and nearly always wrong. To-day, however, appears a brilliant exception to the almost universal rule, "wrote one paper, and yet continued, "Mr. Furniss is simply within hisown ground as one of the shrewdest and best trained of living observers, when he describes the newly-elected House of Commons as thoroughlydiscontented with itself. But we wish that Mr. Furniss had carried hisprediction into the regions of counsel, and had been able to read in'Mr. Gladstone's collars, ' or in the 'unknown quantity of Sir WilliamHarcourt's chins, ' and whatever else serves him for his Stars, what isto be the outcome of a situation in which no party is able to obtain aworking majority. If Mr. Furniss is right, the question of 'how is theQueen's Government to be carried on?' will assume a practical importancewhich it never had before; and unless he himself, as a thoroughlynon-party man, can be induced to undertake the formation of anadministration of similarly fortunate persons, one does not see what isto be done. Party government is based upon big majorities--it is withinmeasurable distance of breaking down altogether unless the country willmake up its mind to stand no more nonsense, and to prefer what is reallya party to a conglomerate of fads and factions. " I was beginning to feel like a man who had started a story and forgottenthe point of it. The only "comic relief" was the following note from theEditor of _Punch_: _21st July, 1892. "_Vates et Vox Stellarum. _ "Dear H. F. , --'Respectability and aspirants. ' Didn't you squirm at the misprint? Is that setter-up-of-type still alive? Je m'en doute. The reference to Harcourt's _chins_ will _get you liked_ very much. You dated it from the Garrick, but you didn't put the time of night when you wrote it. 'P. S. '--_Post Supperal_, eh? "Farewell, O Prophet!--but 'why _didn't you say so before_?' "Allah il Allah Ari Furniss is His Prophet! "Yours ever, "F. C. B. "_Advt. _--'LIKA JOKO'! Parliamentary Prophet!! Prophecies sent out on shortest notice. Terms, ----. Reduction on taking a quantity. " Yes! I did squirm at the misprint, which, however, was rectified in thenext issue: "_A Parliamentary Prophecy. _--In Mr. Harry Furniss's letter under this title in the _Times_ of yesterday the word 'aspirates' should be read instead of 'aspirants' in the following passage: 'The Labour representatives feel mischievous and happy--they are the heroes of the hour--and, although the members of the Labour Party have hitherto been nonentities in the House, they will probably be 'named' several times in the future. But Parliament is a refrigerator for red-hot rhetoric, and such members will, in time, find respectability and aspirants, and grow dull. " I wish I had followed the example of Mr. John Morley, who announced acouple of months before the election that he had written down hisGeneral Election tip and placed it in a sealed envelope; but so far as Ihave heard, he never risked his reputation for prophecy--he refrainedfrom publishing the secret. That grave and weighty right hon. Gentlemanscored as the humorist, and I failed as a prophet in my second attempt. [Illustration: REDUCTION OF ONE OF MY PARLIAMENTARY PAGES IN _PUNCH_. ] CHAPTER VII. "PUNCH" Two _Punch_ Editors--_Punch's_ Hump--My First _Punch_ Dinner--Charles Keene--"Robert"--W. H. Bradbury--du Maurier--"Kiki"--A Trip to the Place of his Birth--He Hates Me--A Practical Joke--du Maurier's Strange Model--No Sportsman--Tea--Appollinaris--My First Contribution--My Record--Parliament--Press Gallery Official--I Feel Small--The "Black Beetle"--Professor Rogers--Sergeant-at-Arms' Room--Styles of Work--Privileges--Dr. Percy--I Sit in the Table--The Villain of Art--The New Cabinet--Criticism--_Punch's_ Historical Cartoons--Darwen MacNeill--Scenes in the Lobby--A Technical Assault--John Burns's "Invention"--John Burns's Promise--John Burns's Insult--The Lay of Swift MacNeill--The Truth--Sir Frank Lockwood--"Grand Cross"--Lockwood's Little Sketch--Lockwood's Little Joke in the House--Lockwood's Little Joke at Dinner--Lewis Carroll and _Punch_--Gladstone's Head--Sir William's Portrait--Ciphers--Reversion--_Punch_ at Play--Three _Punch_ Men in a Boat--Squaring up--Two Pins Club--Its One Joke--Its One Horse--Its Mystery--Artistic Duties--Lord Russell--Furious Riding--Before the Beak--Burnand and I in the Saddle--Caricaturing Pictures for _Punch_--Art under Glass--Arthur Cecil--My Other Eye--The Ridicule that Kills--Red Tape--_Punch_ in Prison--I make a Mess of it--Waterproof--"I used your Soap two years ago"--Charles Keene--Charles Barber--_Punch's_ Advice--_Punch's_ Wives. [Illustration: T] The first representative of Mr. Punch with whom I came into contact wasthe late Tom Taylor, at that period the tenant of the editorial chair. To this meeting I have referred on a previous page, when I mentionedthat Mr. Taylor had just returned from the wilds of Connemara andstrongly advised me to make some explorations in that little-knowndistrict for the purpose of making sketches of the "genus _homo_indigenous to the soil, " which I did a week or so prior to my settingfoot in the busy haunt of men on murky Thames. Tom Taylor was, I believe, one of the best of men, and the possessor ofone of the kindest hearts; but although he certainly professed to takean interest in me (probably owing to the fact that it was to a relativeof mine that he was indebted for his first introduction to literature), the fact remains that whenever I sent him a sketch I used to receive oneof his extraordinary hieroglyphical missives supposed to be a notecourteously declining my efforts, notwithstanding that I was oftenflattered although not enriched by subsequently seeing the subjects ofthem appear redrawn under another name in the pages of _Punch_. It was not until Tom Taylor had passed away that Mr. Punch would deignto give me a chance. I had then been seven years in London hard at workfor the leading magazines and illustrated papers, and I may truly saythat my work was the only introduction I ever had to Mr. Burnand. [Illustration: Age 26, WHEN I FIRST WORKED FOR PUNCH. [_From a Photo byC. Watkins. _]] When I first entered the goal of my boyish ambition--that is to say, theeditorial sanctum of Mr. Punch--I had never met the gentleman who for anumber of years afterwards was destined to be my chief, and I fullyexpected to see the editor turn round and receive me with that look ofirrepressible humour and in that habitually jocose style which I had sooften heard described. I looked in vain for the geniality in theeditor's glance, and there was a remarkably complete absence of thejocose in the sharp, irritable words which he addressed to me. "Really, " said he, "this is too bad! I wrote to you to meet me at theSurrey Theatre last night, and you never turned up. We go to pressto-day, and the sketches are not even made. " "I don't quite understand you, " I replied, "for I never heard from youin my life, and I don't think that you ever saw me before. " "But surely you are Mr. ----?" (a contributor who had been drawing for_Punch_ for some weeks). "Are you not?" "No, " I said. "My name is Furniss, and I understood that you wanted tosee me. " [Illustration: MY FIRST MEETING WITH THE EDITOR OF _PUNCH_. ] This was in 1880, and from that period up to the time of my resignationfrom the staff of _Punch_ I certainly do not think that I have ever seenBurnand's face assume such a threatening and offended expression as itwore that day. I was then twenty-six. Strange to say, Charles Keene and George duMaurier were exactly the same age when they first made their _début_ in_Punch_, but not yet invited to "join the table. " As I was leaving my house one summer evening a few years afterwards, theyoungest member of my family, who was being personally conducted up tobed by his nurse, enquired where I was going. "To dine with Mr. Punch, " I replied. "Oh, haven't you eaten all his hump _yet_, papa? It _does_ last a longtime!" And the little chap continued his journey to the arms ofMorpheus, evidently quite concerned about his father's long-drawn-outact of cannibalism. The first feast to which I was bidden was not one of the ordinary oroffice description, but a banquet given at the "Albion" Tavern, in theCity, on the 3rd of January, 1881, to celebrate the installation of Mr. Burnand as the occupant of the editorial chair. And on my invitationcard I first sketched my new friends, the _Punch_ staff, and a few ofthe outside contributors who were present, conspicuous among whom wasGeorge Augustus Sala, the honoured stranger of the evening. That heshould be so struck me as peculiar, for it was an open secret that Salawrote and illustrated that famous attack (nominally by Alfred Bunn), "AWord with _Punch_, " a most vulgar, vicious, and personal insult whichhad given much offence years before; a clear proof of Mr. Punch'sforgiving nature. That grand old man of _Punch_, Tenniel, I made anattempt to sketch as he was "saying a few words, " but on this particularoccasion it was my _vis-à-vis_ Charles Keene who interested me more thanany other person present. He wore black kid gloves and never removedthem all during dinner--that puzzled me. Why he wore them I cannot say. I never saw him wearing gloves at table again, or even out of doors. Then he was in trouble with his cigar, and finally I noticed that hethrew it under the table and stamped upon it, and produced his favouritedirty Charles the First pipe, the diminutive bowl of which he filledcontinually with what smokers call "dottles. " He was then apparentlyperfectly happy, as indeed he always looked when puffing away at hisantique clay. Years afterwards, when sketching a background for a_Punch_ drawing in the East End, I noticed some labourers returningfrom working at excavations, laughing over something they had found inthe ground; it was a splendid specimen of the Charles clay pipe, longerthan any I have seen. I bought it from them to present to Keene, but hewas ill then, and soon after the greatest master of black and whiteEngland ever produced had passed away. [Illustration: MY FIRST INVITATION FROM _PUNCH_. ] [Illustration: A LETTER FROM CHARLES KEENE, OBJECTING TO ANEDITOR INTERVIEWING HIM. ] [Illustration: "Robert. "] After Keene the strangest character present was Mr. DeputyBedford--"Robert" in the pages of _Punch_--an undertaker in the City, and one of the most humorous men within its boundary. I recollectintroducing my wife to him at some function at the Mansion House--not asRobert, but as Mr. Deputy Bedford. She expressed her pleasure at meetingone of the City dignitaries, and he offered to show her over thetreasures in the Mansion House. "There's a fine statue for you! Don'tknow who did it, but we paid a thousand pounds for it. And that one overthere, which weighs half a ton less, cost twice as much. Oh! thepictures are worth something, too. That portrait cost £800; I don't knowwhat that one cost, but the frame is cheap at £20. Yes, fine gold plate, isn't it? Old designs? Yes, but old or new, boiled down, I should think£80, 000 wouldn't be taken for the pile!" And so on, and so on, with amerry twinkle in his eye and an excellent imitation of what outsidersconsider City men to be. [Illustration: GEORGE DU MAURIER. _From a pen and ink drawing by himself, the property of the Author. _] My caricature of the genial E. L. S. (Sambourne) is not good, but quiteas kind as Sala's remarks were on that occasion in chaffing Sambournefor turning up in morning costume. In the bottom right-hand corner ofthe card is a note of the late Mr. W. H. Bradbury, one of theproprietors of _Punch_, the kindest and the best host, thebiggest-hearted and most genial friend, I ever worked for. He has hiseye, I notice, on a gentleman making an impromptu speech--the sensationof the evening--referred to by Mr. M. H. Spielmann in "The History of_Punch_. " Next to that irrepressible orator is Mr. Lucy, "Toby, M. P. , "as I saw him first. I note on this card an attempt to sketch du Maurier, the "Thackeray ofthe pencil. " By the way, I was certainly the first to apply that term tohim--in my first lecture, "Art and Artists. " He was some distance fromme at the banquet when I made these notes. It is a curious fact that I really never had a seat allotted to me atthe _Punch_ table. I always sat in du Maurier's, except on the rareoccasions when he came to the dinner, when I moved up one. It was alwaysa treat to have du Maurier at "the table. " He was by far and away thecleverest conversationalist of his time I ever met, --his delightfulrepartees were so neat and effective, and his daring chaff and hiscriticisms so bright and refreshing. For some extraordinary reason du Maurier was known to the _Punch_ men as"Kiki, " a friendly sobriquet which greeted him when he first joined, andrefers to his nationality. In the same way as an English schoolboy callsout "Froggy" to a Frenchman, his friends on the _Punch_ staff called himKiki, suggested by the Frenchman's peculiar and un-English art ofself-defence. Du Maurier took very little interest in the discussions at the table; infact, he resented informal debate on the subject of the cartoon as aninterruption to his conversation, although he once suggested a cartoonwhich will always rank as one of the most historical hits of Mr. Punch--a cartoon of the First Napoleon warning Napoleon the Third as hemarches out to meet the Germans in the War of 1870. At times he might enter into the artistic treatment of the cartoon; andI reproduce a sketch he did on the back of a _menu_ to explain some ideain connection with the cartoon which appeared the following week in_Punch_. Du Maurier's extremely clever conversation struck me the moment Ijoined the staff of _Punch_. As I went part of his way to Hampstead, wesometimes shared a cab, and in one of these journeys I mentioned myconviction that he, in my mind, was a great deal more than a humorousartist, and if he would only take up the pen seriously the world wouldbe all the more indebted to him. He told me that Mr. James had for sometime said nice things of a similar character. [Illustration: SUGGESTION BY DU MAURIER FOR _PUNCH_ CARTOON. ] About ten days afterwards I received a letter saying that myconversation had had an effect upon him, and that he was starting hisfirst novel. So perhaps the world is really indebted to me, indirectly, for the pleasure of reading "Peter Ibbetson" and "Trilby;" the factbeing that he had, with Burnand and myself, just visited Paris--thefirst time he had set foot in the gay city since his youth. Many thingshe saw had impressed him, and "Peter Ibbetson" was the result. Howinteresting it was to watch him in Paris, the place of his birth, standing, the ideal type of a Frenchman himself, smiling and as amusedas a boy at his own countrymen and women. "So very un-English, youknow!" Then, as we drove about Paris, he stood up in the carriage, excitedly showing us places familiar to him in his young days, andgreatly amused us by pointing out no fewer than three different housesin which he was born! We three were the guests of Mr. Staat Forbes atFontainebleau during the same trip, and du Maurier's sketches of ourpleasant experiences on that occasion appear in _Punch_, under theheading "Souvenir de Fontainebleau, " in three numbers in October, 1886. In the drawing of our _al fresco_ dinner, "Smith" is our host, I am"Brown, " du Maurier "Jones, " and Mr. Burnand "Robinson. " Three years afterwards du Maurier re-visited Paris with most of thestaff to see the Paris Exhibition, 1889. In my sketch "En Route--Mr. Punch at Lunch, " du Maurier is speaking to Mr. Anstey Guthrie, who, "forthis occasion only, " called du Maurier the Marquis d'Ampstead. Du Maurier had a little of the green-eyed monster in his bosom, althoughhe lived to laugh at all when he himself became the greatest success ofany man in his sphere. When I made my hit with my Exhibition of the "Artistic Joke, " duMaurier, to my surprise, turned sharply round to me one night in the caband said, "My dear Furniss, I must be honest with you--I hate you, Iloathe you, I detest you!" [Illustration: DU MAURIER'S SOUVENIR DE FONTAINEBLEAU. _From "Punch. "_] "Thanks, awfully, my dear fellow! But why?" "Ah!" he said, "your success is too great. When I get the return yousend me in the morning, showing me the number of people that have beento your Exhibition, the tremendous takings at the turnstiles, the numberof albums subscribed for, the number of pictures you have sold, I cannotwork. I go on to Hampstead Heath to walk off my jealousy; when I come into lunch I find your first telegram, telling me you have made £80 thatmorning. I walk out again, and looking down upon London, although Ishake my fist at the whole place, my wrath is for you alone. I come into tea to find another telegram--you have made £100! How can I sit downand scratch away on a piece of paper when you are making a fortune in aweek?" This nearly took my breath away. "My dear du Maurier, " I replied, "I feel hurt--seriously, irrevocably. I shall always feel degraded in your eyes. Of course you are the victimof a practical joke. " Du Maurier pulled from his pocket one of my supposed returns. It was animitation of printing, with the amounts filled in. "This is the kind ofthing I get every morning. " "Why, of course, it is written, not printed. That is the work of theirrepressible practical joker. But it makes no difference, du Maurier;if you thought that I would be such a cad as to send you these returns, I cannot see how we can ever be great friends. " Although as du Maurier believed for a time I had the necessary vulgarityof the "bloated millionaire, " to use his own words, we were never muchmore than acquaintances--although very pleasant acquaintances--and Ibelieve du Maurier reciprocated the kind feeling I had towards him. DuMaurier rarely forgave a satirical thrust at his expense. His dislikefor Mr. Whistler on this account is well known to all the early readersof "Trilby, " and he often related with unconcealed glee a remark he oncemade to Whistler. It appears they had not met for a long period, duringwhich du Maurier with his satirical pictures on the æsthetic craze, published in _Punch_, and Whistler with his "symphonies" and "harmonies"on canvas, exhibited in the Law Courts, had both increased theirreputation. "Hullo, Kiki!" cried Whistler. "I'm told that your work in _Punch_ isthe making of some men. You have actually invented Tomkins! Why, henever would have existed but for you! Ha! ha! how on earth did you doit?" "Look here, Jimmy, if you don't look out, by Jove, I'll invent you!" How Kiki--du Maurier--carried out his threat in "Trilby, " and whatresulted from it, all the world knows. By the way, the mention of "Trilby" reminds me of a story about Mr. DuMaurier's own Trilby which is perhaps worth recording. Du Maurier forsome years lived on the top of Hampstead Heath, rather inaccessible formodels. But more than once friends asked him to take a sitting from somelady or another, as he, drawing fashionable ladies, was different, perhaps, from painters using models for costumes or, as du Maurierwould say, for the "altogether. " In this way a model was introduced tohim, and, to his surprise, she drove up to his house in a hansom, and heheard her asking one of the servants for change of a sovereign to paythe cabman. She did not sit very well, so after a short time Mr. DuMaurier told her that he only drew from models for part of the day, and, rather apologetically, said he of course did not pay for the whole ofthe usual day's sitting. And she said: "Oh, thanks! I am only too pleased to sit for a short time. But wouldyou kindly ask one of your servants to fetch me a hansom?" [Illustration: _PUNCH_ STAFF RETURNING FROM PARIS. (_The original hangs on the wall of Mr. Punch's dining room. _)] This made the artist more than ever miserable, and he said: "Excuse me, but perhaps you are not aware we only pay a modest amountfor sitters; in fact, I generally pay five shillings for twohours--aw----" "You don't mean to say you are really going to give me five shillings?Oh, how kind of you! It will just pay half my cab fare home. I didn'tknow I was going to be so lucky. " And she vanished, leaving the artistmore bewildered than ever. Some time afterwards, in Hyde Park, he was surprised to see a carriagebeautifully appointed pulled up to where he was standing, and a ladylean out and say: "I have never seen you before to thank you for your kindness in allowingme to sit for you. I was so anxious to see what a studio was like. Thanks, awfully; you must let me call again. " Du Maurier had the faculty of unaffected fun, he had also a feeling forcaricature in portraiture, but he did not care to exercise either to anyextent in _Punch_. I recollect Sir Henry Thompson--the celebratedphysician--showing me a copy of a book he had written, in which hespeaks of hospital life in London. Du Maurier had studied in a Londonhospital when he first arrived in England, and he wrote to Sir Henry, then a stranger to him, to ask him if the wretch in his book who wheeledoff the remains of the corpses from the dissecting-room was the same manhe knew and loathed years ago. The sketch accompanying this query SirHenry had pasted in the book in triumph. "There is the man, " he said, "to the life!" At dinner du Maurier ate sparingly, drank moderately, and smokedcigarettes. He avoided champagne, preferring the wine of hiscountry--claret; and after dinner, in place of coffee, he had a hugebreakfast-cup of tea, and, like the soap advertisement boy, he was nothappy till he got it. [Illustration: JAPANESE STYLE: A BALLET FROM _PUNCH_. ] Mentioning an advertisement suggests that it may interest some to knowdu Maurier drew the label for a most popular mineral water. It is safeto predict that not one person in the tens of thousands looking at ityearly would connect du Maurier with it. It is that elaborate and ratherinartistic design on Appollinaris water, for which he received fiftyguineas from his friend--one of the proprietors. Anyone following hiswork in _Punch_ must have noticed that he was a hypochondriac. Hypochondriasis was a disease with him, he was always thinking of hishealth, and I fear that sudden burst of popularity following the successof "Trilby, " in place of bracing him up, made him dwell somewhat moreupon his state of health, and hastened the end. I recollect his telling me years ago he was advised to take horseexercise for his health's sake, so he hired a hack and started in thedirection of Richmond Park. Arriving at the well-known windmill, andbefore descending the beautiful slopes on the other side, he took outhis watch and, opening the case, put out his tongue to see what effectthe ride had had on his health. The horse moved, and he found himselfthe next moment on the ground. He gave up horse exercise after that! My first contribution to _Punch_ appeared in the number dated October30th, 1880. "Punch, " as a policeman, commanded the removal of thenewly-erected "Griffin" in the place of Old Temple Bar: "Take away thatBauble!" The much-abused "Griffin" is the work (but after the design ofHorace Jones) of an old friend of mine, the late C. B. Birch, R. A. , aclever sculptor and a capital fellow. He sent me "his mark" ofappreciation, but I may say he was the last man to use the instrument oftorture suggested by his name. [Illustration] I then "did the theatres" with the editor--no mistake this time--and avery pleasant time it was. My first "social" drawing appeared in thesecond number in the following December, illustrating Scotch "wut"manufactured in London. Two Scotch rustics outside an eating-house. One points to a card in thewindow on which is "Welsh Rabbit, 6d. " Hungry visitor (ignorant of the nature of this particular delicacy):"Ah, Donal, mon, we ken weel hev the Rawbit fur saxpence. We ken get twaBawbees fur the Skeen when we get bock to Glasgow!" The Scotch is certainly new, if the joke is not. [Illustration: CHINESE STYLE. FROM A DRAWING ON WOOD. _PUNCH. _] An Irish joke followed, and then in the Almanack I illustrated a hit atthe style of ladies' dress of the period; in fact, at that time I drewfor _Punch_ quite a number of social subjects dealing with the æstheticcraze. Besides illustrating various social subjects and caricaturing theAcademy and the new plays, I was illustrating the "Essence ofParliament. " As Mr. M. H. Spielmann in "The History of _Punch_" saystruly, "I romped through _Punch's_ pages. " I open a number of _Punch_published only eighteen months after my first contribution appeared, andtwo years previous to my joining the staff, and find no fewer thaneleven separate subjects from my pencil; and I may say that up to thelast I probably contributed more work to _Punch_ than any other artistever contributed in the same number of years, Leech not excepted. I donot claim that this was wholly due to artistic merit, but to a businessone. I never refused to draw a subject I was asked to do, I never was ata loss for a subject, and I was never late. It was to this facility Iowe the good terms on which the editor and I worked so pleasantly andfor so long. Being accustomed to work at high pressure for theillustrated papers and magazines since boyhood, I confess that _Punch_work to me was my playtime. I contributed over two thousand six hundred designs, from the smallestto the largest that ever appeared in its pages (the latter werepublished in the Christmas Numbers, 1890 and 1891), and I was not inreceipt of a salary, but was paid for each drawing at my full rate. Ihave reason to think I drew in the time more money from _Punch_, proportionately, than any other contributor in its history in a likeperiod. I read from time to time accounts of the remuneration men likemyself receive. Of course these statements are invariably fiction, as infact is nearly everything I have read outside Mr. Spielmann's carefulanalysis of _Punch_ concerning myself and my friends. I deal with my Parliamentary confessions, personal and artistic, inother chapters; I shall in this merely touch upon a few points inconnection with _Punch_. The greater portion of my Parliamentary work, however, appeared in other periodicals, but it is probably by _Punch_work in this direction most of my readers identify me. I was fortunate, in the twelve years I represented _Punch_ in Parliament with the pencil, in having the exceptional material for work upon Mr. Gladstone at hismost interesting period, Parnell's rise and fall, Churchill's rise andfall, Bradlaugh's rise and fall, and a host of others strutting theirbrief hour on the political stage. Where are they now? Mr. Chamberlainalone interests the caricaturist. Parliament itself is dull, the publicis apathetic, and everything appertaining to politics is flat andunprofitable. Yet as far back as 1885, in the figure "Punch, " I askedfor some new character, the familiar faces were getting worked out! I had attended some sessions of Parliament before I made theacquaintance of the official presiding over the Press Gallery. The PressGallery is, as all know, directly over the Speaker. The front row isdivided into little boxes where the representatives of the leadingpapers sit. The others are seated above them against the wall. Thesemembers of the Press look like a row of aged schoolboys very muchtroubled to write anything about Parliament to-day. Their monitor sitsby the seat near the door, which in former days was in the middle of theGallery. [Illustration: FAMILIAR FACES. _Mr. Punch (Cartoonist-in-Chief). _ "OH, I KNOW ALL YOU OLD MODELS. IWANT SOME NEW 'CHARACTER'!"] I shall never forget my first experience of this Press Gallery official. He was big, and fat, and greasy; in evening dress, and he wore a realgold chain with a badge in front like a mayor or sheriff. He awedme--recollect I am now speaking of the day I attended as a comparativelynew boy, and I trembled in his presence. There was no seat vacant exceptthe one next to him. He sleeps! Nervously I slip into the seat. Hewakes, and looks down at me. "H'm! What are you?" is his sleepy remark. "_Punch_, " I reply. "Ticket?" "Left at home. " "Bring it next time. " "Certainly, " say I, relieved. He slumbers again. I strain over to seewho is speaking. This wakes the gentleman with the real gold chainagain. He gazes down upon me. I feel smaller. "What are you?" "_Punch. _" "Eh! Where's ticket?" "Left at home. " "Bring it next time. Saves bother, young fellow. " [Illustration: "HE SLEEPS. "] "Certainly, " I reply, and, encouraged by his familiarity, I venture toask, "Who is that speaking?" I just got the question out in time, for hewas dozing off again. "New Member, " he replied, and, half dozing, he goes on, more to himselfthan to me: "One more fool! Find his level here! All fools here! Stuffyou've been givin' them at your College Union. Rubbish! Yerperambulator's waitin' outside. Oh, follow yer Dad to the Upper House, an' look sharp about it. " He mumbles. I well recollect the youthfulMember, so criticised, labouring through his maiden speech. The eldestson of a Peer, with a rather effeminate face, Saxon fairness ofcomplexion, and with an apology for a moustache, it struck me that ifpetrified he would do very well as a dummy outside a tailor'sestablishment. Yet this youthful scion of a noble line has a goodrecord. He carried off innumerable prizes at Eton, was a double first atOxford, President of the Union, and a fellow of his college; one of theUniversity Eight, and of the Eleven; distinguished at tennis, racquets, and football; hero of three balloon ascents; great at amateurtheatricals; a writer upon every possible subject, including theology, for the leading magazines; member of sixteen London clubs; married atitled heiress, and is only thirty years of age. [Illustration: "HERE, I SAY, WHAT ARE YOU?"] [Illustration: "_PUNCH_, " I REPLIED. ] Some of his college friends sit in the Strangers' Gallery to hear theirlate President make his first great effort in the real Parliament. Theeffect disappoints them. Their champion is "funky. " When the OxfordEight were behind at Barnes Bridge, it was "Dolly's" muscle and nervethat pulled the crew together and won the race. When at Lord's the matchwas nearly over, and the Light Blues had won all but the shouting, "Dolly" went in last man and rattled up fifty in half an hour and wonthe match. When at the Oxford Union he spoke upon the very question nowbefore the House--namely, whether a tax should be imposed uponperiwinkles--his oratory alone turned the scale, and gave his party thevictory. Yet now his speech upon the periwinkle problem has certainlynot impressed the House. Men listened for a time and then adjourned todinner, and his splendid peroration, recognised by his friends as thesame which he had delivered at the Oxford Union, failed to elicit asingle cheer. Curiosity, however, induced his supporters to remain and hear the reply. The next speaker was a contrast to their hero, and a titter went roundamong Dolly's friends in the Gallery. He was a type of the preachingMember. No doubt a very worthy soul, but hardly an Adonis to look at, nor a Cicero to listen to. Still he is sincere, and with his own classeffective; and sincerity, after all, is the most valuable, and I may addthe most rare, quality in the composition of an ordinary Member ofParliament. My neighbour, the Usher, at this point opens his left eye, which takesin at a glance the Opposition side of the House, and breaks out in thisstyle: "All right, little 'un! Keep wot yer sayin' till Sunday. Yer sermon'ssending me to sleep. Forcing taxation on the winks of the 'ungryEnglishman will raise the country to revolt. Tommy rot! Here endeth thefirst lesson, thank goodness!" The soliloquising official rolls off his seat chuckling along theGallery. Envelopes are handed to him by the reporters. He rolls back tothe door, opens it, gives the copy to the messengers waiting for it, androlls back once more into his seat. In doing so he spies me. I feel smaller. "Here, I say, what are you?" "_Punch. _" "Where's ticket?" "Left at home. " "H'm! Don't forget it again. " "Certainly not. " I say nothing more, as I am too interested in his running commentary ofthe proceedings. A grunt. Shake down: "Old Waddy, is it? Another sermon. Blow black plaster. Tell that to thejuries, and use it again in chapel. Yer a good friend to us--get a countsoon. Ah, I thought so. Joey Biggar up to count and snuff. " "Have a pinch?" he said to me. "Thanks. " I sneeze. "What are you?" asked the man of the golden badge, looking down at me. Imet his query as before. Same demand. Same reply. Same promise. The electric bells were ringing for a "count out. " He opened both eyesto watch if forty Members came in. They did; and three times forty. "Torment 'em! Keep me here all night, I see. " Samuel Banks Waddy--Pleader, Preacher, Parliamentarian (as he isdesignated in a work on M. P. 's)--continues preaching. He is followed bythe Leader of the House. My soliloquising friend continues: "Ah, Old Morality--as Lucy calls ye--up at last. Move the closure, nowthen, that's right; speak of yer dooty to the House and Country. Set theRads laughing, shut yer own mouth, and sit down. Oh lor! 'Ere's theGrand Old Muddler up. We're getting 'usky, old 'un; both of us have 'adtoo much of this job. We're very much alike, Gladdy and me--both greateaters and great sleepers. " [Illustration: "I FEEL SMALLER!"] Mr. Gladstone was telling the House all about black plaster, and gavethree points why it should not be used in public hospitals. With thethird point he landed a blow at Home Rule, and his ingenuity in doingso brought forth a derisive cheer from the Irish benches, which rousedmy neighbour. I looked up at him smiling, as much as to say, "Just like the OldParliamentary Hand. " "What are you?" he growled. "_Punch. _" "Ticket?" Same reply and promise. Appeased, he continued: "Words, words, words--no 'ed no tail. Oh, of course you remember theintroduction of white plaster--3rd of June, 1840--why didn't you sayhalf-past two o'clock? More convincing. No doubt you got into somescrape and 'ad to use it. Won't you catch it from the old woman in theGallery when you get home if you say so! Can't 'ear yer, thank goodness. Scribblers will take down any rot you talk. They want _me_, I suppose. Blowed if the country wants you. " Again he rolls out of his seat, collects the reporters' copy, and givesit to the attendants. "Who are you? Ah, _Punch_. Don't forget yer ticket. " Again he dozes. "'Icks Beach up! 'Ave all the Board of Trade chaps up, capping eachother. Funny thing--Board of Trade chap says anything, all the Board ofTraders must have a word in. Same with Local Government Board--new mansays anything, old 'uns put in a word for theirselves, just to keep theplace warm for them to return. Board!--I'm bored--joke there for Lucy. Thought the Irish lot couldn't keep quiet much longer. Tanner up, --oughtto know more about plaster than politics. Rum fellers, these doctors inthe House; leave their patients at 'ome, and come here to tryours--'nother good joke for Lucy--make his 'air stand on end. Tannersticking to the plaster--now then, young Tories, jeer 'im down. TheDoctor's goin' it. Order! order! That's right, Brand, turn 'imout, --wouldn't stand 'im in any place else. City Fowler'sbellowing, --scene a-brewing, --good copy for these quill-drivers. " Dr. Tanner had recited some harrowing tale about black plaster beingused in his native town by a hospital surgeon on the scratched face ofsome old woman who had joined "the boys" in a street fight, although sheprotested that pink suited her complexion. "It was a base Saxon trick!" roared the infuriated Member for CorkCounty. "On a par with the mane, dirty doings of puppets and spalpeenslike the Mimbers opposite. " "Order! order!" cried the Speaker. "The hon. Member must withdraw thatexpression. " "I'll not withdraw anything except by adding that they're all liars onthe Tory benches. " "The hon. Member must withdraw. " The Doctor "exits" with a flourish, glares at the Conservative benchesbelow the gangway, and hisses at them: "Better order a ton of plaster, for you'll want it after I meet yeoutside. " Mr. Labouchere and two or three Irish Members rise at once. My neighbour sneers. "Oh, sit down, ye rubbishy lot! Labby, --better keep yer jokes for yerpaper. Bless me if Conybeare ain't left standing! Now for an hour ofboredom. " "He _is_ a bore, " I remark. "Yes, I've stood Kenealy and Wharton, but this bore I can't. I'll chuckit up. Kenealy did his best for the Claimant, and was amusing at times;and Wharton, --well, he had good snuff, and his hat was a treat; but thisConybeare is a bore and nothing else. " So he went on. The "descendant of kings, " Sir William Harcourt, rose to pulveriseTorydom and put an end to the Government and everything in general, whenthe Speaker rose and said that the question before the House was whetherblack sticking-plaster could be used in public hospitals. "Oh, that's right, he wants putting down; too much of the grand OldBailey style. Make yer fortune in plush and knee breeches as a prizeflunkey; platform stuff won't do for us. What are you?" I feel smaller! "_Punch. _" "You take Harcourt off with the chins?" "Yes. " "Shake hands!" We were friends ever afterwards. [Illustration: "I FEEL SMALLER!"] One day when I arrived, --actually with my Gallery ticket, -a freshpleasant official sat in my old friend's place, wearing his gold chainand badge. "Should this meet the eye" of his predecessor, soliloquisingin the retirement of his suburban home, I trust it will not disturb theserenity of his well-earned repose, for he was a capital fellow, and Ican answer for much good sense in his "official utterances. " If a politician were not a caricature by nature, I made him one. Mr. Gladstone's collar I invented--for the same reason a journalistic friendof mine invented Beaconsfield's champagne jelly--for "copy. " WhenMembers suggested nothing new, I turned my attention to officials. TheSergeant-at-Arms in that way became known as the "Black Beetle. " I watched Captain Gosset from the Press Gallery walk up the floor of theHouse in court dress, his knee-breeches showing off his rather bandylegs, elbows akimbo, and curious gait; his back view at once suggestedthe beetle, and as the Black Beetle he was known. This, I was assured, gave offence, so that I was rather anxious to see how I should begreeted when Professor Thorold Rogers took me into the Sergeant'spresence, after I had been drawing him as the "Beetle" for some time. The late Professor Thorold Rogers was for many years a familiarBohemianish figure in Parliament. He had a marked individuality, astrong head and a rough tongue, an uncouth manner, sloppy attire, andhis conversation was anything but refined. Still he was kind andamusing, and, for a Professor in Parliament, popular. Professors are notliked in St. Stephen's, and never a success; and as a politicianProfessor Thorold Rogers was no exception to this rule. It was he whointroduced me to the Sergeant-at-Arms' room, that _sanctum sanctorum_ ofthe lively spirits of Parliament. Perhaps I ought correctly to call itCaptain Gosset's room, for although Captain Gosset was theSergeant-at-Arms, the Sergeant-at-Arms was by no means Captain Gosset. An anecdote will illustrate this. A friend of mine, a well-known journalist, travelling abroad during theRecess, fell in with Captain Gosset, and they became companions in theirjourney. A few days after they arrived home my journalistic acquaintancewas in the Inner Lobby of the House of Commons as the Sergeant-at-Armswas passing through, and he called out, "How are you, Captain Gosset?Any the worse for your journey?" "I beg your pardon, sir, I have not the pleasure of your acquaintance. You are mistaken. " "Nonsense, Captain! Why, we travelled together. I am----" "That may be, but---- Oh, I see, you are thinking of that fellow Gosset. Sir, I am the Sergeant-at-Arms!" And he strode off with the greatestdignity. I was agreeably surprised when I was introduced to the "Black Beetle. " [Illustration: THE BLACK BEETLE. ] "Here is Harry Furniss, Gosset" (not Sergeant, I observed); "now give itto him. " "Delighted to make your acquaintance, Mr. Furniss. You see how Iappreciate your work. " And he pointed to a row of black beetles, cut outof _Punch_ and pasted on the wall, the rest of the wall being coveredwith interesting and dignified portraits of Members. Here was Gosset attwelve o'clock at night. At twelve noon he would be Sergeant-at-Arms, with power to take me to the Clock Tower. [Illustration: THE SERGEANT-AT-ARMS' ROOM. _From "Punch. "_] This room is still the Sergeant-at-Arms' office, but in it are noportraits, no black beetles--on paper; there may be some livingspecimens, for aught I know, haunting the old room in search of thelively company, the pipes, and the huge decanters. The presentSergeant-at-Arms is as unlike a black beetle as he is unlike theBohemian Gosset. But I shall be surprised if, when the courteous anduniversally appreciated Sergeant-at-Arms retires, and the presentAssistant Sergeant-at-Arms, Mr. Gosset, takes his place, we shall notsee the old room again the most entertaining spot in the Houses ofParliament. When Professor Rogers was escorting me to the famous room, he imploredme to leave politics outside of it, --as if I ever talked politics in theHouse! "Rule is--no politics, so don't forget it. " "Ah, " he said, as soon as he sat down, "why aint you in the House, Tom, vilifying and misrepresenting the Irish as I heard you this afternoon!Disgraceful, I say, disgraceful!" and he thumped the table. "No politics, Professor, " "Dick" Power remarked. "Oh, indeed, my noble Whip; that comes well from a beater to a beatengang. Why aint you at your post, --the door-post, ha! ha!--and rally yourmen and overthrow these damned Tories? Oh, yes, King-Harman, your goodlooks do not atone for bad measures. " "No politics, Professor, " all cried. "Come, Furniss, come away, they're all drunk here. I'll tell you my laststory on the Terrace. These Tories destroy everything. " [Illustration: CAPT. GOSSET, LATE SERGEANT-AT-ARMS. _From the"Illustrated London News. "_] Such was my introduction to this select little club in Parliament, inwhich, with the exception of the Professor, all forgot politics, and thebest of the Tories, Home Rulers, Radicals, and officials were at peace. I was always on most friendly terms with my "Black Beetle, " a proof thatcaricature leaves no unkind sting when the victim is really a man of theworld and a jolly good fellow. Surely nothing could be more offensive toan official in high office than to be continually represented as a blackbeetle! [Illustration: MY "CHILDISH" STYLE IN _PUNCH_. ] When I did not "invent" a character, such as the "Beetle, " I adopted fora change various styles of drawing. For even the work of a caricaturistbecomes monotonous if he is but a master of one style and a slave tomannerisms. To avoid this I am Egyptian, Chinese, Japanese, and at times"Childish"--a specimen of each style in _Punch_ the proprietors havekindly allowed me to republish in these pages. There is really verylittle artistic merit in the "Childish" style of work. I did not use itoften, but whenever I did I tried to introduce some "drawing" as well. Here, for instance, are my Academy skits--drawn as if by a boy, but thefigures of the teacher and pupil are in drawing. By the way, thesedifferent styles, I am glad to see, are still kept alive in the pages of_Punch_ by new--if not younger--hands. This year's (1901) Academy skitsand other drawings, I notice, are signed "'Arry's Son, " but they arenot--as might be thought--by one of my own boys. [Illustration] During most of the time I enjoyed a privilege which belonged to no oneelse, not excepting Members, for even Members must, like schoolboys, keep "within bounds. " They are not permitted, for instance, to enter thePress Gallery, or the portion of the House reserved to the Press;neither can Press-men enter the Members' rooms at will. The public, being ignorant of the stringent rules of St. Stephen's, cannotunderstand the obstacles there are to seeing the House. One instancewill suffice to show the absurdity of the rules. The ex-Treasurer of theHouse of Lords, whose acquaintance I had, and whose offices were in thecorridor by the Select Chamber, could not take anyone into the House, even when it was empty, without a written order. Although armed with aGallery Ticket, and also on the "Lobby list, " _i. E. _, the right to enterthe Inner Lobby, I was not free to make any sketches of the Houseitself, inside or out. Requiring to get such material for the elaborateinteriors and exteriors I use in my Lecture-Entertainment, "The Humoursof Parliament, " I boldly bearded the highest official in his den, andleft with this simple document. Aladdin's key could not have caused moresurprise than this talisman. The head of the police, theSergeant-at-Arms himself, could not interfere. "The Palace ofWestminster" includes the House of Commons, so I made full use of myunique opportunity, and possess material invaluable for my Parliamentarywork. [Illustration: I SKETCH THE HOUSE. ] I had facilities in another way. At one time the Engineer-in-Chief was afriend of mine, Dr. Percy. Few men were better known in and about theHouse than this popular official engineer of the Palace of Westminster. To begin with, he was over six feet high, and had a voice that wouldcarry from the Commons to the House of Lords. He had to be "all over theplace"--under the House, over the House, and all round the House. He wasas well-known in the smoking-room of the Garrick Club as he was in thesmoking-room of the Commons, and it was when I joined the Garrick I madehis acquaintance. He was also an art _connoisseur_, and had a very finecollection of water-colours. The first time I saw the Doctor was yearsbefore on a steamer on the Rance, between Normandy and Brittany. I madea sketch of his extraordinary features, so that when he entered theGarrick Club I recognised the original of my caricature. We frequentlywalked down to the Houses of Parliament together after dinner, and morethan once he invited me behind the scenes and under the stage ofParliament, through the "fog filter" and ventilating shafts, when he waswont to indulge in a grim, saturnine humour appropriate to hissubterranean subject. As he opened the iron doors for us to pass fromone passage to another, close to and above which the benches aresituated, --for the whole House is honeycombed for ventilatingpurposes, --he pretended that long experience enabled him to discriminatebetween the odours from different parts of the House, and declared thathe could tap and draw off a specimen of the atmosphere on the Governmentbenches, the Opposition side, or the Radical seats, at will. "There, my boy! eh? Pretty thick, aint it? That's the Scotch lot. Nowhold your nose. I open this door and we get the Irish draught. Ugh! Comeon, come on quickly--mixture of Irish, working-men M. P. 's, and Rads. Kill a horse!" The table of the House, which Mr. Disraeli erroneously described as "asolid piece of furniture, " is in reality--like so many arguments whichare flung across it--perfectly hollow; and one evening when I arrivedwith Dr. Percy and found that in consequence of the winding-up speech ofMr. Gladstone in a great debate the Press Gallery was full and all theseats under the gallery were occupied, Dr. Percy kindly allowed me tosit _inside the table_. I was sorely tempted to try the effect ofinserting my pencil through the grating which forms the side of thetable, and tickle the shins of the right hon. Gentleman. Anyway, Ilooked straight into the faces of the Ministers and those on the frontbench, and not only heard every word, but the asides and whispers aswell. [Illustration: DR. PERCY. "THE HOUSE UP. " _From "Punch. "_] I only once caricatured Dr. Percy in _Punch_ (December, 1886), afterthere had been a sort of earthquake in the Inner Lobby of the House, andthe tesselated pavement was thrown up. I made a drawing, "The House upat last. " Dr. Percy "is personally directing the improvements. " It isinteresting to know that some of the pavement taken up on that occasionis laid in the hall of an hon. Member's house in the country, not farfrom West Kirby, Cheshire. [Illustration: MR. PUNCH'S PUZZLE-HEADED PEOPLE. MR. GOSCHEN. _From "Punch. "_] THE VILLAIN OF ART. One frequently hears the remark, "Caricature is so ugly. " Well, certainly pure caricature is the villain of art, and the populardraughtsman, like the popular actor, should, to remain popular in hiswork, always play the virtuous hero. If the leading actor _must_ playthe villain, he takes care to make up inoffensive and tame. So thevillain caricaturist need not be "ugly"--but then he cannot be strong. Nor is it left to an actor--unless he be the star or actor-manager--toremain popular by being tame and pretty in every part. So is thecaricaturist, if he is not the star, liable to be cast to play thevillain whether he likes it or not, and if he is a genuine worker hewill not shrink from the part, merely to remain popular and curry favourwith those deserving to be satirised. [Illustration: MR. PUNCH'S PUZZLE-HEADED PEOPLE. "ALL HARCOURTS. " _From "Punch. "_] Now in _Punch_, as I was cast for it, I played the villain's part. Indoing so I was at times necessarily "ugly, " and therefore to someunpopular. I confess I felt it my duty not to shrink from being "ugly, "although whenever I could I introduced some redeeming element into mydesigns--the figure of a girl, allegorical of Parliament or whatever the"ugly" subject might happen to be--but in some of my _Punch_ drawingsthis relief was impossible. For instance, the series of "Puzzle Heads, "in each of which a portrait of the celebrity is built up of personalattributes, characteristics, or incidents in the career of the personrepresented, could not but be unpleasant pictures. Some subscribersthreatened to give up the paper if they were continued; others becamesubscribers for these Puzzle Heads alone. It is ever so. The old saying, "One man's meat is another's poison, " is as applicable to caricature asto anything else. It is impossible to please all tastes when cateringfor the large public, unless an editor is satisfied to be stereotypedand perfunctory; but Mr. Punch has made his name by his strength, nothis weakness, and it may be safely inferred that no Tory thinks less ofhim for having used all his talent in attacking Benjamin Disraeli yearafter year as no man has been attacked before--or since--in his pages. In looking through the volumes of _Punch_ one is apt to forget that thestrong situations and stirring events by which a caricaturist's hit ismade effective at the time of publication fade from one's memory. Thecartoon in all its strength remains a record of an event which has lostits interest. One cannot always realise that the drawing was only strongbecause the feeling and interest at the time of its conception demandedit. Allowance should therefore be made for the villain's uglycaricature, if it is a good drawing, prophetically correct, andtherefore historically interesting. Perhaps no cartoon of mine in _Punch_ caused such hostile criticism as"The New Cabinet" (August 27, 1892). It gave great offence to theGladstonians. The Radical Press attacked me ferociously, and as I thinkmost unfairly, for they treated it politically and not pictorially, andseverely reprimanded Mr. Punch for publishing it. Had it been aConservative Cabinet the Tory Press would not have resented it orallowed narrow-minded party politics to prejudice their mind in suchtrivial matters. _Punch_ is supposed to be non-political. Its presenteditor is impartial. Mr. Punch's traditions are Whig, and somehow orother a certain class of its readers at that particular crisis wasstrongly opposed to the two sides of a question being treated. Yet Iventure to say two-thirds of the readers of _Punch_ are Conservatives, and should therefore be amused. It is impossible to treat a strongpolitical subject--such as the meeting of that particular Cabinetcaricatured by me--without offending some readers by amusing others, unless, as I say, the subject is treated in a colourless manner. Thisparticular cartoon hurt because it hit a strong situation in a truthfuland straight-forward manner, and subsequent events proved it to be acorrect conception. Yet at the time no name was too bad for me, and asthese are my confessions, let me assure the public that had the Cabinetbeen a Conservative one I would have treated it in exactly the same way;and it is my firm conviction that had such been the case I would havegiven no offence either inside or outside of Mr. Punch's office. My readers will sympathise with me. I am to draw political cartoonswithout being political; I am to draw caricatures without beingpersonal; I am to be funny without holding my subject up to ridicule; Iam to be effective without being strong--in fact, I am to be acaricaturist without caricature! On the other hand, no cartoon I everdrew for _Punch_ was more popular. Non-politicians were good enough toaccept it as an antidote to the usual caricatures, and those papers onthe other side of politics were extravagantly complimentary, and Ireceived a large sum for the original for a private collection. I allowthe following leaderette from the _Birmingham Post_ to illustrate thepoint, and at the same time to describe the cartoon. The same paper, Imay add, comments on the principal cartoon in _Punch_ that week--drawnby Tenniel--as showing that _Punch_ "thinks little of the prospects ofthe present Government": [Illustration: REDUCTION FROM ENGRAVING IN _PUNCH_. ] "'Mr. Punch' is in 'excellent fooling' this week. Rarely has he, even he, more happily burlesqued a political situation than in Mr. Harry Furniss's cartoon of 'The New Cabinet. ' Not a word of explanation accompanies the picture: it is good wine, needing no bush, and making very merry. A glance suffices to seize its meaning, for it expresses a thought that has flitted, at one time or another, through everyone's mind. The big moment has come when Mr. Gladstone is to reveal to his colleagues the secret he has hitherto withheld from them, not less than from the electorate--to submit to them, masterly, succinct, complete, the scheme which, with unexampled courage and sublimest modesty, they have defended on trust, for which they have sacrificed their personal independence without knowing why, and as to which, painful to remember, they have sometimes blundered into confident and contradictory conjecture. We can picture the subtle excitement--in one Minister of joyful expectation, in another of horrid misgiving--under which they have come together. Well, Mr. Gladstone unfolds the fateful document, and lo! it is a blank sheet. Paralysis and grim despair fall upon the spirits of the assembly; face to face with a nightmare reality, not a man amongst them has strength to say, 'This is a dream. ' At the head of the table, his elbows resting on the parchment, and an undipped quill actually split upon it in his angry grasp, sits the Premier, a never-to-be-forgotten picture of impotent ill-humour. The task with which the Cabinet is confronted, for him as for the rest, is impossible and yet inexorable. In the candle-flame, by an effect of hallucination natural at such a moment, the face of Mr. O'Brien seems to limn itself out, implacable and contemptuous; and there is a fearsome shadow on the blind--the massive head of Lord Salisbury. The candle, marked '40, ' is the majority, which dwindles while the Ministers are sadly musing; and over the mantelpiece, behind the Premier's chair, mutely reproachful, hangs a picture of the great Cabinet of 1880. It is distinctly the best thing Mr. Furniss has done. " That impression was shared by my private friends as well, even those on_Punch_. My dear friend Mr. E. J. Milliken, a strong Radical, and a mostactive member of the staff, in a reply to a letter of mine, in which Iintimated that I was afraid my cartoon would give offence, replied in amost flattering spirit. I had to play the "villain" in another scene in the same politicaldrama, "Mr. Punch's Historical Cartoons" (1893), in which the sameCabinet is shown in Mr. Gladstone's room in the "Bauble Shop"--the Houseof Commons. Those Radicals who had not joined the Unionists again tookoffence. Those Radicals who had become Unionist wrote to congratulateme. From one well-known and powerful personality, a historical name inthe publishing world, I received the following: "February 23rd, 1893. "Your cartoon p. 95 delights us all. I have looked at it twenty times and seen fresh points in it. Nothing for years, I should say, has so entirely caught the very spirit of a great crisis. "We shall owe something to you for this felicitous exposure of Gladstone's insane Bill. Alas! the miners and the brickies, the costermongers and the dust-cart drivers, have now the power. The middle class has been out-numbered, and if it were not that some labouring men and artisans have hard heads enough to comprehend the position we should be landed in a pretty pickle next September. "It is a pity traitors' heads are nowadays their own copyright. " A "copyright" in heads is a good suggestion, and coming from a publishertoo! But apart from "traitors, " there are others known to acaricaturist. The House of Commons at one time was rich in them. Somesuch works of art suffer in being translated. Indeed, what the poet"Ballyhooley" wrote of one might apply to others: "DARWIN MacNEILL. "Darwin MacNeill, all the papers are hot on you, Darwin MacNeill, they are writing a lot on you. What in the world sort of face have you got on you? Send us your photograph, Darwin MacNeill. Surely you must be both lovely and pure! Have you got fatures that nothing can cure? Let's have the first of it, Let's know the worst of it: Is your face only a caricature? Here's a health to you, Darwin MacNeill, Let penny canes all your enemies feel; Show me the crature would slander a fature Of the beautiful Mimber for ould Donegal. "Our childhers are dull, and we wish to be brightening them Send us your picture and we'll be enlightening them, Maybe 'twill only be useful for frightening them; Still let us have it, dear Darwin MacNeill. Shut up the slander and talk they are at, Show us the head you've got under your hat; True every particle, genuine article, Send us your picture in answer to that. Here's a health to you, etc. "I hear that the Queen she has simply gone crazy, man; Says she to Gladstone, 'Get out, you old lazy man! Cannot you see that I'll never be aisy, man, Till I've a portrait of Darwin MacNeill?' When of that picture she first got a sight, She held it up, so they say, to the light, Looked at the head of it, then all she said of it, 'I'm of opinion that Darwin is right. ' Here's a health to you, etc. "There's just arrived now, to give great content to us, A lovely picture, which someone has sent to us. We know the worst now, for there has been sent to us What's called a portrait of Darwin MacNeill. If it's a likeness, I just tell you what, That you have acted in ways you should not. Don't try a turn of fists On with the journalists; Thrash those who gave you the head you have got. But here's a health to you, Darwin MacNeill! Only just manage new fatures to steal, Then show me the crature would slander a fature Of the beautiful Mimber for ould Donegal. " This "Pen Portrait, " by Mr. Robert Martin, refers to a matter of muchregret to me. I have to confess my sorrow that I was the means of makinga Member of Parliament ridiculous! The innocent item came in theordinary course of my work for _Punch_. I was sent an incident toillustrate for the Diary of Toby, M. P. , which, when published, was usedas an excuse to "technically assault" me in the Inner Lobby of the Houseof Commons. [Illustration: REDUCTION OF PAGE IN _PUNCH_, SHOWING THAT MY CARICATURESWERE--IN THIS CASE--PUBLISHED TOO LARGE. ] Perhaps in the circumstances I may be pardoned if I confess a secretconnected with these Parliamentary caricatures. For some years Iprovided a page drawing and some small cuts in every number duringParliament--the latter were generally sketches of Members of Parliament. These single portraits were supplied in advance, and engraved proofssent in a book to Mr. Lucy to select from week by week. The followingletter is worth quoting in full as a characteristic letter from theEditor, typical of his light and pleasant way of transacting businesswith his staff: "Dear H. F. , --"Please keyindly see that H. L. (not 'Labby, ' but 'Lucy') has all your parliamentarians whom you (as your predecessor Henry VIII. Did) have executed on the block sent to him, as he found himself unprovided up to the last moment and so wrote to me in his haste. "(?) Fancy portrait. Our artist, H. F. , as Henry VIII. Taking off his victims' heads on the block, eh? "Yours, "F. C. B. " To this rule, however, there were exceptions. This particular caricaturewas one of them: it was drawn at the last moment to illustrate aparticular passage in Mr. Lucy's Diary of Toby, M. P. Here it is: "'Look here, Bartley, ' said Tommy Bowles; 'if you're going on that tack, you must come and sit on this side. When I saw MacNeill open his mouth to speak, I confess I thought I was going to be swallowed whole. You sit here; there's more of you. '" [Illustration: REDUCTION FROM THE ORIGINAL DRAWING, SHOWING THAT I GAVEINSTRUCTIONS FOR THE CARICATURE TO BE "REDUCED AS USUAL. "] Now had I shown "Pongo, " as he was familiarly called in the House, inthe act of swallowing "Tommy Bowles, " I might have produced a mostobjectionable caricature. I made, however, a smiling portrait of thegenial Member. I was away at the time recovering from a long illness:the sketch was made in the country, and sent up to the _Punch_engraver's office. By some mistake there, it was not reduced in size inreproduction as others had been; therefore in the paper it wasapparently given extra importance--I had nothing to do with that. ThatMr. Lucy's reference to Mr. MacNeill is not a caricature can be judgedby anyone reading the passage I had to illustrate, given above. Thenotion that the drawing was _purposely_ produced on a larger scale thanusual, so as to give this special caricature prominence, is disproved bythe fact that the caricature of the gallant and genial Admiral Field Idrew exactly under the same conditions appears on the same page also fartoo large. Therefore it is a mistaken idea that this particular portraitwas intentionally offensive, or different from others. It was really the combination of circumstances, if anything, that calledspecial attention to that particular page in _Punch, _ and gave rise to A SCENE IN THE LOBBY. I shall, in describing the curtain rising on this historical incident, borrow Mr. Lucy's own account of the way in which the Member approachedme after he had seen my illustration to Mr. Lucy's clever Diary of theWeek: "It was shortly after seven o'clock that Mr. Harry Furniss strolled intothe Lobby. He had been suffering from a long and severe sickness, dedicating this the first evening of his convalescence to a visit to thescene of labours which have delighted mankind. Over the place therebrooded an air of ineffable peace. The bustle of the earlier hour ofmeeting was stilled. The drone of talk went on in the half-empty Housewithin the glass doors. Now and then a Member hastily crossed the floorof the Lobby, intent on preparations for dinner. One of these chanced tobe Mr. Swift MacNeill, a Member who, beneath occasional turbulence ofmanner, scarcely conceals the gentlest, kindliest disposition, agentleman by birth and training, a scholar and a patriot. The House, whilst it sometimes laughs at his exuberance of manner, always showsthat it likes him. Mr. Furniss, seeing him approach with hurried step, may naturally have expected that he was making haste to offer thosecongratulations on renewed health and reappearance on the scene oflabour that had already been proffered from other quarters. Whatfollowed has been told by Mr. Furniss in language the simplicity andgraphicness of which Defoe could not have excelled. " Mr. Lucy refers to the following account I wrote at the time: "On my return to continue my work in Parliament for Mr. Punch after mysevere illness, I found the jaded legislators yearning for fresh air, and even the approaching final division on the Home Rule Bill had failedto arouse more than a languid interest. I felt this depression when Ientered the Lobby, its sole occupants being the tired-out doorkeepersand the leg-weary policemen. I really believe a swarm of wasps would nothave roused them to activity, for I noticed a bluebottle restingundisturbed upon the nose of one of Inspector Horsley's staff. Even theTerrace was dusty, and the Members rusty and morose. One of the IrishMembers had selected as his friend Frank Slavin, the well-knownprize-fighter, who had an admiring group round him, to whom no doubt hewas relating the history of his many plucky battles. [Illustration: WHAT HAPPENED. ] "The stimulating effect of this may have been the cause for the assaultupon me in the Inner Lobby, which has afforded the stale House somelittle excitement, which has been the salvation of the silly season. Somany papers have given startling accounts of this attack upon me, somestating that I was caned, others that I was pummelled, shaken like adog, and so on, that I am glad to take the opportunity of giving a clearstatement of what really occurred. I was standing close to the doors ofthe Inner Lobby, talking to Mr. Cuthbert Quilter, when Mr. SwiftMacNeill interrupted us by asking me, 'Are you the man that draws thecartoons in _Punch_?' 'That depends upon what they are, ' said I. 'Irefer to one, ' said the excited Member, 'that has annoyed me very much, ''Let me see it, ' I replied. Mr. MacNeill then drew out his pocket-bookand showed me a cutting from the current number of _Punch_. 'Yes, ' Isaid, 'that is from a drawing of mine, ' 'Then ye're a low, black-guardlyscoundrel, ' melodramatically exclaimed the usually genial Member. Takingtwo or three steps back, he hissed at me, with a livid face, a series ofoffensive epithets too coarse for publication. Having exhausted hisvocabulary of vulgarity, a happy thought seemed to strike him. 'I wantto assault you, ' he said, and forthwith he nervously and gingerly tappedme as if he were playing with a hot coal. He then danced off to Memberswho were looking on, crying, 'This is the scoundrel who has caricaturedme; witness, I assault him!' and he recommenced the tapping processwhich constituted this technical assault. Knowing that Mr. MacNeill is avery excitable subject, and at once detecting that this assault was a'put-up job, ' I was determined to remain perfectly cool; and, truth totell, the pirouetting of the agitated Member hugely amused me, particularly as the more excited he became, the more he resembled thecaricature which was the cause, or supposed to be the cause, of thisattack, I treated the hon. Member exactly as the policeman treated thebluebottle--with perfect indifference, not even troubling to brush awaythe trifling annoyance. But when in the midst of its buzzing round me Imoved in the direction of one of the officials, it flew away. Thenappeared what I had been anticipating, and the real cause of the insulttranspired. Dr. Tanner came up to me just as I recollect Slavinapproaching Jackson in their historic fight. He showered the grossestinsults upon me, and I was surrounded at once by his clique, who wereanxious for the scene which must have occurred had I, like Jackson, beenthe first to let out with my left. But here again was I face to facewith a chronically excited Member, backed up by his friends, and Irefused to be drawn into a brawl. But the secret of the real cause ofthis organised attack upon me was revealed to me by Dr. Tanner, who atonce informed me that it was the outcome of my imitations of the IrishMembers in my entertainment, 'The Humours of Parliament, ' which I havegiven for two seasons all over the country. This was my offence; mycaricature of Mr. Swift MacNeill the excuse for the attack. " [Illustration: DR. TANNER. ] Mr. MacNeill's "technical assault" was a very childish incident. Hemerely touched the sleeve of my coat with the tip of his finger, andasked me if I would accept that as a "technical assault. " Thismysterious pantomime was subsequently explained to me, and meant that Iwas to take out a summons--but I only laughed. At the moment Mr. MacNeill was pirouetting round me at a distance, Mr. John Burns came onto the scene, and chaffed Mr. MacNeill, drawing an imaginary picture(for Mr. Burns was not in the Lobby) of a real assault upon me. Agentleman connected with an evening paper, who happened to enter withMr. Burns, failed to see Mr. Burns's humour, and thereupon took down inshorthand Mr. Burns's imaginary picture as a matter of fact. It waspublished as a fact, and, for all I know or care, some may still believethat I was assaulted! [Illustration: ASSAULT ON ME IN THE HOUSE. WHAT THE PRESS DESCRIBED. ] When I read that I had been treated like a cur, I was rather amused; butwhen I read a statement in the papers from a man like John Burns sayingthat he saw me "taken by the lapels of the coat and shaken like a dog, and then taken by the ear and shaken by that, " I thought the joke hadbeen carried far enough. Determined to have this cock-and-bull storycontradicted at once, I went down to the House and saw Mr. John Burns, who expressed to me his regret that he should have invented the story, and he left me to go to the writing-room, and promised I should havefrom him a written contradiction. After waiting a considerable time, a message was brought to me that Mr. Burns declined to keep his promise. I therefore wrote these particularsand sent them off to the Press. At the same time Mr. Burns, who had beencloseted with some Radical journalists, wrote an offensive note--whichwas shown me, and which I advised him to publish. Poor Mr. MacNeill! Well may he say, "Save me from my friends!" The Pressput on their comic men to make copy at his expense. If I were to publishit all, it would make a volume as large as this. By permission I publishthe following lay from the _St. James' Budget_ (September, 1893): "THE LAY OF SWIFT MACNEILL. (_Picked up in the Lobby. _) "Have ye heard, have ye heard, of the late immortal fray, When the lion back of Swift MacNeill got up and stood at bay, When the lion voice of Tanner cried, 'To Judas wid yer chaff!' An' the Saxon knees were shaking, though they made believe to laugh. "'Twas widin the Commons' Lobby, in the corner by the dure, There was Misther Harry Furniss a-standing on the flure, When up to him came stalking, like O'Tarquin in his pride, The bowldest of the bowld, MacNeill, wid the Docther by his side. "Then the valiant Swift MacNeill from his pocket he took out A picther very like him, an' he brandished it about, An' he held it up to Furniss for his Saxon eyes to see, An' he asked of him, 'Ye spalpeen, is this porthrait meant for me?' "''Tis your likeness, as I see it, ' was the answer that he got, An' the wrath of Misther Swift MacNeill then wax'd exceeding hot, An' he cast the picther from him, an' he trod it on the ground, An' he took an' danced an Irish jig the artist's form around. "'Ye spalpeen, ' thus again he spoke, 'ye most obnoxious fellow! Ye see that I'm a lion, yet ye've made me a gorilla; If your Saxon eyes are blinded to the truth of what I say, Go and borrow for a moment the glasses of Tay Pay. "'They will show ye that our seventy are Apollos one and all, That we're most divinely lovely an' seraphically tall; They will show ye we're all angels--though for divils I'll allow, 'Tis the black ones ye'll be seeing where the lost to Redmond bow. ' "Then Misther Swift MacNeill, just to lave his meaning clear, Wid flowers of Irish eloquence filled Mr. Furniss' ear; An' he also shook wid passion, an', moreover, shook his fist, An' the Docther an' his blackthorn stood all ready to assist. "Misther Furniss smiled serenely, an' the only word he spoke Was to say it seemed that Misther Swift was slow to see a joke, But for all his jokes an' blarney, things were looking like a fight, When a minion of the Spayker was seen to be in sight. "Then Apollo Swift MacNeill from his dignity got down, An' he withered Misther Furniss wid a godlike parting frown, An' he stalked along the Lobby wid his grand O'Tarquin stride, An' the other Mimbers followed him, an' went the House inside. "An' there they still are threading on the necks of Saxon slaves, An' nightly wid their eloquence they're digging Saxon graves; An' my counsel to the artist who their fatures would porthray, Is to thry and see their beauty through the glasses of Tay Pay. " This manufactured "scene, " coming as it did in the silly season, wasmade to serve instead of the Sea-Serpent, the Toad-in-the-Rock, theShower of Frogs, and other familiar inventions for holiday reading. Unfortunately the poor Members of Parliament obliged to remain in St. Stephen's had to suffer far more than I did through the eccentricity ofMr. Swift MacNeill. Several of them complained to me that he lured theminto the corridors and corners of the House, and then vigorously set towork to demonstrate practically how he assaulted me, or how he imaginedhe assaulted me, to the discomfiture and consternation of the poorM. P's. [Illustration: JOHN BURNS. ] I should like to explain why this "technical assault" on me was not madea matter of discussion. I did intend a friendly Member should havebrought it before the Speaker, and in that way published the truth ofthe matter and exposed the stupid inventions of Burns & Co. With thatobject I had an interview with the Speaker, and he implored me not underany circumstances to have it brought before the House. He was alreadytired, at the end of a trying session, and did not want any personalquestions discussed, which invariably led to protracted scenes. For thatreason, and for that reason only, it was not mentioned in Parliament, notwithstanding it was really a much more serious affair than wasimagined. It was a deliberately organised conspiracy. When I was leavingthe Lobby, after my amusing interview with Mr. MacNeill, in which hetold me that I was "technically assaulted, " Chief Inspector Horsley tookme down a private passage, and informed me that he had been looking forme, as he had discovered there was a conspiracy to attack me, and atthat moment nine or ten Members from Ireland were in the passagedownstairs, out of which I would have in the ordinary course gonethrough, lying in wait for me. So I left with him by another door. [Illustration: NOTE FROM SIR FRANK LOCKWOOD, AFTER READING THE BOGUSACCOUNT OF THE "ASSAULT. "] In this I was not more to blame than other caricaturists, but I was morein evidence, and was selected to be "technically assaulted, " so as toforce me to bring an action, in which all papers, except thosesupporting the Irish Party, would have been attacked and discussed, andtheir influence if possible injured for purely political purposes. Anaggrieved person, smarting under a gross injustice, does not"technically assault" the aggressor. Had Mr. McNeill tried it on withme, weak and ill as I was, I think I had enough power to oblige him; asit happened, I only saw the humour of the thing. [Illustration: LETTER SUPPOSED TO COME FROM LORD CROSS. (LOCKWOOD'SJOKE. )] One of the most amusing sketches I received was this from Sir FrankLockwood. Lockwood and I frequently exchanged caricatures, as shown bythe clever sketches I introduce here and there in these pages. Sometimeshe sent me some chaffing note written in a disguised hand, and disguiseddrawing; but the latter experiment, although it failed to deceive, certainly entertained me greatly. Here is a letter supposed to be fromLord Cross, a favourite subject of mine when he was in the Lower House. Seldom a week passed but I made his nose shorter and his upper liplonger, made his head stick out, and his spectacles glisten. Did heobject? No, no! "Grand Cross" is a man of the world; nor was he ever amere notoriety-seeking political adventurer. I once met him at dinner, and we chatted over my caricatures of him, and I recollect his saying, "A man is not worth anything if he is thin-skinned, and certainly notworth much if he cannot enjoy a joke at his own expense. " Sir Frank Lockwood whiled away the weary hours in Parliament to his ownamusement and those around him, but he was not aware perhaps that whathe did was seen from the Ladies' Gallery. The ladies got a birdseye viewof his caricatures in progress. One in particular was the cause of muchamusement, not only to the ladies, but to the Members. My lady informantrelated the incident to me thus: "I always watch Mr. Lockwood sketching, and I saw he had his eye on the burly figure of a friend of mine sittingon the Ministerial bench. Mr. Gladstone turned round to say something tohim, and his quick eye detected Mr. Lockwood sketching. The artisticQ. C. Handed the sketch (which I saw was a caricature of the late LordAdvocate) to Mr. Gladstone, who fairly doubled up with laughter, andhanded it to those on either side of him. Eventually it was sent over toMr. MacDonald and Mr. Balfour, and they thoroughly enjoyed thecaricature of themselves, as did all their Tory friends. But _we_ hadseen it first!" It may have been this sketch subsequently sent to me andredrawn in _Punch_. I recall an incident which happened one evening when I was on watch inthe Inner Lobby to find and sketch a newly-elected M. P. , who, I heard, was about to make his maiden speech, and it was most important I shouldcatch him. Just as I was going up to the Press Gallery, Sir FrankLockwood came into the Lobby and offered to get me a seat under theGallery where I could see the new M. P. To advantage. The new M. P. Was"up, " so Lockwood went into the House to fetch me the Sergeant's order. I waited impatiently for his return; a long time passed; still I waited. A smiling Member came out of the House, and I asked him if he had seenLockwood. "Oh, rather, " he replied, smiling still; "I've just beensitting by him, watching him make a capital caricature of a chap makinghis maiden speech. " When the Member had finished his speech, Lockwoodran out, and cheeringly apologised to me for his absent-mindedness. "Sotempting, you know, old chap, I couldn't resist sketching him!" Sir Frank Lockwood was perhaps the most favourable modern specimen ofthe buoyant amateur. Possessing a big heart, kindly feeling, a brilliantwit, and a facile pen, he treated art as his playfellow and never as hismaster. And in the spirit in which his work was executed so must it bejudged. The work of an amateur artist possessing a distinct vein ofhumour is, in my opinion, far more entertaining than that of theprofessional caricaturist, the former being absolutely spontaneous anduntrammelled by the conscientiousness of subsequent publication, ofcorrect draughtsmanship, made only from impressions of the moment, andnot the effort (as in the case of many a professional humorist) ofhaving to be funny to order. An excellent example of the amateur at his best is to be found in thedrawings of Sir Frank Lockwood. No one would resent less than Lockwoodhimself having the term "amateur" applied to his work; indeed, he would, I am sure, have felt proud to be classed in the same category as severalof our most popular humorous artists. [Illustration: SIR F. LOCKWOOD. ] Circumstances connected with a curious coincidence concerning acaricature (what alliteration!) are worth confirming. One morning I was taking my usual horse exercise round the ride in theinner circle of Regent's Park, before that spot, once the quiet haunt ofthe horseman, became the noisy ring of the cyclist. At that time a fewcycling beginners used the circle for practice, and their alarmingperformances were gradually depleting the number of equestrians. One ofthese novices came down the hill, having an arm round the neck of hisinstructor, and one leg on the pedal, the other in mid air. He wasunable to steer the machine, and as I cantered up, the performer's hat, which had been over one eye, fell off, disclosing the features ofProfessor Bryce. The next moment the machine, its rider and hisinstructor, were "all of a heap" on the ride up which my horse wascantering. I had just time to jump my horse on to the path and thussave my own neck, and the life of the energetic Member of Parliament, who I noticed later in the day, when sitting in the Press Gallery, wason the front Opposition bench, next to Sir Frank Lockwood, quiteunconcerned. I made a rough sketch of the incident of the morning, andsent it down to my brother Two Pins, Sir Frank, with a request that hisfriend Bryce should in future select some other spot to practisebicycling. This was handed to Lockwood just as he was leaving the House, strange to say, on his way home to dress for a dinner at ProfessorBryce's. Lockwood mischievously placed the sketch in the pocket of hisdress coat, and at the dinner led up to the subject of cycling, suggesting at the same time that his host ought to try it. "Well, strange to say, Lockwood, I've been seriously thinking of it, butI don't know how one should begin. " "Don't you?" cried Lockwood from the other end of the table. "What doyou say to this, nearly killing my friend Harry Furniss!" And mycaricature was produced and handed down from guest to guest, to thechagrin of the host. That was Lockwood's version of the coincidence. [Illustration: LEWIS CARROLL'S SUGGESTION, AND MY SKETCH OF IT IN_PUNCH_. ] Suggestions for _Punch_ came to me from most unexpected quarters, butwere rarely of any use. Lewis Carroll--like every one else--got excitedover the Gladstonian crisis, and Sir William Harcourt's head to LewisCarroll was much the same as Charles the First's to Mr. Dick in "DavidCopperfield, " for I find in several letters references to Sir William. "_Re_ Gladstone's head and its recent growth, couldn't you make a picture of it for the 'Essence of Parliament'? I would call it 'Toby's Dream of A. D. 1900, ' and have Gladstone addressing the House, with his enormous head supported by Harcourt on one side, and Parnell on the other. " This suggestion is the only one I adopted. Strange to say, neitherGladstone, Parnell, nor Lewis Carroll lived to see 1900. "Is that anecdote in the papers _true_, that some one has sent you a pebble with an accidental (and not a 'doctored') likeness of Harcourt? If so, let me suggest that your most _graceful_ course of action will be to have it photographed, and to present prints of it to any authors whose books you may at any time chance to illustrate!" This is the "anecdote": "Someone found on the seashore the other day a pebble moulded exactly on the lines of Mr. Furniss' portrait of Sir William Harcourt. " Other notices were in verse. This from _Vanity Fair_ is the best: "For Fame, 'tis said, Sir William craves, And to some purpose he has sought her; His face is fashioned by the waves: When will his name be 'writ in water'?" I lay under a charge of plagiarism. Nature had "invented" my Harcourtportrait, and had been at work upon it probably before I was born; thewild waves had by degrees moulded a shell into the familiar features, and when completed had left the sea-sculptured sketch high and dry onthe coast. I now publish, with thanks, a photo-reproduction of the shell(not a pebble) as I received it: it is not in any way "doctored. " It isa large, weather-beaten shell. [Illustration: NATURE'S PUZZLE PORTRAIT. ] There is no doubt but that at one time Lewis Carroll studied _Punch_, for in one of his earliest letters to me he writes: "To the best of my recollection, one of the first things that suggested to me the wish to secure your help was a marvellously successful picture in _Punch_ of a House of Lords entirely composed of Harcourts, where the figures took all possible attitudes, and gave all possible views of the face; yet each was a quite unmistakable Sir William Harcourt!" Again he refers to _Punch_ (March, 1890): "A wish has been expressed in our Common Room (Christ's Church, Oxford), where we take in and bind _Punch_, that we could have 'keys' to the portraits in the Bishop of Lincoln's Trial and the 'ciphers' in Parliament" (a Parliamentary design of mine, "The House all Sixes and Sevens"). "Will you confer that favour on our Club? If you would give me them done roughly, I will procure copies of those two numbers, and subscribe the names in small MS. Print, and have the pages bound in to face the pictures. The simplest way would be for you to put numbers on the faces, and send a list of names numbered to correspond. " Yet a few years brought a change (October, 1894): "No doubt it is by your direction that three numbers of your new periodical have come to me. With many thanks for your kind thought, I will beg you not to waste your bounties on so unfit a recipient, for I have neither time nor taste for any such literature. I have much more work yet to do than I am likely to have life to do it in--and my taste for comic papers is _defunct_. We take in _Punch_ in our Common Room, but I never look at it!" Hardly a generous remark to make to a _Punch_ man who had illustratedtwo of his books, and considering that Sir John Tenniel had done so muchto make the author's reputation, and _Punch_ had always been sofriendly; but this is a bygone. PUNCH AT PLAY. [Illustration: W] Well, Sir John, the Grand Old Man of _Punch_, the evergreen, theever-delightful Sir John, has earned a night's repose after all his longday of glorious work and good-fellowship. "A great artist and a greatgentleman": truer words were never spoken. It seems but yesterday he andI took our rides together; but yesterday he and I and poorMilliken--three _Punch_ men in a boat--were "squaring up" at Cookhamafter a week's delightful boating holiday on the Thames. [Illustration] "There sat three oarsmen under a tree, Down, a-down, a-down--hey down! They were as puzzled as puzzled could be, With a down; And one of them said to his mate, 'We've got these mems in a doose of a state, ' With a down derry, derry down! "Oh, they were wild, these oarsmen three, Down, a-down, a-down--hey down! Especially one with the white puggree, With a down; For it's precious hard to divide by three A sum on whose total you can't agree, With a down derry, derry down! "They bit their pencils and tore their hair, Down, a-down, a-down--hey down! But those blessed bills, they wouldn't come square, With a down; 'Midst muddle and smudge it is hard to fix If a six is a nine or a nine is a six, With a down derry, derry down! "A crumpled account from a pocket of flannel Down, a-down, a-down--hey down! With dirt in dabs, and the rain in a channel, With a down, Is worse to decipher than uniform text, Oh, that is the verdict of oarsmen vext, With a down derry, derry down! "A man in a boat his ease will take, Down, a-down, a-down--hey down! But financial conscience at last will wake, With a down; Then Nemesis proddeth the prodigal soul When he finds that the parts are much more than the whole, With a down derry, derry down! "Those oarsmen are having a deuce of a time, Down, a-down, a-down--hey down! The man in the puggree is ripe for crime, With a down. Now heaven send every boating man For keeping accounts a more excellent plan, With a down derry, derry down!" So pencilled poet Milliken. "The man in the puggree" is Sir John, --ripefor many years to come, and when he has another banquet, may I be thereto see. _The Two Pins Club_ was a _Punch_ institution. Original notice of "THE TWO PINS CLUB. "There are Coaching Clubs, Four-in-hand Clubs, Tandem Clubs, and Sporting Clubs of all sorts, but there is no _Equestrian Club_. "The object of the present proposed Club is to supply this want. "The Members will meet on Sundays, and ride to some place within easy reach of town: there lunch, spend a few hours, and return. "Due notice will be given of each 'Meet, ' and replies must be sent in to the Secretary by Wednesday afternoon at latest. When it is considered necessary, Luncheon will be ordered beforehand for the party, and those who have neglected to reply by the time fixed, and who do not attend the Meet, will be charged with their share of the Luncheon. "There will be other Meets besides those on Sundays, which will be arranged by the Members from time to time. "The title of the Club is taken from the names of the two most celebrated English Equestrians known to 'the road, ' viz. :-- "'DICK TURPIN' AND "'JOHN GILPIN. ' "The Members of 'THE TWO PINS' will represent all the dash of the one and all the respectability of the other. "The original Members at present are:-- MR. F. C. BURNAND. MR. JOHN TENNIEL. MR. LINLEY SAMBOURNE. MR. HARRY FURNISS. MR. R. LEHMANN. "It is not proposed at first to exceed the number of twelve. The other names down for invitation to become members are-- MR. FRANK LOCKWOOD, Q. C. , M. P. MR. JOHN HARE. [3] SIR CHARLES RUSSELL, Q. C. , M. P. "We hope you will join. The eight Members can then settle a convenient day for the first Meet, and inaugurate the TWO PINS CLUB. [3] "N. B. No hounds. " [Illustration: LORD RUSSELL'S ACCEPTANCE TO DINE WITH ME. ] The Two Pins Club was started in 1890, and flourished until itsPresident, Lord Russell, was elevated to the Bench. My only claim fordistinction in connection with it rests on the fact that I was the onlymember who, except when I was in mid-Atlantic on my return from theStates, never missed a meet. Were the Club now a going concern, I would, of course, refrain from mentioning it, but as it is referred to in the"History of _Punch_" by Mr. Spielmann, and in "John Hare, Comedian, " byMr. Pemberton, I may be pardoned and also forgiven for repeating the onejoke ever made public in connection with this remarkable Club. One afternoon our cavalcade was approaching Weybridge, which had beenthe scene of the boyish pranks of one of our members. To the amusementof us all, this brother Two Pins, as reminiscences of the district wererecalled to him by one object and another, grew terribly excited. "Ah, my boys, there is the dear old oak tree under which I smoked myfirst cigarette! And there, where the new church stands, I shot my firstsnipe. Dear me, how all is altered! I wonder if old Sir Henry Tomkinsstill lives in the Lodge there, and what has become of the Rector'spretty daughter?" etc. Sir Frank Lockwood, observing lettering on the side of a house, "GeneralStores, " casually asked our excited reminiscent friend if he "knew aGeneral Stores about these parts?" "General Stores! Of course I do, but he was only a Captain when I livedhere!" When the members lunched at The Durdans our host and honorary member, Lord Rosebery, remarked that it was a Club of "one joke and one horse!"the fact being that we all drove over from Tadworth, Lord Russell'sresidence, where we were staying, with the exception of Lord Russellhimself, who rode. We had, of course, each a horse: some of the membersa great deal more than one, but we were careful to trot out one jokebetween us: "General Stores" became our general and only story. The first public announcement respecting the Club appeared in the _DailyTelegraph_, the 4th of May, 1891: "The T. P. C. Held its first annual meeting at the 'Star and Garter Hotel'yesterday morning. There was a full attendance of members. Under thecareful and conciliatory guidance of the President, Sir Charles Russell, supported mainly by Mr. F. C. Burnand, Mr. Frank Lockwood, Mr. HarryFurniss, Mr. Edward Lawson, Mr. Charles Mathews, Mr. John Hare, Mr. Linley Sambourne, and Mr. R. Lehmann (hon. Sec. ), the customarybusiness was satisfactorily transacted, and the principal subjects fordiscussion were dealt with in a spirit of intelligent self-control. Mr. Arthur Russell was unanimously elected a member of the association, which in point of numbers is now complete. " [Illustration: _This sketch is à propos of Mr. Linley Sambourne'sportrait in "Vanity Fair. " Note refers to his being madeSolicitor-General. _] [Illustration] But the object of the Club being carefully concealed, much mysterysurrounds its name. Few were aware that it was merely a band of"Sontag-Reiters. " Our hon. Sec. , being at the time prominent inpolitics, received congratulations from those who imagined the T. P. C. Was a political association, and much wonderment was excited by thedecidedly enigmatical appellation of the small and select society. SirEdward Lawson showed marked ingenuity in retaining the mystery by hisparagraphs in his paper. The first meet of our second season was theonly one I missed during the years the Club existed: "The first meeting of the T. P. C. For the season of 1892 took placeyesterday at the 'Star and Garter Hotel, ' under the presidency of SirCharles Russell, who was assisted in the performance of his duties byMr. Frank Lockwood, Mr. Linley Sambourne, Mr. Edward Lawson, and Mr C. W. Mathews. The arrangements for the season were completed, and a digestwas made of the subjects which claimed the immediate consideration ofthe members. The President called attention to a delay which hadoccurred in the fulfilment of certain artistic duties which had beenentrusted to Mr. Harry Furniss and Mr. Linley Sambourne, and which hadbeen retarded in their accomplishment by Mr. Furniss' voyage to America. But it was understood that immediate attention would now be bestowedupon the work in hand; and the remainder of the business was of aroutine character. " [Illustration: MR. LINLEY SAMBOURNE. ] The "artistic duties" referred to, I have no recollection of, but I knowthat at our preliminary meeting, when all matters, artistic andotherwise, were discussed and arranged, the two following importantresolutions were proposed, seconded, and carried unanimously:-- "That Mr. Rudolph Lehmann be elected Permanent Secretary, and that the duty of sending out all notices convening the Meets of the T. P. C. , as well as all arrangements connected with the Club, be entrusted to him; and that every notice of meeting be posted and prepaid by him eight lunar, or at least three calendar, days before the date of each Meet; and further, that records in a neat and clerkly style of each and every Meet be faithfully kept by the said Secretary, and be at all times open for the inspection of each and every member of the T. P. C. " "That Mr. Linley Sambourne shall provide at his own expense the notepaper and envelopes required for the business of the Club, and shall invent and draw a design, which design, also at his own expense, he shall cause to be stamped or otherwise engraved on the said notepaper and envelopes, and shall cause the said notepaper so stamped or engraved to be forwarded to the Perpetual President, the Permanent Secretary, and the other members, for use in connection only with the business of the Club. " "It was further resolved that all maps and charts be kept at the Secretary's Office, and in the event of any dispute, the Ordnance Map or the Admiralty Chart shall be decisive. " But during the existence of the Club there never was any cause to referto an Ordnance Map or Admiralty Chart. There never was a Secretary'sOffice, nor did Mr. Linley Sambourne either design or provide thenotepaper or envelopes, nor are there any records in existence, eitherprinted or written "in a neat and clerkly style, " of the merry meetingsof this unique Club. It ran its delightful and dangerous course, itswild career, unmarred by any dispute or accident. The last "meet" was todine Lord Russell on his elevation to the Bench. [Illustration: PORTRAIT OF ME AS A MEMBER OF THE TWO PINS CLUB, BYLINLEY SAMBOURNE. ] I shall never forget the first occasion on which I saw the late LordRussell. It was in the old days when the Law Courts were inWestminster, --and I, in search of "character, " strangely enough foundmyself wandering about the Divorce Court, where so many characters arelost. It was a _cause célèbre_, --the divorce suit of a mostdistinguished Presbyterian cleric who charged his wife, theco-respondent being the stable-boy. Russell (then plain Mr. ) was for theclergyman, and when I entered the crowded court, he was in the midst ofhis appeal to the jury, working himself up to a pitch of eloquence, appealing to all to look upon the saintly figure of the man of prayer(the plaintiff, who was playing the part by kneeling and clasping hishands), and asking the jury to scorn all idea of his client having anydesire to free himself of his wife so as to marry his pretty governess, or cousin, or whomever it was suggested he most particularly admired. Russell had arrived at quoting Scripture, --he was at his best, austere, eloquent, persuasive, an orator, a gentleman, a great advocate, and assanctimonious as his kneeling client. [Illustration: THE LATE LORD RUSSELL, THE PRESIDENT OF THE TWO PINSCLUB. ] He was interrupted by someone handing him a telegram. As he opened it hesaid, waving it towards his client, "This may be a message from Heavento that saint, --ah, gentlemen of the jury, the words sopure--so--so----" (he reads the telegram). "D----! D----! D----!" He crushed the telegram in his hand, and with anangry gesture threw it away. Although his words were drowned by the"laughter in Court, " his gestures and face showed his chagrin anddisgust. The Grand National had been run half-an-hour before. Years afterwards, on his own lawn at Tadworth, I told him of thisincident, and asked him what the contents of that telegram were. Hedeclared I was wrong, such an incident never occurred in his career. Iconvinced him I was right--it was the first time I saw him, and everydetail was vividly impressed upon my memory. After dinner he came to meand said, "Furniss, I have been thinking over that incident. You arequite right--it has all come back to me. I lost my temper, I recollect, because I had wired to my boy over there to make a bet for me on anoutsider at a long price; when at lunch, I heard the horse had won. Iwas delighted, and therefore at my best when I addressed the jury. Thetelegram was from my boy to say that he forgot to put the money on!" Riding has caused my appearance in a Police Court, but not as a memberof the Two Pins Club. In October, 1895, I was returning from my usualride before breakfast, accompanied by my little daughter; we turned intothe terrace in which we live, and our horses cantered up the hill about120 yards. As we were dismounting, a Police Inspector passed, addressingme by name, and in a most offensive tone declared that he would summonme, as I had been cautioned before for furious riding. This remark wasso absolutely untrue that I met the summons, and the Inspector in theCourt made three distinct statements on oath: That I spurred my horse(when cross-examined by me, he gave a minute description of my spurs);that I charged up the hill 250 yards at the rate of sixteen miles anhour; and that I had been cautioned before for the same thing. Now, Ihave never been cautioned in my life; the distance I went up the hill is120 yards, and no horse could get up any pace in that distance; and I donot wear spurs, although two constables swore I did. The magistrate, face to face with these three facts, looked the pictureof misery. It was evident to him, as it must be evident to everyfair-minded man, that the police were in the wrong. And when themagistrate was thinking out this dilemma, I made a fatal mistake. I gavemy reason for appearing as a sacrifice on my part to show the magistratethe sort of evidence upon which poor cabmen and others are fined andmade to suffer. The magistrate, Mr. Plowden, waxed very wroth, and as hecould not punish me, and would not reprimand the police, I was asked topay the costs of the summons, which was withdrawn. The late Mr. MontaguWilliams, who sat in the Marylebone Police Court, the court in which Iwas charged with furious riding, gave it as his private opinion that thelonger a policeman was in the service the less he could rely upon hisword. [Illustration: "FURIOUS RIDING. " SKETCH BY F. C. GOULD. _From the "Westminster Gazette. _"] This case led to all sorts of trouble. I was assailed by people in thestreet, strangers to me, for "riding over children. " Letters came fromall sorts of societies--Cruelty to Animals, and other excellentinstitutions. I found people measuring the terrace; others riding up itto see if it were possible to get the pace (which it is not), but fewknew the truth. The constable when I left the court remarked to me, "I'll tache ye to caricature Oirishmen in Parleymint!" However, I wasrepaid by the humour the incident gave rise to in the imagination of mybrother workers on the Press. Mr. F. C. Gould made this capital sketch, and others portrayed my crime in verse. The following was written to meby one of London's most celebrated editors, and has never been publishedbefore: "H. Furniss was an artist gent Of credit and renown, Who'd ride a horse up Primrose Hill With any man in town. "The morn was fine as morn could be Upon last Thursday week, And, like the early morn, H. F. Was up before the beak. "(Full little dreamed that worthy cit, Some dozen mornings hence He would be 'up before the beak' In quite another sense. ) "Upon two tits of pranksome mood, The gallant Lika Joko And Likajokalina rode, 'Desipere in loco. ' "'Cantare pares' rode the pair, Ad equitatum nati, ' But to a bobby's summons not 'Respondere parati. ' "So 'appy rode the blithesome pair, They scoured the hill and plain, And warming with their morning's work, Rode hotly home again. "But by the slope of Primrose Hill The rude Inspector Ross Beheld H. Furniss canter up Upon his foaming hoss. "'Look 'ere, young man, ' says he to him, 'There are some children dear That by the ridin' of you folk Do go in bod'ly fear. "'Your hasting steed pull up, I say! S'welp me, draw your rein! The innocents abroad, young man, Are frightened by you twain. "'Look at yer smokin' job 'oss 'ere-- I seen you job 'is flank! 'E's well nigh done--tyke 'im away, And back upon the rank. ' "H. Furniss fixed him with his eye; His brow was awful cross; He Kyrled his lip contemptuous-like At this rude man of Ross. "'The spirit of my gallant cob, Ruffian, you shall not squelch; I ride nor Scotch nor Irish hot, But Furniss-heated Welsh. "'Mine and my daughter's gentle pace Could not affright a foundling; Be off, and peep down areas, or Move on some harmless groundling!' "The Inspector glared: 'Come, Mr. F. , We can't stand this no longer; I summons you to Marylebone'-- (He muttered something stronger). * * * * * "Good Mr. Plowden heard the charge, As two policemen swore it; Then heard H. Furniss' defence, And sagely pondered o'er it. "'The Inspector swears you galloped up; You swear you merely trotted: My own opinion in this case Is, as usual, Gordian-knotted. "'Now Gordian knots were tied to be By magistrates divided; We cut them--and the severed ends Do much as once the tied did. "'In this case, add the paces up, And then divide by two: A canter is the quotient; I think that that should do. "'A sound decision that will please Both parties this I trust is; It is a fine distinction, but Avoids the fires of justice. "'You, Mr. Furniss, must disburse Two bob costs to my till, And promise me to try no more Primrose babes to kill. "'And all in Court, take warning by The furious Canterer's fate, And go not up the Primrose path At such an awful rate. "'But if your sluggish livers you Must vigorously shake, "Vigor's Horse Exercise at Home" (Vide Prospectus) take. '" As a matter of fact, the magistrate did not look at the charge-sheet, or know me, or catch my name, or he might have madehis usual joke at my expense in another way. [Illustration: MY PORTRAIT, BY F. C. BURNAND. ] Mr. Burnand and I rode a great deal together. Avoiding the Row, myeditor preferred to ride to Hampstead, Harrow, or Mill Hill, calling forme on the way. Once, when I could not ride, he wrote: "Very sorry tohear of your being laid up with a cold; it shows what even the Wisestand Best amongst us are liable to. The idea is monstrous of a _ColdFurniss_. A _coal'd_ furniss is satisfactory. Don't take too much out ofyourself with riding. 'He speaks to thee who hath not got ahorse'--Shakespeare. " Then follows later a specimen of his irrepressiblegood humour: _22 Nov. _ "Alas and alack! I've got a hack, But the weather's been such, I've not got on his back. "I got no jog Because of the fog, And up to twelve, In breeches and boots, Which I had to shelve And recover my foots. I lunched at the 'G' (So there was, you see, One _Gee_ for me). "Then I came back And wrote some play But oh, good lack! No riding to-day. If foggy here, At Ramsgate 'twas clear. "Alas and alack! I'll sell my hack, Much to my sorrow. I'll ride to-morrow, That is, if fine, But not at nine. I shall not start, if I'm alive And have the heart, till ten forty-five. "Away to parks I'll trot To get a little hot, Also to get a little dirty, And with you be 11. 30. "Till one, Then done. Back to Lunch, Then to Office of _Punch_. This my plan, you'll be happy to learn, is At your disposal, Mr. Furniss. " But excursions in search of material my editor and I had to do on foot, and were not so pleasing; still, Mr. Burnand always managed to have hislittle joke in all circumstances. [Illustration] One day he and I were "doing" the picture shows in the interests of Mr. Punch. At one o'clock, feeling jaded and tired, a retreat to the GarrickClub to lunch was suggested. "Happy thought!" said my editor. "Betterstill, here is an invitation for two to the Exhibition of French Cookeryat Willis's Rooms. Capital lunch there, I should think. " So off we went, anticipating a _recherché_ lunch. Fancy our chagrin on arrival to findcooks galore, discussing their art, but, alas! their art, like the highart of the Masters of the Brush in our National Gallery, was all underglass! Aggravatingly appetising, but absolutely uninteresting to the twohungry art critics. We soon were in a cab and at the Garrick. As wepulled up, the greatest _gourmet_ of the Club, that clever actor, ArthurCecil, greeted us: "Hallo, Frank, where have you two come from?" "Oh, Arthur, _such_ luck! Furniss and I have just had the most_recherché_ lunch you could imagine. " "H'm--hullo--h'm--where? The deuce you have! Lucky dogs! Eh, what was itlike?" "Oh, you can see it for yourself; it's going on now at the FrenchCookery Exhibition in Willis's Rooms. Special invitation--ah, here's aticket. " "Thanks, old chap! what a treat! I'm off there! No, no; you fellowsmustn't pay the cab--I'll do that. Here, driver--Willis's Rooms--looksharp!" Arthur Cecil undoubtedly was a quaint fellow and a clever actor, but hehad an insatiable appetite. One would never have thought so, judgingfrom appearance: his clever, clean-cut face, his small, thin figure, together with the little hand-bag he always carried, rather suggested alawyer or a clergyman. His eccentricity was a combination ofabsent-mindedness and irritability. The latter failing, he told me, would at times take complete control of him: for instance, he had toleave a train before his journey was completed, as he felt it impossibleto sit in the carriage and look at the alarm bell without pulling it. Ihave watched him seated in the smoking-room of the club we bothattended, in which the star-light in the centre of the ceiling wasshaded by a rather primitive screen of stretched tissue paper, gazing atit for half-an-hour at a time, and eventually taking all the coins outof his pocket to throw them one after another at the immediate object ofhis irritation. He frequently succeeded in penetrating the screen, thecoins remaining on the top of it, to the delight of the astonishedwaiters. His eccentricity--perhaps I ought to say in this case hisabsent-mindedness--is illustrated by an incident which happened on themorning of the funeral of a great friend of his. As Cecil (his real namewas Blount) was having his bath, he was suddenly inspired with some ideafor a song; so, pulling his sponge-bath into the adjoining sitting-roomcloser to the piano, he placed a chair in it, and sat down to try itover. A friend, rushing in to fetch him to the funeral, found him soseated, singing and playing, balancing the dripping sponge on the top ofhis head. THE CARICATURING OF PICTURES. [Illustration: THE PICTURE SHOWS. _Design from "Punch. "_] To feed upon one's own kind is a custom which, like so many othervestiges of a previous civilisation, seems in the present day to have afair chance of revival. We have long had with us the City Cannibal, theFleet Street Cannibal, the Dramatic, Literary and Musical Cannibals. Latterly the Society Cannibal has come more distinctly to the front. Then why, I long ago asked myself, should there not be the Cannibal ofthe etching pen and the brush? Especially as the writhing victims ofthose mighty instruments appear to be so enamoured of their fate as tobesiege that comic slaughter-house, the studio of the caricaturist, andwith persistent cries of "Eat us! eat us! Our turn next!" solicit the"favour of not being forgotten" in his next batch of "subjects. " [Illustration] It may be a revelation to many of my readers, but I can assure them itis a fact, that it is only in very exceptional cases that artists objectto having their pictures caricatured. Indeed, many of the leadingpainters have given me to understand that the omission of their workfrom my sketches would be anything but agreeable to them, although, whenthe desired travesties of their pictures appear, they may pretend to behighly indignant. There is one Royal Academician of my acquaintance whohas so keen an appreciation of humour that he never loses an opportunityof giving me a hint when his magnifying glass has detected the slightestelement of the grotesque in a fellow artist's work. And that mostamiable of men, the late Frank Holl, could never refrain, when occasionoffered, from directing my attention to the humorous points of hissitters, although I need hardly add that no trace of his havingperceived them was ever apparent in any of his works. Do artists object?Well, in _Punch_, May, 1889, du Maurier touches this point: "What our artist (the awfully funny one) has to put up with: _Brown_: 'Isay, look here! What the deuce do you mean by caricaturing mypictures--hay?' _Jones_: 'Yes, confound you! and _not caricaturingmine_!'" I have even known artists so anxious to be parodied that, if theyhappened to have a vein of humour in their pencils, they would actuallysend me caricatures of their own pictures. Even poor Fred Barnard oncesent me an admirable sketch, caricaturing an excellent portrait of histhree children which he had painted for the Royal Academy, where it dulyappeared. Others less humorously imaginative perhaps have written to meassuring me of the great pleasure which would have been theirs had theythemselves conceived the idea which my caricature of their worksupplied. Although, however, there are so few artists who object to having theirpictures caricatured, there is, of course, another side to the question. It is indeed most true that nothing kills like ridicule, and in thecourse of my experience I have found it is just as easy unconsciously toinflict an injury with my pen and Indian ink as it is to do good. Let ussuppose, for instance, that a great painter has just finished a verysentimental work--a picture so brimful of beauty and pathos that itappeals to everybody, myself included. As I stand before it, and admire, it is impossible perhaps for me to restrain a sympathetic tear frommaking its appearance in, at all events, one of my eyes. But how aboutthe other? Ah! with regard to that other eye, I must confess it is verydifferently employed, and, superior to my control, is searching thecanvas high and low for that "something ridiculous" which, except in thecase of the very greatest masters, is always there. Now what ensues? Thepurchaser of that picture, who, mark you, unlike myself, regarded it andadmired it with _both_ of his eyes, congratulates himself upon itsacquisition. I have known it for a fact, however--to my regret--thatafter the publication of the caricature the purchaser was never able tolook at his picture again through his own glasses, and bitterlyregretted his outlay. [Illustration: THE GREAT BACCARAT CASE. MY SKETCH IN PENCIL MADE INCOURT, AND CONGRATULATORY NOTE FROM THE EDITOR OF _PUNCH_. ] An art publisher with whom I was acquainted agreed to pay a heavy sumfor the copyright of a work of a well-known and popular painter, andafter the caricature had appeared in _Punch_ he resolved to forego thepublication of the engraving from it by which he had hoped to recoup hisexpenditure, because he considered that the sobriety of the work was socompletely destroyed as to preclude the possibility of sale; and aneminent sculptor, who was responsible for a well-known statue which Icaricatured some years ago when it appeared in the Royal Academy, hastold me, since it was put up in the Metropolis, that he has actuallymeditated replacing it by another piece, owing to the ludicroussuggestion affixed to it. On the other hand, the caricature of an important work is sometimesreceived in the proper spirit. Here is a letter from Professor Herkomer, with reference to my caricature of the work of our greatest art genius, Alfred Gilbert, R. A. : [Illustration] Of course, the caricaturing of pictures has its seamy as well as itssmooth side. Among the annoyances to which an artist engaged on thisdescription of work is exposed I am inclined to give a prominent placeto the fussy and vexatious regulations imposed upon him by theauthorities at Burlington House. One would have supposed, for instance, that anyone like myself, who is well-known as merely taking notes forcaricature, would have been allowed to consult his own convenience tosome extent in making his sketches. But not a bit of it. The penalty issomething too dreadful if you are found making the slightest note of apicture at the Royal Academy at any other time than on the one appointedday. The object of this regulation is, of course, to protect thecopyright of the pictures--a very proper and legitimate precaution; butI submit that a better instance of the spirit of Red Tapeism which is sorampant at Burlington House, and which I am always endeavouring toexpose, could not be adduced than the inability of the officials todiscriminate between the accredited representative of a paper and thepiratical sketcher who is taking notes for an illegitimate purpose. Ineed hardly say that this regulation is peculiar to the Royal Academy. At the Grosvenor Gallery, which, alas! is no more, the officials aboutthe place understood these matters better, and at all times were pleasedto give every facility to the representative of the Press. The politesecretary would give up his chair to me any day I liked to look in, andwould often point out to me some comical feature in the surroundingcanvases which his sly humour had detected. [Illustration: A PRISONER. ] Equal praise must indeed be accorded to the management of the NewGallery and all the other Exhibitions with which I have been brought incontact in the course of my professional duties. Personally, as I havealways made my notes at the Royal Academy on the authorised occasion, Ihave had nothing to fear from those who preside there. But my friendLinley Sambourne, who wished upon one occasion to caricature a pictureof Burne-Jones' for a political cartoon in _Punch_ (of course alteringthe figures and indeed everything else, so as not in any way to trenchupon the great artist's copyright) was dogged by a detective, arrested, and finally thrown into the darkest dungeon beneath the Burlington Housemoat! Protest was useless. What his terror must have been my pen failsto describe. Visions of the thumbscrew, the rack, and all the torturesconceivable rose in the fertile imagination of my colleague, and beadsof perspiration made their appearance upon his massive brow. After wearyhours, when lunch-time without the lunch had come and gone, and thepangs of hunger began to be added to his other miseries, when he wasreflecting that his week's work for _Punch_ was yet unfinished, that theengravers would be in despair at not having it in time, and that at thatmoment his editor was probably telegraphing to him all over London andinstituting a search for his person all over his club, suddenly thebolts of his prison-chamber were withdrawn and his gaoler, theblood-thirsty tyrant Red Tape, allowed the genial artist to return tothe bosom of his wife and family--not, however, without leaving ahostage behind him. The sketch--the guilty sketch--the cause of all histroubles, was detained. In vain the harassed artist explained to hisgrim Cerberus that the work was wanted for the next week's issue of_Punch_, and although as a matter of fact it duly appeared at theappointed time, Mr. Sambourne had to trust to his memory instead of tothe courtesy and common sense of Burlington House for the reproductionof his skit. I remember another incident which will serve to illustrate the trialsand misfortunes of the caricaturist when pursuing his vocation outsidethe walls of his studio. It was the opening day of the New Gallery, andas I draw my sketches of the pictures with an ordinary pen and liquidIndian ink direct, and have them afterwards, like all my drawings, photographed on wood and engraved--of late years they are reproduced byprocess engraving--I was holding my bottle of ink and my sketch-book inone hand, while my pen was busy with the other. Upon arriving very earlyin the morning I thought I must have made a mistake, and that I hadentered a manufactory of hats, for the hall was almost entirely taken upwith hat-boxes. Upon enquiry, however, I learned that these merelycontained the new hats in which the directors would, later on, receivetheir visitors. When the hall began to fill, and the fashionable crowdwas pouring in, I was standing in the central lobby, sketching away witha will, when my friend Sir William Agnew, always early to arrive on suchoccasions, happened to come up and soon interested me in conversationabout the genius of Millais and the beauties of Burne-Jones. In myenergetic manner I was debating a matter of some little interest when myeye caught that of Mr. Comyns-Carr, who, with his newly-selected hat on, was standing close by and regarding me with an expression ofindescribable horror. "What is the matter with Carr?" I observed toAgnew; "surely Sargent should be here and hand down that expression toposterity. " But when I followed his eyes as they passed sternly frommine to the floor, my hat nearly sprang off my head at the sight which Ibeheld! Forgetting that I held the bottle of ink in the hand with whichI had been suiting the action to the word in my animated harangue to SirWilliam, I had splashed the virgin marble on which we were standing inall directions with hideous stains of the blackest of liquids. In myconsternation I did not stay to see the incongruous figure of thecharwoman and bucket who was immediately introduced amid the _élite_ offashionable London, but fled incontinently from the gallery and, rushingin where angels fear to tread, sought sanctuary in my accustomed haunt, the Gallery of the House of Commons. There at least I thought I shouldbe safe. Presently, when I had somewhat recovered from my agitation, Iwas making my way out of the House when I encountered a friend in theCentral Lobby. I was explaining to him the unfortunate _contretemps_which had occurred at the New Gallery, and utterly forgot that I stillheld the bottle of ink in my hand, and on the sacred floor we stood uponI had perpetrated the offence again! My only consolation for this chapter of accidents was that theparticular ink in my bottle is different from the ordinary writingfluid, and leaves no stain behind it. It is in fact merely paint, and isinnocent of gall. There are inks, as there are other forms ofjournalism, whose consequences are not so easily effaced or so harmless;but like the caricaturist's work itself, the material with which it isaccomplished often looks blacker than it really is. [Illustration: ORIGINAL IDEA AS SENT TO ME. MY DRAWING OF IT IN _PUNCH_. ] Fortunately all this happened previous to the introduction of the ink Iuse now, known as _Waterproof_ ink--ink that will not _run_ when washedover with water. The manufacturers of this article sent me a specimenbottle to experiment with, and asked me for my opinion of it. Inreplying, I sent the following note. The sketch was touched in to amusemy youngest boy, who was puzzled by the meaning of Waterproof ink. Themakers, in acknowledging the note, asked me to mention the sum I wouldaccept if, with my permission, they used the note and sketch I sent asan advertisement. I replied that they were welcome to use my note, butthat I could not accept payment. However I received in a few days alarge parcel of artists' materials: paints, sketch-books, brushes, pencils, &c. [Illustration] This is more than I ever received for a better known advertisement: "Iused your soap two years ago. " I was never offered so much as a cake ofsoap from those who used my _Punch_ sketch so freely! Permission wasgiven for its use by the proprietors of _Punch_, not knowing I had anyobjection, and at the time I was ill with fever and unable to protest. The firm certainly paid me some years afterwards for the publication ofthe same advertisement for two insertions in a periodical I wasstarting, but only at the ordinary rate. I mention this fact as I haveheard from friends all over the world that I received untold gold forthe use of it, and as it has interested so many perhaps I may at thesame time clear up another fallacy, which I did not know existed untilI read Mr. Spielmann's "History of _Punch_. " In that he refers to thevery "oft-quoted drawing (lately used as an advertisement), the idea ofwhich reached him from an anonymous correspondent. It is that of agrimy, unshaven, unwashed, mangy-looking tramp, who sits down to write, with a broken quill, a testimonial for a firm of soap-makers. A furtherpoint of interest about this famous sketch was that Charles Keene wasdeeply offended by it at first, in the groundless belief that it wasintended as a skit upon himself. It must at least be admitted that thehead is not unlike what one might have expected to belong to adissipated and dilapidated Charles Keene. " Poor Keene! How sorry I wasto read this when too late to explain to him that he was never in mymind for a moment when I was drawing it! But, strange to say, theoriginal who sat for it was a brother artist, another Charles, quite asdelightful as Keene, equally clever in his own way, and my greatestfriend--Charles Burton Barber, the animal painter, in appearance ratherlike Charles Keene, but nothing of the Bohemian about him, and anon-smoker! Still I am always being told that I had So-and-so in my eyewhen drawing the figure. I might in truth quote Sir John Tenniel'sremark _à propos_ of being accused of caricaturing his late comrade, Horace Mayhew, as the "White Knight" in "Alice in Wonderland": "Theresemblance was purely accidental, a mere unintentional caricature, which his _friends_, of course, were only too delighted to make the mostof. " Ah, those _friends_ are at the bottom of all thesemisunderstandings. I could a tale, or two, unfold, but that--that'sanother volume. [Illustration: I SIT FOR JOHN BROWN. ] Yes, poor Barber sat for the tramp, and I in return sat to him for afigure quite as incongruous in my case as the tramp was in his. I satfor John Brown for the picture Queen Victoria had commissioned of Mr. Brown surrounded by her pet dogs, which she had in her private room. Shewas so delighted with the picture that she had a replica made of it, andplaced it in the passage outside, so that it was the first picture shelooked at as she left her room. Barber's animals and children weredelightful, but he was weak with his men, and was in trouble over JohnBrown's calves, --it was then that I posed for the "brawny Scott, " butonly for the portion here mentioned. [Illustration: A CRIB BY AN AMERICAN ADVERTISER. ] This figure of the tramp in my sketch of "I used your soap two yearsago" has in fact been mistaken for myself. A relative of my own, who hasbeen living in the Cape for many years, paid a visit to London, and onhis return informed his children that he had seen me and brought myportrait back with him. "Oh, we have Cousin Harry's portrait in ournursery for some time: one he has signed too. " It was the Punch-Pearsproduction in colour! I am sure I do not know how ridiculous stories arereceived as true, that I got a fabulous sum for the use of this one;that such-and-such a member of the staff gets a huge retaining fee, &c. , and other inventions--one in particular. If I have met one, I have met ascore of people at different times of my life who positively declaredthat they actually sent that ever famous line: "Punch's advice to thoseabout to marry--Don't!" and received immediately remuneration in sumsvarying from £5 to £500. That joke was probably conceived and thrown inat the last moment, at the critical point when the editor is "making up"the paper. As I am writing these disjointed notes for family reading, it mayperhaps not be out of place just to refer to the domestic relations ofthe staff of _Punch_. Our wives and families were invited to meet on theoccasion of the Lord Mayor's procession, when they may have beenobserved upon the roof of the publishing office--till recently it was inFleet Street--from which coign of vantage they had an excellent view ofthe civic show, afterwards having a capital lunch in a room on the firstfloor. Yet how much men who live on their wits owe to their domestichappiness! It is a pleasant fact to be able to chronicle that--I believeat all times--the domestic lives of the _Punch_ staff have been mosthappy. It is rather curious that all of them have made the same kind ofmatrimonial selection--they have married "sensible wives, " women whohave all been sympathetic, devoted, bright, and domesticated. The wit atthe dinner-table, the humorous writer or the caricaturist in the pagesyou read, is a very different dog at home. It must naturally be so. Itis the reaction, and it is to such men that the woman possessed of tactand cheerfulness is invaluable. In truth, Punch's advice to those aboutto marry, "Don't!" has been disregarded by the majority of his members, in every case with the utmost satisfaction to themselves. [Illustration: BRADBURY, AGNEW, & CO. LD. , PRINTERS, LONDON ANDTONBRIDGE. ]