[Illustration: AN ARTISTIC JOKE. _A London Slum. My Parody of the Venetian School. _] THE CONFESSIONS OF A CARICATURIST BY HARRY FURNISS _ILLUSTRATED_ VOLUME II [Illustration] NEW YORK AND LONDON: HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS. 1902. BRADBURY, AGNEW, & CO. LD. , PRINTERS, LONDON AND TONBRIDGE. _All rights reserved. _ December, 1901. CONTENTS. CHAPTER VIII. THE ARTISTIC JOKE. The First Idea--How it was Made--"Fire!"--I am a Somnambulist--My Workshop--My Business "Partner"--Not by Gainsborough--Lord Leighton--The Private View--The Catalogue--Sold Out--How the R. A. 's Took It--How a Critic Took It--Curious Offers--Mr. Sambourne as a Company Promoter--A One-man Show--_Punch's_ Mistake--A Joke within a Joke--My Offer to the Nation _pp. _ 1--25 CHAPTER IX. CONFESSIONS OF A COLUMBUS. The Cause of my Cruise--No Work--The Atlantic Greyhound--Irish Ship--Irish Doctor--Irish Visitors--Queenstown--A Surprise--Fiddles--Edward Lloyd--Lib--Chess--The Syren--The American Pilot--Real and Ideal--Red Tape--Bribery--Liberty--The Floating Flower Show--The Bouquet--A Bath and a Bishop--"Beastly Healthy"--Entertainment for Shipwrecked Sailors--Passengers--Superstition. AMERICA IN A HURRY--Harry Columbus Furniss--The Inky Inquisition--First Impressions--Trilby--Tempting Offers--Kidnapped--Major Pond--Sarony--Ice--James B. Brown--Fire!--An Explanation. WASHINGTON--Mr. French of Nowhere--Sold--Interviewed--The Sporting Editor--Hot Stuff--The Capitol--Congress--House of Representatives--The Page Boys--The Agent--Filibuster--The "Reccard"--A Pandemonium--Interviewing the President. CHICAGO--The Windy City--Blowers--Niagara--Water and Wood--Darkness to Light--My Vis-à-Vis--Mr. Punch--My Driver--It Grows upon Me--Inspiration--Harnessing Niagara--The Three Sisters--Incline Railway--Captain Webb. TRAVELLING--Tickets--Thirst--Sancho Panza--Proclaimed States--"The Amurrican Gurl"--A Lady Interviewer--The English Girl--A Hair Restorer--Twelfth Night Club Reception at a Ladies' Club--The Great Presidential Election--Sound Money _v. _ Free Silver--Slumland--Detective O'Flaherty. _pp. _ 26--130 CHAPTER X. AUSTRALIA. Quarantined--The Receiver-General of Australia--An Australian Guide-book--A Death Trap--A Death Story--The New Chum--Commercial Confessions--Mad Melbourne--Hydrophobia--Madness--A Land Boom--A Paper Panic--Ruin. SYDNEY--The Confessions of a Legislator--Federation--Patrick Francis Moran. ADELAIDE--Wanted, a Harbour--Wanted, an Expression--Zoological--Guinea-pigs--Paradise!--Types--Hell Fire Jack--The Horse--The Wrong Room! _pp. _ 131--153 CHAPTER XI. PLATFORM CONFESSIONS. Lectures and Lecturers--The Boy's Idea--How to Deliver It--The Professor--The Actors--My First Platform--Smoke--Cards--On the Table--Nurses--Some Unrehearsed Effects--Dress--A Struggle with a Shirt--A Struggle with a Bluebottle--Sir William Harcourt Goes out--My Lanternists Go Out--Chairmen--The Absent Chairman--The Ideal Chairman--The Political Chairman--The Ignorant Chairman--Chestnuts--Misunderstood--Advice to Those about to Lecture--I am Overworked--"'Arry to Harry. " _pp. _ 154-189 CHAPTER XII. MY CONFESSIONS AS A "REFORMER. " Portraiture Past and Present--The National Portrait Gallery Scandal--Fashionable Portraiture--The Price of an Autograph--Marquis Tseng--"So That's My Father!"--Sala Attacks Me--My Retort--Du Maurier's Little Joke--My Speech--What I Said and What I Did Not Say--Fury of Sala--The Great Six-Toe Trial--Lockwood Serious--My Little Joke--Nottingham Again--Prince of Journalists--Royal Academy Antics--An Earnest Confession--My Object--My Lady Oil--Congratulations--Confirmations--The Tate Gallery--The Proposed Banquet--The P. R. A. And Modern Art--My Confessions in the Central Criminal Court--Cricket in the Park--Reform!--All About that Snake--The Discovery--The Capture--Safe--The Press--Mystery--Evasive--Experts--I Retaliate--The _Westminster Gazette_--The Schoolboy--The Scare--Sensation--Death--Matters Zoological--Modern Inconveniences--Do Women Fail in Art?--Wanted a Wife _pp. _ 190-234 CHAPTER XIII. THE CONFESSIONS OF A DINER. My FirstCity Dinner--A Minnow against the Stream--Those Table Plans--Chaos --The City Alderman, Past and Present--Whistler's Lollipops--Odd Volumes--Exchanging Names--Ye Red Lyon Clubbe--The Pointed Beard--Baltimore Oysters--The Sound Money Dinner--To Meet General Boulanger--A Lunch at Washington--No Speeches. THE THIRTEEN CLUB--What it was--How it was Boomed--Gruesome Details--Squint-Eyed Waiters--Superstitious Absentees--My Reasons for being Present--'Arry of _Punch_--The Lost "Vocal" Chords--The Undergraduate and the Undertaker--Model Speeches--Albert Smith--An Atlantic Contradiction--The White Horse--The White Feather--Exit 13 _pp. _ 235-271 CHAPTER XIV. THE CONFESSIONS OF AN EDITOR. Editors--Publishers--An Offer--Why I Refused it--The _Pall Mall Budget_ --_Lika Joko_--The _New Budget_--The Truth about my Enterprises-- _Au Revoir!_ _pp. _ 272-280 [Illustration: HARRY FURNISS'S (EGYPTIAN STYLE). _From "Punch. "_] LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. PAGE An Artistic Joke. A London Slum. My Parody of the Venetian School. _Frontispiece. _ My Studio during the Progress of "An Artistic Joke" 1 Harry Furniss's Royal Academy 3 Throwing myself into it 5 Fire! 6 The Pictures by R. Macbeth: Potato Gang in the Fens; Twitch-burning in the Fens; A Flood in the Fens 8 Macbeth in the Fens 9 Letter from the President of the Royal Academy 11 "An Artistic Joke" 15 Mr. Sambourne's Prospectus 18 Cover of "How he did it" 20 Initial "T" 20 My Portrait. Frontispiece for "How he did it" 21 Harry Furniss and his "Lay Figure" 22 Letter from the President of the Royal Academy 25 Initial "I" 26 A "T--Tonic" 27 An Atlantic "Greyhound. " 28 The Saloon of the _Teutonic_. The First Morning at Breakfast 30 At Queenstown--A Reminiscence 33 Bog-Oak Souvenirs 34 The Captain's Table 36 Not up in a Balloon 38 Chess 40 Mr. Lloyd and the Lady. "If you will sing, _I_ will!" 42 The American Pilot--Ideal 43 The American Pilot--Real 43 The Health Officer comes on Board 45 Just in Time 46 "A Floating Flower Show" 47 The Bath Steward and the Bishop. "Your Time, Sir! Your Time!" 48 Americans and English on Deck 49 American Interviewing--Imaginary 52 American Interviewing--Real 53 "Sandy. " 55 Chiropody 57 "New Trilby. " 58 "Amiable Mr. Harry Furniss" 59 Major Pond 59 The Great Sarony 61 James B. Brown 63 Fire! 65 The Alarm 67 The Throne in the Senate 72 The Throne, House of Representatives 73 Initial "T" 74 The House of Representatives 75 An ex-Speaker 77 An ex-Minister 80 Anglophobia 82 The President--Ideal 83 The President--Real 83 Initial "A" 84 A Buffalo Girl 84 President Harrison's Reply 85 Mr. Punch at Niagara 86 Hebe 86 My Driver 87 Fra' Huddersfield 87 Niagara growing upon Me 88 I admire the great Horseshoe Fall 89 Jonathan harnessing Niagara 90 "The Three Sisters. " 91 Inclined Railway, Niagara 92 Where Captain Webb was Killed 93 Tourists 94 American Travelling. Nothing to Eat 96 American Travelling. Nothing to Drink 97 Sleep(!) 100 A Washington Lady 102 A Lady Interviewer 104 A Sketch at "Del's" 105 Young America 106 An American Menu 107 My Portrait--_in the Future_ 108 I am Entertained at the Twelfth Night Club 110 Reception at a Ladies' Club 112 Wife and Husband 113 A Dream of the White House 114 The Political Quartette 116 After the Great Parade: "Am I to sit on an ordinary seat to-night?" 120 Italians 123 Where the Deed was done! 125 "A Youth with a Crutch" 127 In an Opium Joint 128 "In His Own Black Art" 128 "Hitting the Pipe" 129 "Good-bye" 130 Initial "W" 131 Coaling 132 Quarantine 133 Initial "T" 134 Sleepy Hollow 135 Prospectors 138 Quarantine Island 141 I am invited to present myself 143 Landing at Adelaide 148 Pondicherry Vultures 150 The Maid of the Inn 150 The Way into Paradise 151 Paradise 151 Adam and Eve 152 A Type 153 Queen's Hall, London. I was the first to speak from the Platform 154 "Parliament by Day" 156 "Parliament by Night" 157 Miss Mary Anderson 159 Initial "By" 159 Giving My "Humours of Parliament" to the Nurses 162 Speaker Brand, afterwards Viscount Hampden 164 The Surprise Shirt 166 Discovered! 168 The Fly in the Camera 169 Late Arrivals 171 Reserved Seats 172 Chairman No. 1 174 Chairman No. 2 177 The Pumpkin--a Chestnut 178 In "The Humours of Parliament. " Ballyhooley Pathetic 181 Harry Furniss as a Pictorial Entertainer 182 "Grandolph ad Leones. " Reduction of a Page Drawing for _Punch_ made by me whilst travelling by Train 185 Down with Dryasdust 189 From a Photo by Debenham and Gould 190 G. A. Sala 195 "Art Critic of the _Daily Telegraph_" 199 Counsel for the Plaintiff 200 Mr. F. C. Gould's Sketch in the _Westminster_, which Sala maintained was mine 200 Defendant 202 My Hat 202 The Plaintiff 203 The Editor of _Punch_ supports me 203 Sir F. Lockwood and Myself 204 "Six Toes" Signature 205 The Sequel--I Distribute the Prizes at Nottingham 205 Initial "T" 206 The See-Saw Antic 207 The first P. R. A. 209 No Water-Colour or Black-and-White need apply 210 A National Academy 211 The Central Criminal Court. From _Punch_ 215 "Thank Y-o-o-u!" 216 Regent's Park as it was. From _Punch_. A Rough Sketch on Wood 217 The Late Mr Bartlett 220 Sketch by Mr. F. C. Gould 223 The Lady and Her Snakes 226 Do Women fail in Art--The Chrysalis 228 The Butterfly 230 Early Victorian Art 232 Young Lady's Portrait of her Brother 233 Waiting 234 Initial "P" 235 Menu of the Dinner given to me by the Lotos Club, New York 237 Alderman--Ideal. Real 239 J. Whistler, after a City Dinner (Drawn with my Left Hand) 241 An Odd Volume 241 My Design for Sette of Odd Volumes 242 My Design (reduced) for the Dinner of Ye Red Lyon Clubbe 243 A Distinguished "Lyon" 243 Headpiece and Initial "S" 245 A Sound Money Dinner 249 A Sketch of Boulanger 251 Address of Boulanger's Retreat 252 A Note on My Menu 253 Remarkable and much-talked-of Lunch to me at Washington. The Autographs on back of Menu 254 Mr. Punch and his Dog Toby 256 A Memorandum in Pencil 258 Thirteen Club Banquet. The Table Decorations 259 Mr. W. H. Blanch 260 The Broken Looking-Glass 261 The Badge 261 Squint-Eyed Waiter 263 Coffins, Sir! 266 "The Chairman will be Pleased to Spill Salt with You. " From the _St. James's Budget_ 267 A Knife I was Presented with 268 Tailpiece 271 "Au Revoir" 280 CONFESSIONS OF A CARICATURIST. CHAPTER VIII. THE ARTISTIC JOKE. [Illustration: MY STUDIO DURING THE PROGRESS OF "AN ARTISTIC JOKE. "] The First Idea--How it was Made--"Fire!"--I am a Somnambulist--My Workshop--My Business "Partner"--Not by Gainsborough--Lord Leighton--The Private View--The Catalogue--Sold Out--How the R. A. 's Took It--How a Critic Took It--Curious Offers--Mr. Sambourne as a Company Promoter--A One-man Show--_Punch's_ Mistake--A Joke within a Joke--My Offer to the Nation. "_In the year 1887 he startled the town and made a Society sensation bymeans of an exceedingly original enterprise which any man of lessaudacious and prodigious power of work would have shrunk from in itsvery inception. For years this Titanic task was in hand. This was hiscelebrated 'artistic joke, ' the name given by the 'Times' to a boldparody on a large scale of an average Royal Academy Exhibition. Thisgreat show was held at the Gainsborough Gallery, New Bond Street, andconsisted of some eighty-seven pictures of considerable size, executedin monochrome, and presenting to a marvelling public travesties--someexcruciatingly humorous and daringly satirical, others really exquisitein their rendering of physical traits and landscape features--of thestyles, techniques, and peculiar choice of subjects of a number of theleading artists, R. A. 's and others, who annually exhibit at BurlingtonHouse. It was a surprise, even to his intimate friends, who, with one ortwo exceptions, knew nothing about it until the announcement that Mr. Furniss had his own private Royal Academy appeared in the 'Times. ' Heworked in secret at intervals, under a heavy strain, to get theExhibition ready, particularly as he had to manage the whole of thebusiness part; for the show at the Gainsborough Gallery was entirely hisown speculation. Granted that the experiment was daring, yet theaudacity of the artist fascinated people. Nor did the Academicians, whomsome thought would have been annoyed at the fun, as a body resent it. They were not so silly, though a minority muttered. Most of them sawthat Mr. Furniss was not animated by any desire to hold them up tocontempt, but his parodies were perfectly good-natured, that he hadserved all alike, and that he had only sought the advancement of Englishart. During the whole season the gallery was crushed to overflowing, thecoldest critics were dazzled, the public charmed, and literally allLondon laughed. It furnished the journalistic critics of the countrywith material for reams of descriptive articles and showers of personalparagraphs, and whether relished or disrelished by particular members ofthe artistic profession, at least proved to them, as to the world atlarge, the varied powers (in some phases hitherto unsuspected) andexuberant energies of the Harry Furniss whose name was now on the tongueand whose bold signature was familiar to the eyes of that not easilyimpressed entity, the General Public. _ _"In fact, London had never seen anything so original as Harry Furniss'sRoyal Academy. The work of one man, and that man one of the busiestprofessional men in town. Indeed it might be thought that at the age ofthirty, with all the foremost magazines and journals waiting on hisleisure, with a handsome income and an enviable social position assured, ambition could hardly live in the bosom of an artist in black and white. Unlike Alexander, our hero did not sit down and weep that no kingdomremained to conquer, but set quietly to work to create a new realm allhis own. His Royal Academy, although presented by himself to the publicas an 'artistic joke, ' showed that he could not only use the brush on alarge scale, but that he could compose to perfection, and after theexuberant humour of the show, nothing delighted and surprised thepublic more than the artistic quality and finished technique in much ofthe work, a finish far and away above the work of any caricaturist ofour time. "_ [Illustration] The idea first occurred to me at a friend's house, when my host afterdinner took me into the picture gallery to show me a portrait of hiswife just completed by Mr. Slapdash, R. A. It stood at the end of thegallery, the massive frame draped with artistic care, while attendantsstood obsequiously round, holding lights so as to display the _chefd'[oe]uvre_ to the utmost advantage. As I beheld the picture for thefirst time I was simply struck dumb by the excessively bad work which itcontained. The dictates of courtesy of course required that I should sayall the civil things I could about it, but I could hardly repress asmile when I heard someone else pronounce the portrait to be charming. However, as my host seemed to think that perhaps I was too near, andthat the work might gain in enchantment if I gave it a little distance, we moved towards the other end of the gallery and, at his suggestion, looked into an antiquated mirror, where I got in the half light whatseemed a reflection of it. The improvement was obvious, and I told myfriend so. I told him that the effect was now so lifelike that thefigure seemed to be moving; but when he in turn gazed into the glass heexplained somewhat testily that I was not looking at his wife's portraitat all, but at the white parrot in the cage hard by. The moral of thisincident is that if patrons of art in their pursuit of eccentricitieswill pay large sums to an artist for placing a poor portrait in amassive frame with drapery hanging round it in the most approved modernstyle, and be satisfied with such a result, they must not be surprisedif a parrot should be mistaken for a framed type of beauty. I was, however, not satisfied until I had examined the picture in questionclosely and honestly in the full light of day, when I saw that Mr. Slapdash, R. A. , had sold his autograph and a soiled canvas in lieu of aportrait to my rich but too easily pleased friend. As I walked back into the drawing-room, one of the musical humorists ofthe day was cleverly taking off the weak points of his brothermusicians, and bringing out into strong light their peculiarities andfaults of style. The entertainment, however, did not tend to raise mydrooping spirits, for I was sad to think how low our modern art hadsunk, and with a heavy heart and a sigh for the profession I pursue, Iwent sadly home. Of course my pent-up feelings had to find relief, so mypoor wife had to listen to an extempore lecture which I then and theredelivered to her on portraiture past and present--a lecture which I fearwould hardly commend itself to the Association for the Advancement ofBritish Art. Further, I asked myself why should I not take a leaf out ofthe musical humorist's book and like him expose the tricks andeccentricities of British art in the present day? The following morning, being a man of action as well as of word, Istarted my "Artistic Joke. " I was determined to keep the matter secret, so I worked with my studio doors closed, and as each picture wasfinished it was placed behind some heavy curtains, secure fromobservation, and I kept my secret for three years, until the work wascomplete. I soon found that I had set myself a task of no little magnitude. BeforeI could really make a start I had to examine each artist's workthoroughly. I studied specimens of the work of each at various periodsof his or her career. I had to discover their mannerisms, theiridiosyncrasies and ideas, if they had any, their tricks of brushwork, and all the technicalities of their art. Then I designed a picturemyself in imitation of each artist. In a very few instances only did Iparody an actual work. This fact was generally lost sight of by thosewho visited the Exhibition. The public imagined that I simply took acertain picture of a particular artist and burlesqued it. I did thiscertainly in the case of Millais' "Cinderella" and one or two others;but in the vast majority of the works exhibited, even in Marcus Stone's"Rejected Addresses, " which appeared to so many as if it must have beena direct copy of some picture of his, the idea was entirely evolved outof my own imagination. In thinking out the various pictures I devotedthe greatest care to accuracy of detail. I was particular as to theshape of each, and even went so far as to obtain frames in keeping withthose used by the different artists. Of course it was out of thequestion for me to do the pictures in colour, which would have requireda lifetime, and probably tempted me to break faith with my idea; not tomention the fact that I should in that case most likely have sent thecollection to the Academy, of which obtuse body, if there is any justicein it, I must then naturally have been elected a full-blown member. [Illustration: THROWING MYSELF INTO IT. ] In order to get the Exhibition finished in time, I often had to work farinto the night, and on one occasion when I was thus secretly engaged inmy studio upon these large pictures until the small hours, I remember acatastrophe very nearly happened which would have put a finishing touchof a very different kind to that which I intended, not only to thepicture, but to the artist himself. It happened thus. About threeo'clock in the morning, long after the household had retired to rest, Ibecame conscious of a smell of burning. I made a minute search round thestudio, but could not discover the slightest indication of an incipientconflagration. Then a dreadful thought occurred to me. Beneath thestudio is a vault, access to which is gained by a trap-door in thefloor. Could it be that the secret of my "Artistic Joke" had becomecommon property in the artistic world, and that some vindictiveAcademician, bent upon preventing the impending caricature of his _chefd'[oe]uvre_, was even now, like another Guy Fawkes, concealed below, andin the dead of night was already commencing his diabolical attempt toroast me alive in the midst of my caricatures? Up went the trap-door, and with candle in hand I explored the vault. The result was to calm myapprehensions upon this score, for there was no one there. Stillmystified as to where the smell of fire, now distinctly perceptible, came from, I next walked round the outside of my studio, excitingevident suspicion in the mind of the policeman on his beat. No, therewas not a spark to be seen; no keg of gunpowder, no black leather bag, no dynamite, no infernal machine. I returned into the house and wentupstairs, roused all my family and servants, who, after a closeexamination, returned to their beds, assuring me that all was safethere, and half wondering whether the persistent pursuit of caricaturingdoes not produce an enfeebling effect upon the mind. Consoled by theirassurances, I returned once more to my studio, where the burning smellgrew worse and worse. However, concluding that it was due to some firein the neighbourhood, I settled down to work once more; but hardly had Itaken my brush in hand when showers of sparks and particles ofsmouldering wood began to descend upon my head and shoulders, and coverthe work I was engaged on. I started up, and looking up at my bigsunlight, saw to my horror that I had wound up my easel, which is twelvefeet high, and more nearly resembles a guillotine than anything else, sofar that the top of it was in immediate contact with the gas, andactually alight! [Illustration: FIRE!] The _Times_ took the unusual course of giving, a month in advance of itsopening on April 23rd, 1887, a preliminary notice of this Exhibition. It said: "A novel Exhibition, for which we venture to prophesy nolittle success, is being prepared by Harry Furniss of _Punch_ celebrity. As everyone knows, Mr. Furniss has long adorned the columns of ourcontemporary with pictorial parodies of the chief pictures of the RoyalAcademy, the Grosvenor, and other shows, and it has now occurred to himto develop this idea and to have a humorous Royal Academy of his own. Hehas taken the Gainsborough Gallery in Old Bond Street, which he willfill some time before the opening of Burlington House with a display ofelaborate travesties of the works of all the best known artists of theday. There will be seventy pictures in black and white, many of themlarge size, turning into good-natured ridicule the works of everypainter, good and bad, whose pictures are familiar to the public, " etc. , etc. This gives a very fair idea of the nature and objects of my "RoyalAcademy. " My aim was to burlesque not so much individual works asgeneral style, not so much specific performances as habitual manner. Asan example I take the work of that clever decorative painter and etcher, Mr. R. W. Macbeth, A. R. A. By his permission I here reproduce reductionsin black and white of three of his well-known pictures, and side by sideI show my parody of his style and composition--not, as you will observe, a caricature of any _one_ picture, but a boiling down of _all_ into anoriginal picture of my own in which I emphasise his mannerisms. Furthermore, in my catalogue I parodied the same artist's mannerism indrawing in black and white, and with one or two exceptions this appliesto all the works I exhibited. I hit upon a new idea for the illustratedcatalogue. The illustrations, with few exceptions, did not convey anyidea of the composition of the pictures, and in many cases they weredesigned to further the idea and object of the Exhibition by referenceto pictures not included therein. My joke was that the Exhibition couldnot be understood by anyone without a catalogue, and the catalogue couldnot be understood by anyone without seeing the Exhibition. Thereforeeveryone visiting the Exhibition had to buy a catalogue, and everyoneseeing the catalogue had to visit the Exhibition. _Q. E. D. !_ The idea, the catalogue, and everything connected with this "Artistic Joke"were my own, with the exception of the title, which was so happilysupplied by Mr. Humphry Ward as the heading to the preliminary notice hewrote for the _Times_. _At the last moment_ I called in my fellow-workeron _Punch_, Mr. E. J. Milliken, to assist me with some of theletterpress of the catalogue and write the verses for it. I had all buta small portion of the catalogue written before he so kindly gave thisassistance, but at the suggestion of a mutual friend I gave him half theprofits of the catalogue, which amounted to several hundred pounds. I amobliged to make this point clear, as to my astonishment it was reportedthat the whole Exhibition was a joint affair, no doubt originated by Mr. Punch in a few lines: "When two of Mr. Punch's young men put their headstogether to produce so excellent a literary and artistic a joke as thatnow on view at the Gainsborough Gallery----" This was accepted as amatter of fact by many, not knowing that this "joke, " my work of years, was a secret in the _Punch_ circle as outside it. The false impressionwhich Mr. Punch had originated he corrected in his Happy Thought way:"_The Artistic Jubilee Jocademy in Bond Street. _--The fire insurances onthe building will be uncommonly heavy because there is to be a show ofFurniss's constantly going on inside. Why not call it 'Furniss AbbeyThoughts?'" [Illustration: POTATO GANG IN THE FENS. TWITCH-BURNING IN THE FENS. A FLOOD IN THE FENS. THE PICTURES BY R. MACBETH. _Reproduced by permission of the Artist. _] [Illustration: MACBETH IN THE FENS. _My parody in "An Artistic Joke" of Mr. Macbeth's composition and styleof work, showing that in my "Academy" I did not parody one subject, butdesigned a picture embodying all the characteristics of the Artist. _] The following brief correspondence passed between the President of theRoyal Academy and myself:-- "Mr. Harry Furniss presents his compliments to Sir Frederick Leighton and trusts he will forgive being bothered with the following little matter. "Sir Frederick is no doubt aware of Mr. Furniss's intention to have a little Exhibition in Bond Street this spring, --a good-natured parody on the Royal Academy. The title settled upon--the only one that explains its object--is "HARRY FURNISS'S "ROYAL ACADEMY, "'AN ARTISTIC JOKE. '" "In this particular case the authorities (Mr. Furniss is informed) see no objection to the use of the word _Royal_ pure and simple, but as a matter of etiquette he thinks it right to ask the question of Sir Frederick Leighton also. "_March 11th, 1887. _" [Illustration: LETTER FROM THE PRESIDENT OF THE ROYAL ACADEMY. ] A word or two may not be out of place here on the practical difficultieswhich beset an artist who opens an Exhibition on his own account, and isforced by circumstances to become his own "exploiteur. " Men may haveworked with a more ambitious object, but certainly no man can ever haveworked harder than I did at this period. Outside work was pouring in, mycurrent _Punch_ work seemed to be increasing, but I never allowed"Furniss's Folly" (as some good-natured friend called my Exhibition atthe moment) to interfere with it. I had only arranged with a "businessman" to take the actual "running" of the show off my hands, and he wasto have half the profits if there should happen to be any. At thecritical moment, when I was working night and day at my easel, when infact the "murther was out" and the date actually settled for the"cracking" of my joke--in short, when I fondly imagined that all thearrangements were made, I received a letter from my "business" friendbacking out of the affair, "as he doubted its success. " Half-an-hourafter the receipt of this staggerer (I have never had time to reply toit) I was dashing into Bond Street, where I quickly made allarrangements for the hire of a gallery and the necessary printing, engaged an advertising agent and staff, and myself saw after thethousand and one things indispensable to an undertaking of this kind. And all this extraneous worry continued to hamper my studio work untilthe Exhibition was actually opened. Of course I had to make hurriedengagements at any price, and consequently bad ones for me. Everyhouseholder is aware that should he change his abode he is surrounded inhis new home by a swarm of local tradespeople and others anxious to getsomething out of him. Well, my experience upon entering the world of"business, " hitherto strange to me, was precisely the same. All sorts ofparasites try to fasten themselves on to you. Business houses regard youas an amateur, and consequently you pay dearly for your experience. Youare not up to the tricks of the trade, and although you may notgenerally be written down an ass, you must in your new vocation pay yourfooting. It is therefore incumbent upon anyone entering the world oftrade for the first time to keep his wits very much about him. The local habitation for my Exhibition, which upon the spur of themoment I was fortunate enough to find in Bond Street, was called forsome inexplicable reason the Gainsborough Gallery, and thereby hangs atale. One afternoon there arrived a venerable dowager in a gorgeouscanary-coloured chariot, attended by her two colossal footmen. Shesailed into the gallery, which, fortunately for the old and scant ofbreath, was on the ground floor, and slightly raising the pince-nez onher aristocratic nose, looked about her with an air of bewilderment. Then going up to my secretary she said, "Surely! these are not byGainsborough?" "No, madam, " was the reply. "This is the Gainsborough Gallery, but thepictures are by Harry Furniss. " Almost fainting on the spot, the old lady called for her salts, herstick, and her attendants three, and was rapidly driven away from thescene of her lamentable mistake. The public attendance at the "The Artistic Joke" was prodigious from thefirst. Even upon the private view day, when I introduced a novelty, andinstead of inviting everybody who is somebody to pay a gratuitous visitto the show, raised the entrance fee to half-a-crown, the fashionablecrowd besieged the doors from an early hour, and made a veryconsiderable addition to my treasury. Those of my readers, however, whodid not pay a visit to the Gainsborough will be better able to realisethe amount of patronage we received, notwithstanding the numerousattractions of the "Jubilee" London season, if I relate an incidentwhich occurred on the Saturday after we opened. It was the "privateview" of the Grosvenor Gallery, and the crowd was immense. Indeed, manyladies and gentlemen were returning to their carriages without goingthrough the rooms, not, like my patron the dowager, because they weredisappointed at not finding the work of the old masters, but because thevisitors were too numerous and the atmosphere too oppressive. As Ipassed through the people I heard a lady who was stepping into hercarriage say to a friend, "I have just come from 'The Artistic Joke, 'and the crowd is even worse there. They have had to close the doorsbecause the supply of catalogues was exhausted. " This soon caused me toquicken my pace, and hastening down the street to my own Exhibition, Ifound the police standing at the doors and the people being turned away. The simple explanation of this was that so great had been the publicdemand that the stock of catalogues furnished by the printers wasexhausted early in the afternoon, and as it was quite impossible tounderstand the caricatures without a catalogue, there was no alternativebut to close the doors until some more were forthcoming. Finding the telephone was no use, I was soon in a hansom bound for theCity, intending by hook or by crook to bring back with me themuch-needed catalogues, or the body of the printer dead or alive. Uponarriving in the City, however, to my chagrin I found his place ofbusiness closed, though the caretaker, with a touch of fiendishmalignity, showed me through a window whole piles of my non-deliveredcatalogues. Not to be beaten, I hastened back to the West End anddespatched a very long and explicit telegram to the printer at hisprivate house (of course he would not be back in the City until Monday), requiring him, under pain of various severe penalties, to yield up mycatalogues instanter. As I stood in the post office of Burlington Houseanxiously penning this message, and harassed into a state of almostfeverish excitement, the sounds of martial music and the tramp of armedmen in the adjacent courtyard fell upon my distracted ear. With a sicklyand sardonic smile upon my face I laid down the pen and peeped throughthe door. "Yes! I see it all now, " I muttered. "The whole thing is a plant. Theprinter was bribed, and, _coûte que coûte_, the Academy has decided totake my body! Hence the presence of the military; and see, thosecooks--what are they doing here in their white caps? My body! Ha! thennothing short of cannibalism is intended!" This frightful thought almost precipitated me into the very ranks of thesoldiery, when I discovered that the corps was none other than that ofthe Artist Volunteers, which contains several of my friends. Seizing oneof those whom I chanced to recognise, I hurriedly whispered in his earthe thoughts of impending butchery which were passing in my terrifiedmind. But he only laughed. "You will disturb their digestions, my dearFurniss, some other way, " he said, "than by providing them with a _piècede résistance_. Make your mind easy, for we are only here to do honourto the guests. This is the banqueting night of the Royal Academy. " From what I heard, some amusing incidents occurred in the house at my"Royal Academy. " [Illustration: "AN ARTISTIC JOKE. " _A portion of my parody of the work of Sir Alma Tadema, R. A. _] It was no uncommon sight to see the friends and relatives, even the sonsand daughters, of certain well-known Academicians standing opposite theparody of a particular picture, and hugely enjoying it at the expense ofthe parent or friend who had painted the original. Other R. A. 's, whowent about pooh-poohing the whole affair, and saying that they intendedto ignore it altogether, turned up nevertheless in due time at theGainsborough, where, it is true, they did not generally remain verylong. They had not come to see the Exhibition, but only their ownpictures. One glance was usually enough, and then they vanished. Thecritics (and their friends) of course remained longer. Even Mr. Salawent in one day and seemed to be immensely tickled by what he saw. Strange to relate, however, when he had passed through about one-thirdof the show, he was observed to stop abruptly, turn himself round, andflee away incontinently, never to be seen there again. I was muchpuzzled to discover a reason for this remarkable man[oe]uvre, the moreso as at that time I had not wounded his _amour propre_ by indulging inan "Artistic Joke" of much more diminutive proportions at his expense, or, as it subsequently turned out, at my own. Since, however, theworld-famous trial of _Sala_ v. _Furniss_ I have looked carefully overall the pictures in my Royal Academy, with a view to throwing some lightupon the critic's abrupt departure. I remain, nevertheless, in the dark, for the most rigid scrutiny has failed to reveal to me one singlefeature in the show, not even a Grecian nose, or a foot with six toes, which could have jarred upon the refined taste of the most sensitive ofjournalists. I shall return to Mr. Sala in another portion of theseconfessions, but am more concerned now with the parasites, the artisticfailures, the common showmen, the traffickers in various wares, andother specimens of more or less impecunious humanity, who applied to meto let them participate in the profits of a success which I had toiledso hard to achieve. In imitation of Barnum, I might have had, if I hadbeen so inclined, a series of side shows, ranging in kind from the bigdiamond which a well-known firm in Bond Street asked me to let themexhibit, to the "Queen's Bears" and a curious waxwork of a bald old manwhich by means of electricity showed the gradual alterations of tintproduced by the growth of intemperance. One of these applications I wasfor a moment inclined to entertain. It has more than once been proposedthat to enable the British public to take its annual bolus at BurlingtonHouse with less nausea, the Royal Academy should introduce a band ofsome sort, so that under the influence of its inspiriting strains themasterpieces might be robbed of a little of their tameness, the portraitof My Lord Knoshoo might seem less out of place in a public Exhibition, and the insanities of certain demented colourists might be made lessobtrusive monopolists of one's attention. Therefore, when "a musicallady and her daughters" applied to me for permission to give "SoiréesMusicales" at the Gainsborough, it struck me for a moment that it wouldbe effective to forestall the action of the Academy; but on secondthoughts I reflected that as the Burlington House band would probably beof the same quality as the pictures, it would be adhering more closelyto the spirit of my "Artistic Joke" if I gave my patrons a barrel organor a hurdy-gurdy which should play the "Old Hundredth" by steam. Although one would have thought that a single visit of a few hours'duration would have sufficed to go through a humorous Exhibition of thiskind, I found that several people became _habitués_ of the place, andpaid many visits; but it is of course possible to have too much of agood thing, and a joke loses its point when you have too much of it. Nobetter illustration of this can be afforded than in the case of my ownsecretary at the time, who had sat in the Exhibition for many months. One day, when the plates were being prepared for an album which Ipublished as a souvenir of the show, the engraver arrived with a proof. [Illustration: MR. SAMBOURNE'S PROSPECTUS. ] "But there is some mistake here, " said my secretary. "We have no suchpicture as that on the premises. " The engraver was puzzled, and as he seemed rather sceptical upon thepoint, he was allowed to look round, and speedily found the picture hehad copied. It had actually been close at my secretary's elbow since the"Artistic Joke" was opened to the public, but as the pictures were allunder glass, I suppose he had only seen his own reflection when gazingat them. It was this perhaps which caused another gentleman whom I havebefore mentioned to beat so hasty a retreat. Both of them may have beenfrightened by what they saw. The suggestion that I should be run as a public company emanated fromthe fertile brain of my friend Mr. Linley Sambourne. This is his roughidea of the prospectus: This Company has been formed to acquire the sole exclusive concession of the marvellous and rapid power of production of the above-mentioned Managing Director, and to take over the same as a going concern. These productions have been in continual flow for many years past, and are too well known to need any assurance of the possibility of a failure of supply. It is therefore with the utmost confidence that this sure and certain investment is now offered to the public with an absolute guarantee of a percentage for Fifteen Years of Forty-five per cent. Mr. Furniss can be seen at work with the regularity of a threshing machine and the variety of a kaleidoscope any day from 8 o'c. A. M. To 8 o'c. P. M. On presentation of visiting card. BANKERS, Close, Gatherum & Co. , Lombard Street. SOLICITORS, Black, White & Co. , Tube Court. SECRETARY, _pro tem. _ Earl M----, Arrystone Grange. _The Subscription List will close on or before Monday, April 1st, 1887. _ * * * * * Messrs. C. White & Greyon Grey invite subscriptions for the undermentioned Share Capital and Debentures of the HARRY FURNISS PARODY CARTOON COMPANY (Unlimited). Incorporated under the Joint Stock Companies Acts, 1862 and 1883. Share Capital £4, 000, 000. Divided as follows: 450, 000 Ordinary Shares of £5 each £2, 250, 000 175, 000 7 p. C. Cumulative Preference Shares of £10 each 1, 750, 000 DIRECTORS. Chairman: H. V---- W----, Esq. , Regent Street, photographer. Sir John S---- V----, Kt. , Pine Court, Kent. H---- F----, Esq. , Draughtsman and Designer, 45, Drury Lane. HARRY FURNISS, ESQ. , R. R. A. , R. R. I. , &c. , will join the Board as Managing Director on allotment. A JOKE WITHIN A JOKE. [Illustration] A showman, particularly with some attraction of the passing hour, must"boom his show for all it's worth, " as the Americans say; so I "boomed"my "Artistic Joke" with an advertising joke, and at the same timeparodied another branch of art--the art of advertising the artists, by aspecial number of a magazine devoted to the work of an Academician. Thespecial numbers, generally published at Christmas, are familiar andinteresting to us all. Still, from any point of view they are fair game. They are of course merely non-critical, eulogistic accounts of theartist and his work. So "_How he Did It--The Story of my 'Artistic Joke, '_" duly appeared, written by my Lay-figure. "PREFACE. [Illustration] "The fact of my being only an artist's lay-figure will account for anystiffness or angularity in my literary style. Whilst conscious of mydeficiencies in this respect, I am comforted by the consideration that alay-figure attempting literature cannot by any possibility perpetrategreater absurdities than are committed by many a ready writer whoindulges in those glowing and gushing descriptions of artists and theirwork which it is now the fashion to publish, in some such shape as thepresent, for the delectation (and delusion) of a gossip-loving public. " This, the origin of "The Artistic Joke, " is a fair specimen of theabsurdity I published as an advertisement, though many bought it andread it as a "true and authentic account" of the confessions of acaricaturist's lay-figure: [Illustration: MY PORTRAIT. FRONTISPIECE FOR 'HOW HE DID IT. '] "As many would be interested in knowing how this extraordinary idea ofan Academy _pour rire_ first occurred to this artist, I hasten togratify their natural curiosity. It was before little Harry reached theage of seven, and while watching with fellow-feeling the house-paintersat work in his father's house. One day, at lunchtime, when the men hadleft their ladders and paraphernalia near the picture-gallery (a longroom containing choice works of all the great masters), he seized hisopportunity: with herculean strength and Buffalo-Billish agility, ourhero dragged all the ladders, paints and brushes into the gallery, andsoon was at work 'touching up' the pictures, to gratify his boyish loveof mischief. Truth to tell, his performance was but on a par, artistically, with that usually shown when mischievous boys get hold ofbrushes and paint and a picture to restore. " [Illustration: 25, Old Bond Street, LONDON, W. Jubilee Day 1887 I have been favoured--if that is the proper word--with a sight of anadvance copy of this perpetration. I feel that the Easy confidence which has hitherto existed between anartist and his Lay Figure is for ever broken and fled. If I had onlyknown that wine was taking advantage of her exceptional opportunities tobetray my misplaced confidence in this popular but pestilent fashion, Iwould have made firewood of her long ago. It is now too late. The temptation is turn Graphic Gusher andconfidential Trotter-out, has proved too much for a wee docile anddiscreet Lay Figure. I am one more victim at unsuspected hands, to therevolting rage for "Revelations. " I am bound to admit, however, that whilst the taste of the whole "Story"is execrable, the facts upon which it is founded are undisputable. The Tale is an o'er true one, though it has been compiled without theknowledge, and is published exactly against the desire of Harry Furniss] "Before Harry had finished touching-up the valuable family portraits, his father came in, glanced round, and fell onto a couch in roars oflaughter. 'It's the best Artistic Joke I've ever seen, my boy, andhere's a shilling for you!' A happy thought struck Harry at the moment. He kept it to himself for over twenty-five years; and now, standing highupon an allegorical ladder, he repeats the Joke daily, from nine toseven, admission one shilling. " This book of sixty pages sold extremely well, and, strange to say, Imade more money out of this joking advertisement--the work of a fewdays--than I did out of my elaborate album of seventy photogravureplates which occupied two years to produce and cost me £2, 000. The following lines from _Fun_ give the origin of my Joke's peculiar andingenious turn: "The fact is the Forty were sad in their mind (Unfortunate _Aca_demicians!) Associates also were troubled in kind, With jeers at their works and positions, Till one who was younger and bolder than all Declared 'doleful dumps' to be folly, 'Come--away to the club, and for supper let's call, And try to be decently jolly. ' "So they fed with good will on the viands prepared (Pork chops were the principal portion), Then retiring to bed, with their dreams they were scared, And spent half the night in contortion; Then rose in their sleep and came down to this room, And, instead of a purposeless pawing, They painted these pictures, then fled in the gloom, And Furniss has touched up the drawing!" Having parodied the artists' work, the R. A. Catalogue, and thepublishers' R. A. Special numbers, I went one step further. I parodied"Art Patrons. " At that time there was a great stir in art circles inconsequence of the authorities of the National Gallery dallying with Mr. Tate's offer of his pictures to the nation; so to emulate him, and Mr. Alexander, and Mr. Watts, and other public benefactors in the world ofart, I sent the following letter to the Directors of the NationalGallery: "Mr. Harry Furniss presents his compliments to the Trustees of the National Gallery and begs to congratulate them upon the munificent gifts lately made to them, particularly Mr. Henry Tate's, which provides the nation with an excellent sample of current art. At the same time Mr. Harry Furniss feels that having it in his power to provide a more complete collection of our modern English school, he is inspired by the generous offers of others to humbly imitate this good example, and will therefore willingly give his 'Royal Academy' (parodies on modern painters), better known as 'The Artistic Joke, ' which caused such a sensation in 1887, to the National Gallery if the Trustees will honour him by accepting the collection. " Yet it was not believed, at least not in Aberdeen, for the leading paperof the Granite City published the following: "Someone has played a joke on Mr. Harry Furniss. An announcement appears this morning to the effect that 'animated by the generosity of Mr. Henry Tate and other benefactors of the National Gallery, Mr. Harry Furniss has offered to the Trustees his collection of illustrations of the work of modern artists recently on view in Bond Street, ' and that he 'has received a communication to the effect that his offer is under consideration. ' I believe no one was more surprised by this communication than Mr. Furniss. He never made the offer except possibly in jest to some Member of Parliament, and naturally he was much surprised to learn that his offer was 'under consideration. ' The illustrations in question could scarcely be dispensed with by Mr. Furniss, as they are to him a sort of stock-in-trade. " Not only in Aberdeen but I found generally my seriousness was doubted, so I reproduce on the opposite page in facsimile the graceful reply ofthe authorities of our National Gallery: The "Artistic Joke" was never intended as an attack on the Royal Academyat all, as a clear-headed critic wrote: "It would be more just to regard it as an attempt on Mr. Furniss's part to show the Academicians the possibilities of real beauty, and wonder, and pleasure that lie hidden in their work. .. . On the whole, the Royal Academicians have never appeared under more favourable conditions than in this pleasant gallery. Mr. Furniss has shown that the one thing lacking in them is sense of humour, and that, if they would not take themselves so seriously, they might produce work that would be a joy, and not a weariness to the world. Whether or not they will profit by the lessons it is difficult to say, for dulness has become the basis of respectability, and seriousness the only refuge of the shallow. " [Illustration: The Artistic Joke. ] CHAPTER IX. CONFESSIONS OF A COLUMBUS. The Cause of my Cruise--No Work--The Atlantic Greyhound--Irish Ship--Irish Doctor--Irish Visitors--Queenstown--A Surprise--Fiddles--Edward Lloyd--Lib--Chess--The Syren--The American Pilot--Real and Ideal--Red Tape--Bribery--Liberty--The Floating Flower Show--The Bouquet--A Bath and a Bishop--"Beastly Healthy"--Entertainment for Shipwrecked Sailors--Passengers--Superstition. AMERICA IN A HURRY--Harry Columbus Furniss--The Inky Inquisition--First Impressions--Trilby--Tempting Offers--Kidnapped--Major Pond--Sarony--Ice--James B. Brown--Fire!--An Explanation. WASHINGTON--Mr. French of Nowhere--Sold--Interviewed--The Sporting Editor--Hot Stuff--The Capitol--Congress--House of Representatives--The Page Boys--The Agent--Filibuster--The "Reccard"--A Pandemonium--Interviewing the President. CHICAGO--The Windy City--Blowers--Niagara--Water and Wood--Darkness to Light--My Vis-à-Vis--Mr. Punch--My Driver--It Grows upon Me--Inspiration--Harnessing Niagara--The Three Sisters--Incline Railway--Captain Webb. [Illustration] TRAVELLING--Tickets--Thirst--Sancho Panza--Proclaimed States--"The Amurrican Gurl"--A Lady Interviewer--The English Girl--A Hair Restorer--Twelfth Night Club Reception at a Ladies' Club--The Great Presidential Election--Sound Money _v. _ Free Silver--Slumland--Detective O'Flaherty. I never felt better in my life, but my friends all assured me that Ilooked ill. If I wasn't ill, I ought to be. I must be overworked andbreak down. I had "burnt the candle at both ends and in the middle aswell, " and it was a duty I owed to humanity to collapse. For years Ihad done the work of three men with the constitution of one, so one dayit came to pass that I was forced by my friends into the consulting-roomof a celebrated physician, labelled "Ill. To be returned to Dead LetterOffice, or to be sent by foreign mail to some distant land, or to becremated on the spot, " anything but to leave me free to return to my maddisease, the worst mania of all--the mania for work. My good physician stripped me, pommelled me, stethoscoped me, made mesay "99" when he had squeezed all the breath out of me (why "99"? Whynot "98" or "4"?--he was testing internal rebellion), flashed areflector under my eyes, seized a drumstick and hammered me under myknee-joints, sat upon me literally and figuratively, and told me to giveup all food, drink, pleasure, and work for two months, which I did. Mybalance at the bankers' and my balance on the scales were both reducedconsiderably. I lost a good many pounds in weight and money. * * * * * [Illustration] My friends all assured me that I looked well, but I never felt so ill inall my life. If I was not ill, I ought to be. I tried to work, but brokedown. I was idle in the mornings, in the evenings, and in the middle ofthe day as well, and it was a duty I owed to my doctor to collapse. Soone day I forced myself into his consulting-room before a hundredpatients waiting their turn, labelled "Well again. " I pushed him intohis chair, pommelled him 99 times, flashed my cane under his eyes, seized the poker and hammered him under his knee-joints, and told him Iwould get him six months' hard labour if he did not pronounce mesound, --he did. "You only want a tonic now, my dear fellow--a sea-trip!" "A _Teutonic_, " I replied _Majestic_ally. "The very thing--sailsto-morrow--a new berth--I'll be born again under a White Star--_aurevoir_!" "Your prescription!" he called after me. "Take it, and if you value yourlife act up to it to the letter. " It contained two words and no hieroglyphics. Those two words were--"NoWork!" How I acted up to it the following pages will show. * * * * * [Illustration: AN ATLANTIC "GREYHOUND. "] In strong contrast to the crowd and bustle at leaving in the afternoonis the quietude late in the evening. Many promenade up and down thebeautiful deck under the electrically-lighted roof, and gaze upon thelights of many craft flitting to and fro in the gentle breeze likewill-o'-the-wisps, postponing retiring, as they are not yet accustomedto the vibration of the Atlantic greyhound, which trembles underneaththem as if, like the real greyhound in full cry after a hare, it isliterally straining every muscle to beat the record from the Old Worldto the New. What a difference has taken place since those "good old days" of thosegood old wooden ships, with their good old slow passages and their goodold uncomfortable berths! Now the state cabin is an apartment perfectlyventilated, gorgeously furnished, equipped with every modernimprovement, and electrically lighted; the switches close to the bed(not berth) enable one to turn the light on or off at will. Theever-watchful attendant comes in, wishes me good-night, after folding myclothes, and departs. Leaving the incandescent light burning over myhead, I open the book dealing with the wonders of America which I havetaken from the well-stocked library, and read of great Americans, fromWashington to the man who has brought this very light to suchperfection, turning over page after page of well-nigh incredibledescription of the country which has raised the system of "booming" to ahigh art, till my brain reels with an Arabian Nightish flavour ofexaggeration, and turning off the electric current, I am graduallylulled to sleep by the rhythmical vibrations of the steamer, the solereminder that I am in reality sleeping upon a ship and about to enjoy athorough week's rest. I awoke from the dreams in which I had pictured myself a veritableColumbus, and drawing aside the blind of my porthole, I looked out intothe morning light, and was, perhaps, for a second surprised to see land. "Sandy Hook already! Can it be?" Well, hardly, just at present. Thoughwho can tell but that in another fifty years it may be possible in thetime? It is in reality the "Ould Counthry, " and we are nearingQueenstown. There is a good muster at breakfast, and everyone is smiling, having hadat least one good night's rest on the voyage. The waters skirting theIrish coast sometimes outdo the fury of the broad Atlantic, and aregenerally just as troubled and combatant as the fiery political elementson the little island; but so far we have had a perfect passage, and thebeautiful bay of Queenstown looks more charming than ever as the enginesstop for a short period before their five days' incessant activity tofollow. Not only the ship, but the doctor, comes from the Emerald Isle. Whocrossing the Atlantic does not know the witty Dr. ----? "Ah, shure, medarlin', and isn't it himself that's a broth av a bhoy?" And so he is, simply bubbling over with humour and good-nature. Presiding at one endof the long table, I have to pass him as I leave the saloon. Havingsketched Irish scenery and Irish character in my youth, I am not temptedto open my forbidden sketch-book; but somehow or other I find myselfmaking a rapid sketch of the Doctor as he rises from his seat at the endof the table to wish the "top of the mornin'" to a lady who sits on hisright. My excuse is to send it to his friend, my doctor in London. Then, without thinking, I sketch in a few other passengers, and instinctivelymake a note of the surroundings. I confess I am already guilty ofbreaking my pledge! And, therefore, make my escape on deck. The huge steamer seems to act as a sort of magnet on the small fry ofthe harbour, for they rush out to her from the land in all their sortsand sizes, in a desperate race for supremacy. Prominent among this fleetis a long, ungainly rowing-boat propelled by a tough Hibernian, andseated in the stern are his women folk, surrounded by baskets, who, instrong Milesian vernacular, urge the rower on in his endeavours to reachthe ship first. Looked down upon them from your floating tower, theystrongly resemble a swarm of centipedes. Harder and harder pull the"bhoys, " and louder and louder comes the haranguing of the females asthey approach us. I have my eye on the lady in the stern of the firstboat. She is fair, fat, and forty, possessed of really massiveproportions, most powerful lungs, and a true Irish physiognomy--a castof countenance in which it always strikes me that Nature had originallyforgotten the nasal organ, and then returning to complete the work hadtaken between finger and thumb a piece of flesh and pinched it, thusforming the nose rather high up on the face, while the waste of materialbelow goes to make the upper lip. [Illustration: THE SALOON OF THE _TEUTONIC_. THE FIRST MORNING ATBREAKFAST. ] The puller of the stroke oar is probably her husband, two others arewielded evidently by her two sons, and the bow is taken by her strappingdaughter. One of her arms encircles the merchandise she intends todispose of on board our vessel, while the other vigorously helps topropel the oar held by her brawny husband. All the while she is urgingon her crew in her native language, with what may be commands, exhortations, or even blessings, but sounding to the unaccustomed Saxonear very much like curses, which chase one another out of her capaciousmouth with a rapidity unequalled by even an irritated monkey at the Zoo. [Illustration: AT QUEENSTOWN--A REMINISCENCE. ] Their lumbering craft is the first to touch the side of the _Teutonic_. Standing up in the boat, the good old lady exerts her vocal powers onthe crew on the lower deck, with the result that a rope fully fifty feetlong is thrown in her direction, having a loop on the end of it, bywhich she is lassoed. With an agility only acquired after years ofpractice, she adjusts the loop rapidly round her, and calls on the crewto hoist away. The boat heels over to one side as she vigorously pushesherself away from it, and souse the old dame goes up to her waist in thewater; the good-natured sailors give an extra jerk, and up she comes, with baskets tied round her waist, and her feet acting as fendersagainst the side of the ship. Fortunately the _Teutonic_ is bulky enoughto resist heeling over under this extra weight on the starboard side. She is shipped like a bale of goods, and is immediately engaged indischarging some more of her loquacity in directing the acrobaticperformances of her daughter, who is the next to ascend. This scene caused much laughter, and I was induced to make a sketch ofthe lady's acrobatic performance. The other maritime vendors are hauled up in similar unceremoniousfashion, and they take possession of both decks. The pretty daughter ofErin lays out with no little artistic taste her bog-oak ornaments, and'Arry (for the _genus_ cad is to be encountered even on board sucharistocratic ships as these) attempts to be rampantly facetious at herexpense. But the damsel with the unkempt auburn locks flowing about hercomely face, lit up by a pair of blue Irish eyes under their darklashes, takes the cad's vulgarity together with his money, like the pillwith the jam, giving in return the valueless pieces of carved wood, until her little stock is exhausted and a good morning's work is done. [Illustration: BOG-OAK SOUVENIRS. ] On the lower deck trade is brisker. The emigrants (principally by thisline Scandinavians, in their picturesque peasant dress, the Germans ofcourse preferring to go by their own line, the North German Lloyd) arefitting on Tam o' Shanters of the crudest colours, scarves of hues thatwould cause the steamer's danger signals to turn pale, and eatables ofall descriptions--I ought to say of all the worst descriptions. Unhealthy-looking cakes in which the currants are as scarce as Loyalistsin the part of the country in which they are made, tinned meats andfruits that look suspiciously like condemned provisions or unsavourysalvage; in fact the only really genuine article of diet was thatcontained in the milk-pails. I may here remark that these alien steeragepassengers don't really care for wholesome food. Nothing could be betterthan the excellent food prepared by the ship's steward, but theseemigrants prefer to bring with them provisions that beggar description. All the time the Irish purveyors are emptying their baskets and fillingtheir pockets, and rowing back to the shore enriched and delighted;their brothers and sisters are flowing up the gangway in a continualstream, with weeping eyes and breaking hearts at the thought of leavingtheir country perhaps for ever; and as soon as they are all on board, together with the mails, which have come overland to Queenstown, we upanchor, steam past Fastnet Rock, and soon the Old World is out of sightbehind us. But all this is a thing of the past. Ladies are not now pulled up on tothe deck, nor is the promenade turned into a miniature Irish fair. Whenlast the boat stopped as usual in Queenstown bay I sadly missed thefamiliar scene, and having nothing better to do I went on shore. As anumber of us strolled off the tender on which the mails were to return Inoticed two men in ordinary dress standing some distance off, looking onat the scene. They were both fine specimens of humanity, each of themabout six feet high. "Detectives, " I whispered to one of my friends. Andas we approached these gentlemen, I said to one of them, "Looking foranyone this morning?" "Not for you, Mr. Furniss. " Considering I had never been in Queenstown in my life, that I had neverbeen in the grip of these "sleuth-hounds" of the police, I must admitthat the British detective is not so stupid as we generally imagine, forno doubt these men knew by telegraph the name of everybody on board andamused themselves by placing us as I had amused myself by placing them. The Captain generally has some voyager under his special care, and myvis-à-vis, his protégée upon this trip, was a most charming anddelightful young lady on her way to rejoin her family in the Far West. The skipper's seat is vacant at breakfast time, and should the weatherbe rough, at the other meals also. If the elements are very boisterous, the "fiddles" are screwed on to the tables, and on them a lively tuneis played by the jingling glasses and rattling cutlery to the erraticbeating of the Atlantic wave. The Captain's right and left handneighbours are exempt from the use of these appliances, and the smallarea caused by this is the only space in the yards and yards of tableunencumbered by the "fiddles. " The Captain scorns the aid of suchmechanical contrivances, and chatters away unconcerned, gracefullybalancing his soup-plate in his hands the while. I followed his exampleas one to the manner born, but had I not been a bit of an amateurconjuror I am afraid that I should not have been so successful. TheCaptain challenged me, however, to make a sketch with the same ease as Iate my dinner--and again I was forced to break my pledge! [Illustration: THE CAPTAIN'S TABLE. ] It was amusing to listen to the petty jealousies and the littlegrumblings of those not satisfied with their lot at table. One ladystated as an excuse for having her meals in her cabin that herneighbour, a bagman--or "drummer, " as Americans would call him--made anoise with his mouth while eating; and another lady elected to dine inher stateroom in solitude because in the saloon she had her back to aBishop instead of her face! It was my good fortune to meet on board that most genial and gifted ofmen, "England's greatest tenor, " Mr. Edward Lloyd, who under themanagement of that equally genial and energetic impresario, Mr. Vert, was on his way to charm the ears of our cousins on the other side. Thenwe had one of the greatest favourites in the sporting world, who waspopping over, as he had been continually doing from his earliest youth, to look after his estates in his native country. From the Captain downto the under stokers he had been with all a familiar figure for manyyears, and he had a pleasant word and a shake of the hands foreverybody. He could give you the straight tip for the Derby, was a fundof information anent the latest weights for the big handicaps, and onour arrival in the States it was with general satisfaction that welearnt that one of his horses had won a race while its owner wascrossing the "Herring Pond. " We had yet another celebrity on board in the person of the bright littleItalian whose clever caricatures, especially those of Newmarket andNewmarket celebrities, so delight us in the pages of _Vanity Fair_ overthe _nom de crayon_ "Lib. " I think he caused us as much amusement as hissketches, caricaturing everybody on board, not even excepting himself, whom he most truthfully depicted as a common or barn owl. Or was it Iwho drew him as the owl? I forget. But I do know that he lookeduncommonly like one as a rule, for he used to lie wrapped in hisInverness upon a deck chair, his face only visible, with pallid cheeksand distended eyes, and I did more than one caricature of him for hisfair admirers. That was on the rough days, for like a great manyforeigners, and English people too for the matter of that, he was a badsailor. Fortunately for me, I am a hardened sailor, and as such cannotfeel the amount of consideration I should otherwise do for those lesslucky than myself. When the weather was calm I used to notice my Italian friend seated, surrounded by the ladies, with an air of triumph and a smile upon hisintelligent visage. He was having his revenge! When he was notsketching, he was playing chess with the Captain. Now this commander was a captain from the top of his head to the solesof his feet. A stern disciplinarian, erect, handsome, uncommunicative, not a better officer ever stood on the bridge of an Atlantic or anyother liner. He had a contempt for the "Herring Pond, " and manipulatedone of these floating hotels with as much ease as one would handle a toyboat. "When a navigator's duty's to be done, " he was _par excellence_ amodern Cæsar, but despite his sternness he had a sense of humour, andhis unbending moments struck one with an emphasised surprise. [Illustration: NOT UP IN A BALLOON. ] He could not bear a bore. Those fussy landlubbers who are always tappingthe barometers, asking questions of every member of the crew, testing, sounding, and finding fault with the weather chart, had better steerclear of the worthy Captain, as with hands thrust deep in his pockets hestrides from one end of the deck to the other during the course of hisconstitutional. It is on record that one of these fussy individuals, edging up to a well-known Captain as he was going on to the bridge whena mist was gathering, and the siren was about to blow as customary whenentering on an Atlantic fog, remarked: "Captain, Captain, can't you see that it is quite clear overhead?" The Captain turned on his heel to ascend to the bridge, and scornfullyrejoined: "Yes, sir, yes, sir; but can't you see that I am not navigating aballoon?" On one occasion the Captain had been through a terribly stormy afternoonand night, and had not quitted his post on the bridge for one minute, the weather being awful. Fogs, icebergs, and the elements all combinedto make it a most anxious time for the one man in charge of the valuablevessel and her cargo of 1, 700 souls, and during the whole period theunflinching skipper had not tasted a mouthful of food. The Captain'sboy, feeling for his master, had from time to time endeavoured with somesucculent morsel to make him break his long fast; but the firm face ofthe Captain was set, his eyes were fixed straight ahead, and his earswere deaf to the lad's appeal. It was breakfast time when the boy oncemore ventured to ask the Captain if he could bring him something to eat. This time he got an answer. "Yes, " growled the Captain, "bring me two larks' livers on toast!" These Atlantic Captains of the older school were a hardened and humorouslot of navigators, and many a story of their eccentricity survives them:one in particular of an old Captain seeing the terror of the juniorofficer during that nervous ordeal of treading the bridge for the firsttime with him. This particular old salt, after a painful silence, turnedon the young man and said, "I like you. I'm very much impressed by you. I've heard a lot about you--in fact, my dear sir, I should like to haveyour photograph. You skip down and get it. " The nervous and delighted youth rushed off to his cabin, and informedhis brother officers of the compliment the old man had just paid him. Hewas in luck's way, and running gaily up on to the bridge, presented hisphotograph, blushing modestly, to the old salt. "'Umph! Got a pin with you?" "Ye--es, sir. " "Ah, see! I pin you up on the canvas here. I can look at you there andadmire you. You can go, sir; your photograph is just as valuable as youappear to be on the bridge. Good morning. " The Captain of the ship I was on had his chessmen pegged, and holes inthe board into which to place them, so that despite any oscillations ofthe ship they would remain in their places; but the unfortunate part ofthe business was that although he could provide sea-legs for hischessmen it was more than he could do for his opponent, and it was asgood as a play to see Signor "Lib" hiding from the Captain when theweather was not all it might be, and he in consequence felt anything butwell. One mate after another would be despatched with the strictestorders from the Captain to search for the cheerless chessite; but aftera time the Captain's patience would be exhausted, his strident voicecould be heard calling upon the caricaturist to come forth and showhimself, and eventually he might be seen _en route_ to his cabin withthe box of chessmen under one arm and his opponent under the other. [Illustration: CHESS. ] I was cruel enough on more than one occasion to follow them and witnessthe sequel. "Your move, now--your move!" "Ah, Captain! I do veel zo ill! Ze ship it do go up and down, up anddown, until I do not know vich is ze bishop and vich is ze queen!" "Nonsense, sir, nonsense! Your move--look sharp, and I'll soon have youmated!" The poor artist _did_ move, and quickly too, but it was to the outsideof the cabin! The Captain was triumphant at table, telling us of his victory, but hispoor opponent could only point to his untouched plate and to the wavesdashing against the portholes, and with that shrug of the shoulders, sosuggestive to witness but so difficult to describe, would thus in dumbshow explain the cause of his defeat. I remember well on one beautiful afternoon, the sky bright and the seacalm, just before the pilot came on board when we were nearing theStates, Signor Prosperi (for that was his name) came up to me, his facethe very embodiment of triumph: "Ah, I have beaten ze Captain at last--_but ze sea is smooth_!" On the outward voyage, as I said before, we had a host in Mr. EdwardLloyd, but he was under contract not to warble until a certain day whichhad been fixed in New York, and no doubt his presence had a deterrenteffect upon the amateur talent, with the exception of one lady, who cameup to Mr. Lloyd and said: "You really _must_ sing;--you really _must_!" "I am very sorry, madam, but I really can't--I am not my own master inthis matter. " "Oh, but you must, " she rejoined. "I have promised that if you willsing, _I_ will!" An American who had "made his pile, " as the Yankees say, remarked to thehard-worked vocalist: "I think, sir, that as you are endowed with such a beautiful voice youought by it to benefit such a deserving entertainment as this. " "Certainly, " replied the world-famed tenor. "My fee for singing is fiftyguineas, and I will be pleased to oblige the company if you will pay acheque for that amount into the sailors' fund. " [Illustration: MR. LLOYD AND THE LADY. "IF YOU WILL SING, _I_ WILL!"] And, in my opinion, a right good answer too. These middle-men and theirwives and daughters are always pestering professional men to give theirservices to charities for nothing, but in cases like the one I have justcited they take very good care that they do not unloosen their ownpurse-strings to help the cause along and equalise the obligation. However the concert took place, and I, unable to resist the flatteringrequest to "do something, " and not being prohibited from taking part--asMr. Lloyd was--made several sketches, just to keep my hand in, and theywere raffled for. All goes well and smoothly on the voyage until one night you areawakened by a harsh, grating, shrieking sound. You start from yourslumbers, and for a moment imagine that in reality you are in theinterior of some fearsome ocean monster, who is bellowing either in rageor fear, for the sound is unique in its wild hideousness, half a screechand half a wail, aggressive and yet mournful. Your ears have justrecovered from the first shock when they are assaulted by another, andyet another, at intervals of about a minute. It is the voice of thesiren. Was ever a more inappropriate name bestowed upon the steamwhistle of an Atlantic liner? It conveys to me the news that we arepassing through an Atlantic fog, and I defy anyone, be they in the mostperfect ship, under the safest of commanders, to feel comfortable insuch circumstances. The siren still wails, and like Ulysses and hiscompanions I feel very much inclined to stuff my ears with wax. Indeed, peering out of my porthole through the mist, I almost seem to see thefigures of the mythological voyager and his companions carved in ice, nodoubt beguiled by the treacherous music of the siren. These are inreality our main terrors, the icebergs. [Illustration: THE AMERICAN PILOT--IDEAL. ] It is a relief when we have left them behind and evaded the clutches ofthe demon fog, and the fresh breeze and the glorious sun lend a newbeauty to the sparkling water, showing us in the distance white specksskimming over the waves like gulls, the first sign that we areapproaching land--the white gleaming wings of the pilot yachts. [Illustration: THE AMERICAN PILOT--REAL. ] Signals are exchanged, and one of these boats comes nearer and nearer tous, tacking to perfection. Through our glasses we already seem to seethe stalwart figure of the pilot standing in the stern. On his brow hewears a storm-defying cap, the badge of the warrior of the waves; theloose shirt, the top boots, and the weather-beaten jacket all combine tomake up a picturesque figure, and I sketched what seemed to me to be thefigure of the man who was coming on board to guide us to the Hook ofSandy. As the little vessel approaches us the intervening sail hidesfrom my view the figure of the one man I want to see. A boat is loweredfrom the side of the pilot boat, into which two sailors descend. Who onearth is this who steps in after them and takes the rudder lines? Hesports a top hat, kid gloves, and patent shoes. Is he a commercialtraveller? He looks it. He is rowed to the side of the steamer, and thenthe fun begins. A rope ladder is lowered from the deck, which isimmediately clutched by one of the oarsmen in the boat, and thiscommonplace commercial scrambles towards it. Just then a wave breaksover him, and more like a drowned excursionist than an American pilotthis little man is hauled on board. I think a great deal of the Atlantic, but I am sorely disappointed withthe American pilot. The Americans pride themselves upon their independence, and surely amore independent race never existed. The brow-beaten Britisher is notlong in finding this out, and in my case it was most clearlydemonstrated to me at the first stoppage of the steamer after leavingQueenstown. After our headlong race across the broad Atlantic, afterevery nut and screw in the vessel has been strained to save everyparticle of time, and every moment watched and calculated, here at themouth of the Hudson, in sight of the colossal statue of Liberty, we arekept waiting under a broiling sun on a beautiful day for anunconscionable time whilst forsooth the health officer or hissubordinate is enjoying his lunch. Fancy 1, 700 foreigners being keptwaiting because a paid official--paid by the shipowners ofEngland--wishes to satisfy his selfish greediness! I watched for this gentleman as he crawled on board, having come acrosseventually from his riparian villa. There were no apologies (Americansnever apologise). I don't know the gentleman's name, but here I show youhis face. His check I have described already. Now that I have touched on America itself, I wish it to be understoodthat it is not my intention to look out for and comment upon the faultsof our American cousins, but rather in describing my all too briefvisits to a charming people in a charming country to deal with theirmerits. But it is proverbial that first impressions are everything, andthe first I received of official America, in the person of thisparticular individual, was the only instance I saw which would notcompare favourably with the red-tapeism of our own country. And I mustsay, from what I was told even by Americans themselves, that the worstside of their countrymen is to be seen where the official department isconcerned, and to illustrate this I shall still stick to the official(or his representative, whichever it was) that I have just beendescribing. [Illustration: THE HEALTH OFFICER COMES ON BOARD. ] The ship which followed that in which I came over brought from Englandsome persons who were at the time the talk of American society. They hadbeen connected with some gigantic scandal, and the interviewers, scenting copy from afar, were ready to spring upon them. Of course, itwas known that it was to the interest of the reporters (and they wereonly doing their duty) to get on board at Sandy Hook, and to frustratethem a special steamer was sent down with instructions to the captain ofthe liner that no one was to accompany the officer of health on board. The medical officer came in his tug with the whole batch of reporters, and declared that he would not permit the vessel to proceed into portunless his friends were allowed on board. The almighty dollar hadpolluted officialism, and disclosed to the incoming strangers that thehuge statue of Liberty before them, which held on high the torch ofadvancement and enlightenment, was really a snare and a delusion, at anyrate as far as red-tapeism was concerned. And so I arrived after a week's thorough rest, with my sketch-book full!I could not help breaking my pledge; it was my first trip across theAtlantic, and everything was therefore new and interesting. In fact, sowas all I saw in the States, and my pencil was always busy. I waslooking forward to a genuine rest on my return journey, but it happenedto be in the crowded season, and the ship was so full I was asked, as aparticular favour to "a very distinguished cleric, " to share my cabinwith him. [Illustration: JUST IN TIME!] The departure of an Atlantic liner has a great attraction on both sidesof the "Herring Pond, " but there is a difference. Passengers leavingEngland are surrounded with cheap and vulgar literature, newspapers, guide-books, sticks, and umbrellas. Leaving America, the liner is turnedinto a floating flower show. Most beautiful bouquets labelled with thenames of the lady passengers are on view in the saloon. Just as the lastgangway is drawn on to the shore, amid cries of "Clear away!" we hearsuddenly "Hold hard!" There is a commotion. Someone has not yet arrived;we lean over the side of the ship to see who is coming. Perhaps it is animportant emissary of the Government, or even the President himself. Weall push forward; the stalwart New York police keep back the crowd; thecrew of the good ship _Majestic_ hold the gangway in its place as thecentre of attraction trips gaily up it. It is a diminutive niggermessenger from a florist's, with a huge bouquet of flowers. I imagine Isee my own name on the label, so I modestly seclude myself in my owncabin, whence I only emerge after we have passed Bartholdi's colossalfigure, just to have one last peep at the country in which I have storedup such pleasant memories. [Illustration: "A FLOATING FLOWER SHOW. "] By this time the bouquets of the flower show had been transferred to thecabins of their owners. I may mention, by the way, that the cynical ladyon board, who wore a solitary bunch of faded violets in her dress, informed me that most of the ladies paid for the bouquets themselves, and had them sent on board with their names attached. I don't wish toseem egotistical, but I know that when I went back to my own cabin Ifound the greatest difficulty in forcing the door open. There was a hugebundle of something or other pressing against it. A fragrant scent waswafted through the opening, which sent a thrill through me. It must bethe big bouquet! I gave one final shove, burst the door open, anddiscovered the bouquet to be a bishop, who was scenting his handkerchiefat the time with otto of roses. It was worth the journey to America tohave the honour of sharing a cabin with a bishop on the return journey. But what a contrast between us! What a theme for W. S. Gilbert! _Punch_and the pulpit rocked together in the cradle of the deep! When I first came on board I made arrangements at once with the bathsteward, and, being rather an early bird, I fixed my time to be calledat seven o'clock. When I retired to the cabin I found the worthy bishop(he is now Lord Primate of Ireland) looking plaintively at his berth. Like all on board it was roomy and comfortable, but probably Sir EdwardHarland had not taken the portly prelate (who, by the way, is almost aneighbour of his) as a gauge for the size of the berths. Mine was, ifanything, a trifle larger, so I respectfully invited the bishop tochange with me. [Illustration: THE BATH STEWARD AND THE BISHOP. "YOUR TIME, SIR! YOURTIME!"] I was awakened next morning by assault and battery being committed onthe poor bishop, of which I was the innocent cause. An athletic-lookingman, with a white jacket, and sleeves rolled up to his elbows, wasshaking the very life out of my clerical friend and shouting "Seveno'clock! Your time, sir! Seven o'clock! Your time!" The bishop lookedsomething like a criminal sentenced to death must do when the hangmanawakes him on the fatal morning, and I had to explain to the bathsteward that we had changed berths, and that in future No. 2 was to beawakened instead of No. 1. Perhaps it is not generally known that suicide is nearly as prevalent as_mal de mer_ amongst these Americans who are rushing over for a fewweeks' repose. They work at such a fearful rate, slaves to thatinsatiable god the almighty dollar, that eventually they either have tofly to a lunatic asylum or an Atlantic liner. After a day or two on thelatter the calm and repose and the vast sea around them prove too muchof an antidote; the overtaxed brain gives way, and overboard they go. An Englishman is too fond of exercise to allow high pressure to get thebetter of him in this way, and the difference between English andAmerican people on these liners is most marked. Directly an Americanfamily comes on board they select places for their deck chairs, which, except for meals, they never leave. From early morning until late atnight, much to the astonishment of the Americans, the Englishpassengers--men, women, and children--pace the deck as if it were ago-as-you-please contest for immense prizes. Being a good sailor but abad sleeper, I think I fairly qualified for first prize. Morning, noon, and night, round and round those magnificent decks I went, to thedisgust and envy of those who could not move off their deck chairs, andwho loathed the very sight of me. [Illustration: AMERICANS AND ENGLISH ON DECK. ] It so happened that together with a few other privileged passengers Idined a little later than the rest, so I had an opportunity of observingthe weak ones suffering on deck whilst others were struggling with theirmeals below, and I promenaded round that deck, battling with theelements to get an extra edge on my excellent appetite. I remember thatwhen passing some ladies on my way down to dinner, they feeblyendeavouring to eat a biscuit or two and drink a glass of champagne, oneturned her pallid face to another and murmured, "I _am_ so glad thatenergetic little man has been obliged to give in at last!" They ought to have seen me at the table half-an-hour afterwards, that'sall! That reminds me of my friend poor Alfred Cellier, who was wintering inthe South once at the same time as we were there for my wife's health. Iwas returning from a meet one day, hot and mud-bespattered, when I metthe talented musician walking feebly along in the sun with his furs on. He called to me to stop, which I did, and his dreamy, good-natured faceassumed a most malevolent expression as he hissed at me, "I hate you! Ihate you! _You look so beastly healthy. _" Even on board ship the American still clings to his iced water, but somethink it is time to train for the European habit of taking wine atdinner. I noticed a Westerner who with his wife was sitting down forprobably the first time to _table d'hôte_. He took up the wine list, andwent right through the sherries, hocks, clarets, champagnes, and evenliqueurs. Now at the end of the wine lists on these vessels there isappended a list of various mineral waters. The names of these (or was itthe price?) seemed to take the fancy of the American. "I guess this_Hunyadi Janos_ sounds well--I calculate if you put a bottle of that onice it'll do us just right. " Sailors are superstitious. Some will, or used to, rob themselves of thenecessities of life to purchase a baby's "caul, " and wear it aroundtheir neck as a charm. To sail out of harbour on a Friday was unheard of. In these days ofscience, days in which steam has driven the old frigate-rigged sailingships from the seas, one would have thought that superstition would havevanished with the old hulks, and that in the floating palaces crossingthe Atlantic, in which longshoremen take the place of old-time sea-dogs, charms and omens would have lost their power. Yet sailor superstitionsare as hard to kill even in these gorgeous up-to-date liners as it is toexterminate the rats in the hold or the cockroaches in the larder. The last journey I made to America was in the favourite liner the_Germanic_. I was chatting to one of the crew, an old salt, the day weleft Queenstown; he was looking out to sea; his brow was clouded, and heshook his head mournfully. "Are we in for a bad passage?" I asked. "Don't know yet, sir; aren't seen all them on board yet. We had aterrible passage the week afore last goin' East, but I expected it. We'ad an Archbishop on board!" I informed him that on the present journey we had two priests on board, and two professional atheists--"so what kind of passage were we toexpect?" After a moment's serious thought the mariner replied, "I think, sir, wemay reckon we shall have an average. " And curious to relate we did. The two Freethinkers who thus balanced the ecclesiastics were Messrs. Foote and Watts, who were on a mission to America to induce ColonelRobert G. Ingersoll to visit England. The stranger in America, if he be a public man in his own country, istreated like a suspected criminal. Every movement is watched, everyaction reported, and as he passes from city to city a description andreport precedes him, and there is an eye, or rather a couple of dozeneyes, to mark his coming and grow keener when he comes. But he is watched by friends, not by detectives, and his actions arereported in public prints, not in private ledgers. It is not the arm ofthe law, but the hand of friendship, that shadows him, and thosestereotyped passports to friendship, letters of introduction fromfriends at home, are as needless to introduce him as a life-preserver ora Colt's revolver to protect him. He had better amuse himself while inmid-ocean by presenting them to the porpoises that dive and splutterround the ship, for the only object they will accomplish will be thefilling of his waste-paper basket on his return home. [Illustration: AMERICAN INTERVIEWING--IMAGINARY. ] [Illustration: AMERICAN INTERVIEWING--REAL. ] Major Hospitality arrested me the moment I arrived, and handed me overto the Inky Inquisition--eight gentlemen of the Press--who placed me onthe interviewer's rack at the demand of insatiable modern journalism. Iscraped through the ordeal as well as could be expected in thecircumstances, considering I hadn't yet acquired my land-legs. Theraging waves may roar their loudest, and the stormy winds may blow theirhardest, but they don't affect me. It is only when I find myself on_terra firma_ once more that I feel any effects from an ocean trip. Forthe benefit of those who are subject to _mal de mer_ I will disclose myprescription to act as a reliable safeguard, and that is to mesmeriseyourself so that once on board no sensations seem to you strange orunwonted. The only drawback is that I have not yet discovered how tounmesmerise myself, although my theory worked splendidly when on board, so that when I get on shore I feel as if I were still on the sea. I amalways ducking breakers, descending companion ladders, and I roll acrossthe street as if it were the deck of a liner. Every building I enterseems to be rocking up and down, up and down, and as on the occasion Irefer to I sat before the knights of the quill to be cross-examined, Ifelt as if I were in the cabin of a ship rather than in my own room atthe hotel, and that the books on the table were in reality fiddles tokeep the glasses and other things from falling off. It is, therefore, not to be wondered at that the next day I find myselfdescribed as "not a well man, " although "his face is ruddy, " and "hisblue eyes have a tired look and his hand is not so steady as it mightbe. " I would like to know whose hand would be steady if, after six daysof Atlantic travel, he was landed to find himself suddenly confrontedwith eight talented gentlemen, cross-questioning him _ad lib. _, measuring the length of his foot, counting the buttons on his coat, andthe hairs on his head, and if, after his tiring journey, he happened toyawn, looking to see whether he had false teeth or not! And then to be handed a bad pen and worse paper, and have to drawpictures in pen and ink, in the space of five minutes, for the eightgentlemen who were watching to see "how it's done"! I have sketchedcrowned heads on their thrones, bishops in their pulpits, thieves intheir dens, and beauties in their drawing-rooms; but I never felt suchnervousness as I did when I had to caricature myself on the occasion ofmy first experience of American interviewing. In my seeing America in a hurry, I addressed the reporters somewhat inthis fashion: "I am not disappointed with anything I have seen. I was told that Iwould find the worst-paved streets in the world. I have found them. Iwas told that I would see unsightly, old-fashioned telegraph-polessticking up in the streets. I have seen them. I was told that I wouldhave to pay a small fortune for my cab from the docks to my hotel. Ihave paid it. I was told that a newspaper reporter would ask me what Ithought of America as soon as I landed. I am asked that question byeight gentlemen of the Press; indeed, I was interrogated upon that pointby the representative of a leading American paper before I left theshores of England. I was told that I would find the most charming andbest-dressed women in the world. That promise is more than realised. [Illustration: "SANDY. "] "I find New York as bright as Paris, as busy as London, as interestingas Rome, and, in fact, I am so delighted and bewildered with everybodyand everything that, like the old lady's parrot, I don't say much, but Ithink a deal; and now my difficulty is to convey those thoughts to thepublic through the medium of your valuable papers. " Scores of Columbuses arrive at Sandy Hook every week to discover Americafor themselves, from Charles Columbus Dickens to Rudyard ColumbusKipling, to say nothing of Tom, Dick, Harry Columbus Brown, Jones, Robinson. It is hardly fair to say that they go over with their pocketsfull of letters of introduction to their American cousins, who receivethem with open arms and unlimited hospitality, and then that these Toms, Dicks, and Harrys bring back in exchange notes for columns of ridiculeand abuse of their Transatlantic friends. If our Americans _have_ afault, it is a very slight one. They are too sensitive. They seem toforget that they receive and honour some of our countrymen as criticsand satirists, but they expect that on leaving their shores their lateguests will wash off the critical and satirical sides of their naturesjust as an actor removes his paint and make-up on leaving the boards. Americans, both publicly and privately, are incessantly interviewing thestranger: "What do you think of our great country? What do you think ofourselves?" They live in a glass house filled with forced young plants, from out of which house they may throw stones at the stranger, but woebetide the critic who has the temerity to cast one in return. He getshis impressions from the hothouse society snobs reared in the hotels ofthe cities, the dollar worshipper, the vulgar millionaire, made moreobnoxious by the newer European importation, happily a plant not true tothe American soil. We strangers too often see but the cut flowers, showy, glaring, to-day; jaded, gone to-morrow. We do not see thecultured orchid or the natural wild flowers of America, for the simplereason we do not look for them in seeing that wonderful country in ahurry. My first impression of New York was that of a faded back-cloth in amelodrama; but when you get upon the stage, or, in other words, into thestreets, you find yourself amid a transformation scene of wonderfulactivity and brilliancy. Some of the streets, in fact most of them inwhich business is transacted, resemble strongly the shop scenes inharlequinades, for the Americans have carried advertising so far thattheir streets of shops, and especially those in New York, are simplymuseums of grotesque advertisement. Gigantic hands advertising gloves, huge hats, boots, and animals form aheterogeneous collection of anything but beautiful models, gilded andpainted in all the most flaming colours, piled on top of each other onevery house from street level to attic, each tradesman vieing with theother in screeching to the public to "Buy! buy!! buy!!!" by means of thecuriosities and monstrosities of the advertiser's art. A few years ago a celebrated Continental authoress came to London forthe first time, in the height of the season, to stay a week in order toget her impressions for a book she was writing, in which the heroine hadflown to London for that period of time. She went everywhere and saweverything; just before she left London I asked her what had impressedher most of all she had seen. In reply she said, "The fact that thedrivers of public vehicles never cracked their whips!" If I were asked what impressed me most about New York, I should not sayBrooklyn Bridge, or Wall Street, or the Elevated Railway, but the numberof chiropodists' advertisements! They confront you at every turn; thesehuge gilded models of feet outside the chiropodists' establishments, some painted realistically and many adorned with bunions, are destinedto meet your eye as you stroll through the streets. Should you look up, you will see them suspended from the first floor window, or painted oncanvas on the front of the house. Avoid the shops altogether, and youare bound to knock up against some gentleman in the gutter encased in along white waterproof, on which is portrayed the inevitable foot and thename and address of the chiropodist. [Illustration: CHIROPODY. ] Now why is this? The Americans have pretty feet and small hands, bothmen and women. Is it vanity, and do they squeeze their feet into bootstoo small for them, or are their pedal coverings badly made, or does thesecret lie in the rough pavements of their thoroughfares? I am glad tosay that I never required the services of a foot doctor, but I know thatmy feet have ached many and many a time after promenading the New Yorkpathways. New York ought to be called New Trilby. I was offered more than once an open cheque which I might fill in tocover all my expenses from the time I left England until I reached theshores of the Old Country again if I would supply a journal with _onepage_ of impressions of America illustrated. A suggestion of this sortin an English newspaper office would have just about the same effect asa big canister of dynamite! I didn't accept any of these temptingoffers. I didn't go to the States on my first visit to paint glaringpictures, or to make up stories, or to marry an American heiress, nordid I go in search of the almighty dollar. I simply went as a tourist insearch of health, and with the desire of shaking hands with my manyfriends on the other side. [Illustration: "NEW TRILBY. "] I was therefore extremely annoyed on my arrival to find theirrepressible lecture agent, Major Pond, had coolly announced that I wasgoing over to him, and he had actually taken rooms for me at the EverettHouse! Of course I informed the interviewers that I was not going totour with Pond or to make money in any way. I was merely a bird ofpassage, a _rara avis_, a visitor without an eye on the almighty dollar. After I returned to England an irresponsible paragraphist informed theAmerican public that I went home determined to give it to them hot. Thiscontradiction of mine appeared, and was sent to me by the Major. Note init I contradict his report that I went over in his interests. [Illustration: AMIABLE MR. HENRY FURNISS. The London Punch Cartoonist Denies CertainUnfriendly Reports. To the Editor of The Sun--Sir: Paragraphshave appeared in some American papers to theeffect that I "went home determined to giveit to New York and the Americans hot. " I canonly suppose that this is invented for the purposeof firing off a very feeble joke upon myname at the sacrifice of the truth, for I had amost pleasant time in America, and havebrought back with me most agreeable reminiscences, which I intend to publish. Will you be kind enough to contradict thisunfair insinuation, and also the incorrect surmisethat I went to the States to the interestof any paper or person? I simply made thejourney in search of health, and not interestof the almighty dollar. By the way, before the end of the year I maycontribute to London Punch a few pages frommy well-stocked American sketch book. Faithfullyyours, Harry Furniss. Garrick Club, London, July, 1892. ] Major Pond is a typical American, hospitable, kind, with an eye forbusiness, but I do not appear in his entertaining book, nor was I everon his business books either. He sat for me on the shoeblack's streetchair outside his office when I made a sketch of him, and he was soobliging I believe he would have stood on his head if I had asked him. He managed to get me to stand in front of the camera, but not in frontof an audience. Some day I shall write a paper entitled "Photographers I Have Met, " forfew people have faced the fire of the camera oftener than I. I am not afashionable beauty, nor much of a celebrity, neither am I honestly avain man--I shrink from the rays of the too truthful lens--but I havebeen dragged into the line of fire and held there until the deed isdone, like an unwilling convict. In nearly every town I have visitedhave I undergone this operation, and the result is a collection ofcriminal-looking, contorted countenances of a description seldom seenoutside the museum of a police station. [Illustration: MAJOR POND. ] I was therefore determined not to incur this risk in America. Photographers sent their cards, but they saw me not (perhaps if theyhad they would have repented of their invitation). However, one day Iwas secured by stratagem. I was walking along Union Square with Major Pond, whose martial bearingimpressed me as much as his 'cuteness fascinated me. He had that morningheard of my determination not to be photographed, and as he walked alonghe suddenly stepped into a doorway, his arm in mine, touched a button ina side panel, down rushed an elevator, the door was flung open, and Iwas flung in. "Sarony, " said the Major, and up, up, up we flew. "The photographer?" I asked hurriedly. "The artist, " the Major replied; "one of the greatest flesh drawers"(nude studies) "we have in this gr--e--a--t country, sir. Here he is, deaf to everything but art, and to everyone but artists. " Who can say photography is not high art when you have to go up sevenstories to it? I now stood before the greatest photographer in the world--and thesmallest. I stood--he danced. He talked--I listened. "Come here, " he cried; "you are an artist--you can understandgenius--you can appreciate my work. " And he produced from a portfolio a quantity of studies, or, as the Majorwould call them, "flesh drawings, " prettily touched in with the stumpand chalk with a _chic_ familiar to those who know the facility of theFrench school. He patted me on the shoulder, kissed his hand to hiswork, and fell into raptures over the human form divine with anearnestness which showed him to be a true artist. With his sitter infront of him he was even more enthusiastic, placing you into position, and striking attitudes in front of you till you felt inclined to dance"Ta ra ra boom de ay" instead of remaining rigid. I pointed out to himthat my hair being of an auburn hue, that on my chin and the remnant onmy head came out black. "Ah, we shall alter that, " he said, and he powdered my head. "And now tocounteract that--here goes!" and with some soot or charcoal he touchedover the scanty parts on my "dome of thought. " During this process Inoticed that his own luxurious head of hair was not a fixture. He wore afez, and as he paused and pirouetted and struck attitudes, he wouldpull the fez over one eye coquettishly, or over the other oneferociously, and with it went his hair, parting and all. It is no wonderthis energetic photographer was so successful with the instantaneousprocess, or that he so cleverly caught in the lens theatrical dancersand others in motion to perfection. Of the most successful of his photosthat I saw was that of a row of comedians dancing together, and althoughI was not present at the moment the photograph was taken, I have nodoubt, from the pleasant smile of their faces and their artistic poses, that all credit was due to the late Sarony. [Illustration: THE GREAT SARONY. ] The Major had his "Bureau" in Everett House. There he arranged for his"stars, " and there under false pretences he decoyed me, and there forthe first time initiated me into the obnoxious habit of drinking icedwater. Most people are aware that in Nicaragua there dwell a tribe whogradually kill themselves by an extraordinary predilection for eating acertain kind of clay. These people are of the lowest order, and maytherefore be pardoned for their foolishness in turning themselves intoplaster casts; but why the enlightened Americans choose to convertthemselves into walking icebergs through drinking so much iced water isunaccountable to the alien. They certainly do play havoc with theirdigestions. They eat rapidly and recklessly, and swallow with startlingrapidity, for having all the dishes placed before them at once they haveno waiting in between the courses to assist digestion, and almost beforethey have swallowed their food they freeze it with draughts of icedwater. At this hotel in New York there lived for some years an Italian singer, who was a great favourite in the city, and whose horror of iced waterwas a terror to all the waiters. They knew that it was as much as theirlives were worth, and certainly as much as the glass was worth, to set adrink of this concoction before him. If any new or forgetful waiteroffered the obnoxious liquid to the foreigner, it was soon thrown at hishead or to the other end of the room. Americans seldom show theirfeelings, but anything they resent they will harbour in their minds, andnever forget. In due course this singer died. The weather was hot at the time, and thebody in the shell was surrounded by ice until the time came to carry itout of the hotel. As it passed through the hall the manager, who had hadmany and many an upbraiding from the excitable Italian after the latterhad been proffered the hateful iced water, rushed out and triumphantlyexclaimed: "'Guess, sir, you've got plenty of ice now, whether you like it ornot!'" I was told that kindness would be showered upon me in America. I livedin a perfect blizzard of hospitality, the force of which was too muchfor me to stand up against. The poet asks, "What's in a name?" I don'tknow, I'm sure, but I know what's not in a name, and that's something bywhich you can identify the owner of it. You are introduced to a man, his name being given you as Mr. James B. Brown. You could never forget his face as long as you live, but there isnothing in the name of James B. Brown to fix it in your memory. Indiansare more practical--they adopt nicknames. Amongst them the gentleman inquestion would probably be known as "Cherrybeak, " "Bleary Eye, " or somesuch descriptive cognomen. I felt the want of this common-sense system when in America terribly. While there I lived at the highest pressure of hospitality. Breakfasts, luncheons, teas, dinners, suppers, receptions and all sorts ofgatherings, sometimes two or three of them in one day. At each of them Iwas introduced to most interesting people, names perfectly familiar tome but faces unknown. I was bewildered beyond description. I made manyfriends, and as a natural consequence I made many blunders. The worstof these latter I really must record, and pray that should thisconfession meet the eye of my hospitable friend I trust he will forgiveme--indeed I know he will, for he is one of the best and cleverest ofmen. I was invited to an excellent dinner by a well-known man of letters Ihad never met before. I accepted the invitation on condition I should beallowed to leave early, as I had engagements two or three deep for thatevening. I came away with the best impression of my host and all hisfriends. I saw their jokes and their faces, and knew I would recollectboth, but their names! how to recollect them was the puzzle. Thatevening I met more distinguished people at the second house I visited, more at the third, and still more at the fourth. I shall never forgettheir kindness, but I gave up all hopes of trying to recollect hundredsof names, all new to me in one evening. The problem was hopeless. Thefollowing morning callers began early, and more invitations poured in. At breakfast one of my new acquaintances called. [Illustration: JAMES B. BROWN!] "Tell me, Mr. Furniss, have you met our great literary man and renownedhumorist, Mr. James B. Brown?" "Brown, Brown!" I repeated (that was not the name of course, but it willdo). "Well, no. I know his name so well, but I don't think I have yethad the pleasure of making his acquaintance. " "Not know James B. Brown? Well, you must straightaway. Now let mereckon. You leave New York at four this afternoon--you must lunch first. Why not with me at the ---- Club? I'll get James B. Brown there or I'llswallow Bartholdi's statue!" I found refusals were of no avail, so I agreed. At one I entered theclub, at two minutes past one James B. Brown entered, and we met. He wasmy first host of the previous evening! We were formally introduced. I smiled--James B. Brown didn't. James B. Brown pulled himself up to his full height--about double mine--I neverfelt so small before. I shook his hand (he didn't shake mine) and said: "This is a great honour and pleasant surprise, " and I pulled thedismayed celebrity gently to my side, when getting on tip-toes Itelephoned up the string of his eye-glass: "Keep up the joke, Mr. Brown, keep it up. Fact is, I was so delighted atmeeting you last night and so charmed with you that when I was asked ifI had met you before I said 'No, ' so that I might have the pleasure ofmeeting you again. Forgive me!" James B. Brown shook my hand warmly, and telephoned down: "Sir, this is the greatest compliment I have ever received. Your sinwill be forgiven for your sincere flattery of so humble an admirer asmyself. " Americans claim to be superior to us in respect of three things--theirfacility in travelling, their fire system, and their after-dinnerspeaking. One of these I will not question, and that is the FireBrigade. It is necessary for America to excel in this respect, for withtheir huge warehouses and stores overstocked with inflammable goods firewould destroy their cities as Chicago was destroyed, were they not sowonderfully prompt and efficient with their engines and appliances. When I arrived in the States I only presented two of the very numerousletters of introduction with which I was supplied. One was to the Chiefof Police in New York, and the other was to the Captain of the FireBrigade. The latter I met, when I arrived at the station at which he islocated, just coming out in ordinary clothes, for it was his night off;but such is the pride taken by the Fire Brigade in their work thatwhatever engagement he was going to keep was abandoned, and he was at myservice until I had seen everything it was possible to see in connectionwith the famous Fire Brigade. [Illustration: FIRE!] As I was speaking to the Captain in the engine-room I noticed a coupleof horses standing there. One of them was a grey mare with a mostcunning look, and as the Captain was informing me that "she had donecontinuous work here for some years, " she gave me an artful wink ofconfirmation. Just at that moment the alarm bell suddenly vibrated, andbefore you could say Jack Robinson (even if you wanted to), seemingly bymagic but in reality by electricity, the halters fell from the horses'heads, and to my surprise, without any one being near them they rushedto their places at either side of the shaft of the engine. There weremanholes in the ceiling, through which brass rods were suspendedvertically. Down these slid half-dressed men, who seemed to turn asomersault into their clothes during the descent on to the engine, theharness suspended above the horses dropped on to their backs, and in aninstant they were in the street, the engine manned, its fire ablaze, andthe horses alive to the stiff job they had before them of reaching thefire in an incredibly short space of time. But hardly had they taken thefirst leap from one of the boulders over the cavities with which NewYork streets abound to another, than a whistle from the Captain stoppedthem. It was a false alarm given for my edification. Before they couldget back into the engine-house I was conducted by the Captain into thedormitory, where I concealed myself under a bed. Without a grumble themen came up and literally walked out of their clothes, for boots, pantsand everything are all one piece. They opened these carefully and laidthem ready by the side of their beds, and in a few minutes were allsnoring fast asleep. The Captain gave a slight tap on the floor as a signal for another falsealarm. At the first sound of the bell, with one bound the men were outof bed, in another into their combinations, and in a third they weregoing head over heels down the holes in the floor, just as mice woulddisappear down theirs at the sight of a cat, and in a second or two Iheard again the rumbling of the engine over the pavement. We escaped before the men were back again to bed, but hardly had I beenshown the completeness of everything, and gone into details which I neednot repeat here, and had another wink from the old grey mare, whichplainly said, "Ah, I knew those alarms were false, " when her two earswent up like a flash as she sprang under her harness once more, theother animal as quickly by her side. The third alarm was a genuine one, and she knew it. The Captain and I, as soon as the alarm was given, rushed in the direction of the fire, but we had not got to the firstcorner before the old mare and her companion flew past, and I just hadtime to notice that the men were completing their toilet as they werehurled by. Quickly followed the officer of the night in his one-horsetrap, and by the time we got to the fire, which was only round a blockof buildings, an exhibition of fire engines and appliances was collectedthere which beggars description. The water tower, a huge affair seventyor eighty feet high, built up like a crane, which shoots water on tothe top of the burning building; so also are the hook and ladderbrigade, the men with the jumping net--in fact, everything is at hand. This is accounted for by the fact that a policeman at any corner, whengiving the alarm of a fire, touches an electric button or turns ahandle, which gives the signal at every fire station, unloosing thehorses and putting everything into motion at once. [Illustration: THE ALARM. ] The one weak point in the whole system is that the alarms are notisolated, which means that every signal of fire in the big city of NewYork disturbs every man and horse at every station, some of them ninemiles away from the scene of the conflagration, for so anxious are themen to be up to time that they are often in the street, harnessed, equipped and ready, before the second signal comes to acquaint themwith the locality and extent of the fire. At least that was then thesystem. When I returned to England I stopped once as I was passing a firestation and told the men of the wonders I had seen in America. A veryathletic, sailor-looking fireman, who had listened attentively to all Ihad to say, chimed in with "Yes, sir, what you've said is quite true, for I've been in America myself, and seen them at work; but though theymay possibly get to the fire a few seconds quicker than we, when we _do_get there we put it out. That's more than they do generally. " "Well, perhaps so, " I rejoined; "but then you haven't the wonderfulelectric apparatus for dropping the harness on to the horses' backs!" "No, " said he, "we go a step further than that; the harness is on thehorses' backs beforehand!" This youth's visit to America had evidently had a sharpening effect uponhim, for he was a bit too wideawake for me. Being on a trip for rest and health, I found the gaiety of New York toomuch for me, so having whispered to my friends that I was going to studyculture and eat bacon and beans in Boston, I quietly slipped off tostudy Congress and to feast my eyes on the beautiful city of Washington. Not being clean-shaven I could not wear a false beard, so I took a falsename. "Mr. Harry Furniss of London _Punch_" went in the spirit to Boston(for had I stayed much longer in New York my used-up body would havebeen returned in spirits to England); "Mr. French of Nowhere" went inthe flesh to Washington. On arriving at my hotel I signed "Mr. French of Nowhere. " Reporters whoscan the hotel list did not think "Mr. French of Nowhere" a subjectworthy of dissection, so for a few days I thought I should enjoy perfectpeace with profit. A "stocky little Englishman" taking notes _enpassant_ with an amateurish fervency was probably what most people wouldthink who cared to think at all of the stranger in their midst. But it so happened that in going down by train from New York I satopposite to a very delightful American gentleman, and we chatted awayin the most friendly fashion. We parted on arriving at the city. Nextday I happened to "strike" him in the street. "I've been on the look-out for you everywhere, Mr. French" (I had givenhim my assumed name in the train). "I am very anxious to show you allover this beautiful city, and my brother the Judge is also anxious thatyou should dine at his house. " I thanked him most cordially, and accepted his kind offer, saying that Ishould be ready for him at my hotel at 9 o'clock the next morning. Weparted, but my conscience pricked me for giving him a false name, so Ihurried back after him and explained to him the whole circumstance. Itwas flattering to me to see that he took a greater interest than ever inbeing my guide. The next morning Mr. French (to all but my newacquaintance) was in the hall of the "Arlington" at the appointed time. I waited and waited, but my guide did not put in an appearance. Presently a strange gentleman came up to me, and boldly addressed me bymy proper name. I saw at once I was in the clutches of an interviewer, so I point-blank contradicted him, and asserted that my name was French. "That won't do for me, " he said. "Then you won't do for me, " I said, and turned upon my heel. However, I rather liked the look of the man, and didn't like todisappoint him altogether, being a journalist myself. "I am waiting for a gentleman, " I said. "I expect him every minute, andthen I must be off. " "You may wait, but I guess that gentleman won't arrive, " said thejournalist, "and I want a column out of you for our evening paper. " A frightful thought flashed across my mind. "Have I been sold?" I had, and I thought more of the gentleman of the Press (all thePressmen were very kind to me in Washington, and, indeed, all overAmerica) than I did of my newly-made erratic acquaintance. When I paid my second and professional visit to Washington yearsafterwards, of course it was a different matter. My representative hadfor business reasons to invite the Press to "boom" me. I was rated agood subject for interviewers, being only too pleased to do my best forour mutual benefit. One day a representative of the important Washingtonfamily paper called. We lunched and chatted, and subsequently over acigar he informed me that he knew nothing about art or artists orpolitics, nor had he any object in common with me--in fact, he was thesporting editor. The interview appeared--two long columns on prizefighting! I was the innocent "peg" upon which the sporting writer hunghis own ideas. He discussed "a rendezvous in the Rockies, " remote fromthe centre of civilisation, as surely an appropriate locale for atrain-scuttling speciality or a fight to a death finish between RoaringGore and Wild Whiskers. A pair of athletes, scienced to the tips oftheir vibrating digits, compelled to appeal to the courtesy of a wildand well-whiskered Legislature, would doubtless appear inconsistent togentlemen of the National Sporting Club of London, who were anxious tohave the big fight settled within earshot of Bow Bells, in the luxuriousrooms of the London National Sporting Club. One combatant, I declared, "swallowed the gruel rammed at him as if it were mother's milk, " thelads "had enough blood on tap to run a sizeable slaughterhouse"; then aBritish fighter "swallowing a lobster salad on top of a whiskey sour, with a dose of prussic acid by way of dessert"; and references to myknowledge of the "Freds, " "Toms, " or "Dicks" of the Sporting Press ofLondon, and to my familiarity with "Charlies, " "Fitzs, " and "Jims" ofthe "Magic Circle, " were astounding. My manager rushed into my rooms with the paper in question. "This willruin your prospects here! We depend on the women folk; they will nevercome to hear you after reading this!" And so it was. In spite of otherinterviewers at Washington writing of me as "an English good fellow, rich and juicy, and genial in flavour, like other hot stuffs of thatremarkable country"; and another, "Harry Furniss' eclipse of the gayety of John Bull, with facile pencil and brilliant tongue, attracted a cultured assemblage to the Columbia Theatre. Furniss, a plump lump of a man, all curves from pumps to poll, in gesture and in the breezy flourish of his sentences, genially cynical like Voltaire, cuts an engaging figure in his black coat that he wears with the inborn grace of a well-dined Londoner, a bon vivant, whose worldly shaft tickles and never bites, for he is a gentleman whose wit wins and never wounds. Furniss is Thackeray in the satirist's mellow moments, and there is no little of the Thackerian spirit radiating in the pictures of this rotund and quaint little caricaturist. " I did very bad business in Washington, largely due to bad management. Five o'clock teas had become the rage of Washington Society, and myappearances in the theatre were between 4. 15 and 6 o'clock in theafternoon. Alluding to this a critic wrote in the _Morning Times_: "Itmay help Mr. Furniss to forgive the small audiences here in Washingtonif he is informed that during this season none of his English friendshave made a very glittering success; nearly all of them have lost moneyor made very little. We seem to be somewhat down on Englishmen thisyear. " As Washington is the capital of America, so the Capitol, where Congressmeets, is the cap of the capital, the dome, of course, being theCapitol's cap, and a capital cap it is, covering the collectivecouncillors of the country. The Capitol itself looks like a huge whiteeagle protecting the interests of the States. Audubon's Bird ofWashington is the name of the eagle well-known to naturalists, but this_rara avis_ is the _Falcho Washingtoniensis_. At its heart is seated theSupreme Court, keeping an eagle eye on the laws of the land; under itsright wing is the Senate (equivalent to the English House of Lords); andthe left shelters the House of Representatives (corresponding to ourHouse of Commons). At first this bird of buildings had no wings, and thethree representative assemblies sat in the Central Edifice; afterwardsthe wings were added, and now the Capitol is fly enough for anything. Itsoars high above the city, and from its summit a capital birdseye viewis naturally obtained. The Senate in the American Congress answers to the House of Lords in theBritish Parliament. The "sporting editor" would doubtless say that eachin its respective country is the right hand of the Government, and whenthere happens to be a genuine stand-up fight, as foreseen with Spain, aninternational contest, although the "left, " in prize ring phraseology(the House of Representatives in America and the House of Commons inEngland), does all the preliminary work, it is reserved for the right, when the critical moment arrives, to administer the knock-out blow. [Illustration: THE THRONE IN THE SENATE. ] In both the Old Country and the New these superior senators arepolitically alike. Representatively they are as different as iced wateris to old port. [Illustration: THE THRONE, HOUSE OF REPRESENTATIVES. ] The seating of the senators in these two assemblages is typical of thecountries they represent. In the British House of Lords the Peers lollabout on scarlet sofas; in America the chosen ones sit at desks. TheBritish Peer has forsaken one lounge to occupy another; the American hasleft the office desk for the desk in office. In Britain the House ofLords is composed of Princes and Peers, with an admixture of bishops, brewers, and other political party pullers; it is also an asylum forstranded political wrecks from the Lower House. Soldiers and sailors, too, are honoured and are sent there, not as politicians, but merely toexist for the time being in a sort of respectable retreat, before beingtranslated to the crypt of Westminster Abbey or St. Paul's. John Bullhas made this hereditary hotch-potch, and he must swallow it. Jonathanselects his senators to his own taste, and has them dished up fresh fromtime to time. The Senate is not sombre and sedate as is our Upper House, butsimplicity itself--no gilded throne, no Lord Chancellor in wig and gown, no offensive officialism. It looks like a huge auction room, theauctioneer being the deputy President standing at a table hammer in handknocking down the separate business of State lot by lot as put up by theclerks. The House of Representatives, like the Senate, reminds one very much ofan auction room. It is a splendid hall, but its size prevents Membersfrom being heard very distinctly, particularly as they talk away amongstthemselves, except when anything particularly interesting is going on. In the Senate the table, and the clerks' table, are of dark wood; in theHouse of Representatives they are of white marble. The American flaghanging over the balcony gives it a semi-theatrical look, and the whitemarble table resembles an American bar, making one feel inclined to goup to it and order a brandy-smash, a gin-sling, or a corpse-reviver. [Illustration] The House has not met as I enter. The page-boys are playing at leapfrog, and some early Members are disposing of their correspondence, andinstead of reproving the boys cast glances at them that seem to signifythey would like to join in the game themselves. Presently a Member comesin backwards through one of the doorways, calling out to something thatis following him. I lean over to see if he has brought his favourite dogor domestic cat, when a little infant in modernised Dutch costume comesin waddling laughingly after her parent. Another Member turns round onhis swivel chair as his page-boy runs up to him, shakes him heartily bythe hand, tosses him on his foot and gives him a "ride-a-cock-horse. "Oh, you English sticklers for etiquette! What would you say if Mr. Labouchere came in on all fours with his little child pulling hiscoat-tails and whacking him with a stick, or if Sir William Harcourtplayed at leapfrog with Lulu round the Speaker's chair? [Illustration: THE HOUSE OF REPRESENTATIVES. ] My drawing will show you better what the House of Representatives islike than any written description I can give. Each Member has his owndesk, with his Parliamentary papers all around him. He is not bothered, as Members are in England, by having his papers sent to his privatehouse, or having to call for them at the office when he arrives, oractually having to fight for a seat. Americans pay theirRepresentatives, and consider that they too have a right to beaccommodated with a seat whenever they want one to see them, and to knowwho they are; so you have in front of you a diagram of the sittingarrangements of the House, with the names of the Members. [Illustration: AN EX-SPEAKER. ] At 12 o'clock the procession enters. An official carries a little wandwith the eagle on top, and after the Chaplain (during my first visit Isaw the "Blind Chaplain, " the Rev. W. H. Milburn) has delivered a fewtouching words about the floods in Minnesota, the reading of the"reakard" begins. The House buzzes with conversation and displays theutmost indifference while the minutes of the last meeting are read withextraordinary rapidity by a clerk with a grating voice. Every now andthen a Member corrects a misprint in the "reakard" of what he has said, and then leave of absence is given to applicants for it, who have tostate their reasons. The Chairmen of the various Committees then reportto the House, Chairmen of Committees taking in turn to sit in theSpeaker's Chair and preside over the House, whilst anyone can examinethem. Instead of calling out a Member by his name--Mr. Bacon or Mr. Beans--theSpeaker calls upon "the gentleman from Illinois, " or "the gentleman fromMichigan. " But if any question arises to which some Member has anobjection filibustering is rampant. The Speaker rises and asks if thereis any objection to the consideration of the Bill. After a pause hesays, "The Chair hears none, " and is about ordering the Bill to beengrossed when some Member objects and a division is taken, the Membersstanding up to be counted. Groups of them, however, do not pay a bit ofattention, and sit about on their desks smoking cigars and tellingstories, and when the numbers are given some of these will get up andcomplain that their names are not included, as they did not hear, orwent out to speak to a friend, or some trivial excuse like that, so theyare counted again. One in particular I noticed and made a sketch ofpeeling and eating an apple, and he strolled up afterwards and demandedto have his name inserted. More delay; then "the gentleman fromSomewhere-else" informs the Speaker that there is not a quorum. "Thegentleman from Bedlam" demands a division taken by tellers, and theSpeaker agrees, and is just appointing the tellers, when "the gentlemanfrom Obstructianna" calls for "Yeas and Nays, " which means, gentlereader, that the whole of the House of Representatives have to be calledout by name, from Alpha to Omega. Those not wishing to vote smoke or eatapples. Then some Member comes in and informs the Speaker that he didn'thear his name when it was called. In case the reader may think I am exaggerating I append the followingcutting from the "Congressional Record, " vol. Xxiii. , No. 93. : "Mr. O'NEILL of Pennsylvania. Mr. Speaker, I am paired, but I have voted in order to make a quorum. The SPEAKER. There is no quorum. Mr. HENDERSON of Iowa. Mr. Speaker, when my name was called the first time I did not hear it, and the second time I was examining some papers and my name was passed before I could answer. The SPEAKER. Did the gentleman fail to hear his name? Mr. HENDERSON of Iowa. I heard it called, but did not answer in time. The SPEAKER. The gentleman understands the rule. If the gentleman states that he was in the Hall of the House and failed to hear his name, his vote will be recorded. Mr. HENDERSON of Iowa. I was. The vote of Mr. HENDERSON of Iowa was recorded. Mr. PATTERSON of Tennessee. Mr. Speaker, I desire to vote. The SPEAKER. Was the gentleman in the Hall, and did he fail to hear his name called? Mr. PATTERSON of Tennessee. Yes, sir. The vote of Mr. PATTERSON of Tennessee was recorded. Mr. DOLLIVER. Mr. Speaker, although paired I have voted to make a quorum. Mr. McKEIGHAN. Mr. Speaker, I was in the Hall and heard my name, but did not vote because I did not understand the measure. If it is in order I desire now to vote. The SPEAKER. The Chair can not entertain the gentleman's request under the rule. Mr. HUFF. Mr. Speaker, I voted to make a quorum. I am paired with Mr. KRIBBS. The SPEAKER. On this vote the yeas are 136 and the nays 3. No quorum has voted. Mr. O'NEILL of Pennsylvania. I withdraw my vote. Mr. HOLMAN. Mr. Speaker, I ask unanimous consent that another vote be taken, which I have no doubt will show the presence of a quorum. Mr. BURROWS. Mr. Speaker, can not that request be modified so as to provide for taking the vote on the passage of the Bill instead of on the engrossment and third reading? I ask unanimous consent that the vote may be taken on the passage of the Bill. Mr. CHIPMAN rose. The SPEAKER. The Chair will state that the roll call having disclosed the absence of a quorum, no business is in order but a call of the House or a motion to adjourn. Mr. HOLMAN. Then, Mr. Speaker, I move a call of the House. A call of the House was ordered. " Then that grating voice calls out the list from A to Z, the pairs arecalled, more explanations given, then there is more filibustering (Ithink that is the correct word) on the part of the obstructionists, andfor the third time the same farce is enacted. Then the division takesplace, when the Members leave their seats and are counted as they enter. No, the division takes place before the last count, for after the namesare called again and there are more explanations, when the Speaker"recognises the gentleman's right, " or does not as the case may be. Iknow three hours of this was enough to show me that, although theAmericans may boast of being our superiors in many ways, such a farce asI have described could never take place in the British Parliament. Whyon earth don't they take a division as we do, when the Members leavetheir seats and the Ayes and Noes are locked in separate Lobbies, and asthey re-enter their votes are recorded and they are counted by thetellers, and the question at issue is settled finally without doubt? Imust say that for a practical people the Parliamentary procedure seemedto me the most unpractical ceremony I had ever witnessed. Yet they arepractical in some Parliamentary matters. For instance, there is aCommittee of Rules, presided over by the Speaker, which meets to decidewhat time the House shall devote to each question, say two hours--onefor the Democrats and one for the Republicans. Each speaker in thedebate is allowed five minutes, and when this is up the Speaker remindshim of the fact by rapping the table with his hammer. [Illustration: AN EX-MINISTER. ] Again, it is very convenient that a Member can have speeches that he hasnever delivered printed on the Parliamentary record. In England acountry Member is about to make a speech, and being anxious to let hisconstituents have it in full he gives it to the representatives of hislocal paper, and it is in the press before he delivers it. Something mayhappen to prevent the delivery of the speech, and Hansard has not a lineof it. A curious thing happened in the "Congressional Record" a year ortwo ago. The same speech was published as having been uttered by twovery different Members. This occurred through a New York orator handinghis speech (a eulogium on a deceased Member) to a friend to correct. This friend had an eye to business, and he picked out another Member whoyearned to be thought an orator but who was not blessed with forensicpower and had never made a speech in his life, and sold him the speechfor forty dollars. He walked into the House swelling in anticipation ofhis coming effort, but his chagrin was great when he discoveredprecisely the same speech in the "Record. " How is this for an instanceof American journalistic smartness? After the exhibition of filibustering I described the House adjourned, having done absolutely nothing but convince the stranger in the gallerythat payment of Members leads to a waste of time, which is not playedducks and drakes with by the Members of our House. An evening sitting is, of course, livelier, though at the outset thereare more strangers in the gallery than Members on the floor. It isamusing to note how the ladies crowd the seats, and how the Congressmanlolls on the sofa in the outer circle of the chamber, or turns round inhis chair at his desk, crossing his legs on the desk in front of him, puffs his cigar, and, heedless of the fate of the nation, turns roundand fascinates the fair ones in the gallery. It is amusing also to see aMember leave his seat during his speech and walk all over the floor, snapping his fingers and pummelling any desk handy. The officialreporter follows him about, book in hand, wherever the Member'seloquence leads him, and his friends crowd around him when he stands orwalks and vigorously applaud him; so do the audience in the gallery whenhis eloquence ceases, while his friends rush to shake his hand. He thenwalks round and receives congratulations, like a man passing round thehat. The clapping of the desk lids is very effective as a means ofapproval or otherwise; but if the orator goes too far and a scene is theresult, the noise is too much even for the American House ofRepresentatives, and the Serjeant-at-Arms has to take the spread-eagleon a toasting fork and walk up to the windy Member. I have made a sketchof a Member who made an aggressive speech, and on being replied to byanother Member, walked up to the Speaker, leant on his desk, and puffedhis cigar right under his nose. All this to one accustomed to theEnglish House of Commons is beyond comprehension, and the only parallelI can think of is the trial scene in "The Bells, " when Mathias walksabout the court and snaps his fingers at the judges and then acts theperpetration of the deed for which he is called upon to answer. During my stay I heard a very funny specimen of rant from a gentleman ofthe name of Turner, who was suffering from an attack of Anglophobia. Hewould delight the Mortons and Conybeares whom we have to tolerate, andhis pronunciation of the Old Country's language was even worse than thesentiments he expressed. He spoke of the "extremest spirit" of"_o_fficial day_tee_, " whatever that may mean; the next screech broughtout "_do_mestic _hoo_rizon, " and he pathetically alluded to hisconstituents as the people who lived in the "boomed city, who do not getan elegant _re_ward for their la_bor_. " [Illustration: ANGLOPHOBIA. ] I was also amused by another gentleman in a discussion about some Bills. He jumped up, and rushing over to where his opponents sat, he shouted atthem, "_Talk! You?_--you--you--you--you--you--you--you?" (and withdreadful emphasis) "I've reported your little Bills!" Then there were cries of "Go ahead! Vote! vote! vote! vote!" and tocrown the gentleman's vehemence he cried out repeatedly, "I demand adivision!" (Chorus): "Pull him down!" "I demand a division!" "Pull him down!" "I demand a division!" "Pull him down!" And he refused to leave off until the eagle-topped toasting fork wasbrought into play once more. A veritable pandemonium is this Parliament! Fascinating to me, who havespent so much time in studying every detail of our own Parliament, whichI have not the slightest doubt would prove just as strange and funny tothe American visitor, if like me he sees the ridiculous side ofeverything, even of such an august assemblage as that of the legislatorsof a nation. [Illustration: THE PRESIDENT--IDEAL. ] [Illustration: THE PRESIDENT--REAL. ] Privacy is unknown in America. Everyone there, from the President in theWhite House to your Chinese washerman in his laundry, is accessible toall. I have visited both with less difficulty than I would experience inapproaching Brown, Jones or Robinson in this country. Here the businessman's time is his own, and you must not rob him of a minute any morethan of his cheque-book. In America a business man's time belongs toanyone who may require it. You walk in to see him at will, and ifJonathan can earn a dollar whilst in his bath by talking to you throughthe keyhole he will do it, and he is just as open in giving his time toshow you any gracious action. The busiest man in America, the President, surrounded by affairs of State, leaves them and shakes my hand inwelcome to his country. I say shakes my hand, for although I apologisefor my intrusion (which, by the way, was quite unnecessary) and pay himsome pleasant compliments, President Harrison replies only by shaking myhand. I wax eloquent over the magnificence of the great country overwhich he presides; I touch upon the coming election, and even give himsome information of value which I happen to have overheard by accident. I lead him to believe that I am entrusted with secrets by the EnglishCabinet about the Behring Straits and other vexed questions, and Iopenly tell him what I believe to be the dark designs of England upon afree country; in fact, I don't know what I don't tell him, and now thathe is no more I see no just cause or impediment why I should not nowmake public his reply. It is all on the next page. * * * * * [Illustration] As all English people could not get to Niagara, Niagara was brought tothem in the shape of an excellent diorama, which proved a great successin London a few years ago. The atmospheric effect in all dioramas isprocured by making the visitor first pass through dark passages, fall upunlighted stairs, and tumble about in the tortuous corridors in theblackness; then, brought suddenly face to face with the picture well litup, the eye is affected by the glare of light, which would not be thecase if the spectator walked straight into the diorama from the street. Now, curiously enough, you approach the real Niagara in much the sameway--that is, if, as I did, you go from Buffalo, and as was my lot, inthe most depressing weather. [Illustration: A BUFFALO GIRL. ] I had to wait for the train to start at Buffalo in a _Dee_po whicheclipsed anything I have seen for gloom. The shoeblack's platform, ofmore than ordinary proportions, occupied a good fifth of thewaiting-room. Its dusky proprietor was in possession of the throne, andwas discussing politics with a brother brush whose massive feet wereresting on the structure, an advertisement for the operating shoeblack, implying that both the quality and quantity of his shine were superior. The train was also very gloomy. My vis-à-vis was an old Buffalo girl whomust have remembered coming out to "dance by the light of the moon" acouple of generations ago, when that melody was popular. [[**Full page here!] PRESIDENT HARRISON'S REPLY. ] [Illustration: MR. PUNCH AT NIAGARA. ] The exit from the town is made through a hideous quarter--wooden housesand huts, depressing dirty streets, and the sides of the railway coveredwith the refuse of a generation. Then some miles of open country, with abuilding here and there which might possibly have added a littlepicturesqueness to the dismal scene had not those despoilers of allpicturesqueness, the advertisers--and, above all, the advertisers ofpills--made an eyesore wherever the same was possible. Then through amile or two of apple orchards and more country with huts advertisingpills--probably the apples in those orchards are most particularly sour. The rain came down fast, the train went on slowly; at every station damppeople with wet umbrellas came in and made me shudder. Altogether theprospect of my getting a favourable impression of Niagara was a blackone. But it so happens the effect was quite the reverse--it wasprecisely the same as passing through the gloomy passages leading to thediorama. [Illustration: HEBE. ] As I walked to an hotel to have some lunch before seeing the Falls, Iwas startled to see in wood (everything is either water or wood atNiagara) my old friend Mr. Punch standing outside a cigar shop, smilingas usual; so after I had taken one of his cigars and lighted it, we hada chat about Fleet Street and all his friends there. [Illustration: MY DRIVER. ] "Guess, stranger, I'm here to draw the Britishers. 'Amurrcans' don'tunderstand me. They try to draw me, but they might just as well try todraw one of these wooden cigars in my hand. Their sarcasm runs off melike this rain, and I keep on smiling. They laugh at the Britishersjourneying thousands of miles to see this place, just as the Englishsmile at the Americans pilgrimaging to Stratford-on-Avon. Why, it's realcheap to find natives round here who've lived all their lives withinearshot of the Falls and never seen them yet!" We compared notes--American and English--and parted. At the hotel to which I repaired for the purpose of refreshing the innerman I was waited upon by a Hebe for the first, last and only time whileI was in the States. Quick, quiet and clean--what a relief after thecoloured gentleman! [Illustration: FRA' HUDDERSFIELD. ] Hiring a covered conveyance with two horses and a very intelligentdriver, shaped something like his own whip, who was to act as my guideas well as my Jehu, I was driven through the town of wooden houses to anoffice where I bought tickets to pass me to the various places ofinterest. The purveyor of this pasteboard looked like a French peasant, spoke with an American accent, and came from the town of Huddersfield inEngland. I had no doubt the driver had graduated in his work from the perch of aLondon hansom, and that probably the horses had been trained atNewmarket. Everything is so very "English, you know, " at Niagara, fromthe wooden Punch to the pasteboard man. I was informed by everyone that Niagara would grow upon me. I was ratheralarmed to find it growing upon me the moment I arrived, for it wasraining in torrents and I had juvenile Niagaras all round my umbrella. Ishould rather say you grow upon Niagara--at least, for my own part, Ifelt that if I were left there long enough I should do so. It was themost fascinating sight I ever saw, and I felt as I stood motionless andriveted to the spot I had had enough water to last me for the remainingterm of my existence. [Illustration: NIAGARA GROWING UPON ME. ] Everyone, even the clerk of the weather, had arranged that my visit toAmerica should be pleasant. Niagara, to be seen at its best, must beviewed on a pouring wet day. I know few of my readers will accept thisassertion as a serious fact, but it's true. It is just as true as thefact that the way to obtain the full flavour of strawberries is to putpepper on them, and that the sole method of fully relishing ham is touse a dash of champagne as a sauce. There are people who even in thisenlightened age vegetate upon the face of the earth and know not thesethings, and a very great many more who do not know that they ought toselect a soakingly wet day to appreciate the Falls of Niagara at theirhighest value. It is not for the extra bucketful or so of water that you may behold, for that is imperceptible, but for the water you _don't_ see. A fine dayis a mistake, and the finer the day the greater the mistake, for thereason that distances appear nearer, and the scene as a picture appearscontracted in consequence. But when the rain falls in torrents at yourfeet, and then gradually disappears in mist, it gives to the Falls acertain mystery and suggestion of vastness that cannot possibly beexperienced by the spectator except upon a thoroughly wet, misty day. Therefore I congratulated myself that I saw Niagara on my first visit atits wettest and best. Had I waited till the next day I could have goneto exactly the same points at Niagara and seen the same pictures, inwater and colour of course, totally different in effect. You ought toallow at least three days instead of three hours to inspect Niagara. Thefirst day ought to be wet, then one fine morning you should see it earlyand drive round it in the beautiful afternoon, and stroll there alone orotherwise by moonlight. [Illustration: I ADMIRE THE GREAT HORSESHOE FALL. ] There I stood under my umbrella, with the rain coming down in sheets andthe spray and mist rising up, feeling that I must do one or both of twothings--write poetry or commit suicide. I had just got to-- "Oh, dashing, splashing King of Water, Is that mist thy lovely daughter? Tell me, through thy roar and thunder, Canst thou----" when the crack of a whip brought me to my senses. It was produced by myfaithful driver, who had come in search of me. I was saved. He explained to me the wonders of the Great Horseshoe Fall (who moreable to do this than a driver?), and wound up by saying: "Guess we'll harness Niagara yet--we've got the traces nearly on now. " [Illustration: JONATHAN HARNESSING NIAGARA. ] We had reached the carriage and pair when this meditative remark escapedhim. Thinking he was referring to some other gee-gee of his, possiblyone called appropriately after the Falls, and which was being broken in, I said that I thought the present pair went very well in harnesstogether and had a lot of work in them yet. "Why, certn'ly, " was all he said as he shut the carriage door, but hegave me a puzzled, anxious look, and I saw that he caught sight of mypoetry. I evidently had not understood his remark, nor had hecomprehended mine. At the next stopping place, about a mile above theFalls, he explained that "there was seven million horse-power runningwild. " It is to be "harnessed" at a cost of about 5, 200, 000 dollars, andhorse-power of upwards of 260, 000 will be collared. Yes, Jonathan, mounted upon his thirsty steed Dollars, is about to lasso picturesqueNiagara. I saw through the mist the destroyers at work; mills with theirhideous chimneys and dirty smoke, and attendant railways puffingcommerce will be seen when the landscape is clear. Jonathan cares not;as a writer on this act of ultra-vandalism declares: "Nothing is sacred to the practical man of the present age, especiallywhen he happens to dwell on the other side of the Atlantic. There heuses the wonders of Nature as advertising boards for puffing quackmedicines or patent stoves, and the picturesque and the grandiose areonly appreciated by him in proportion to their utilitarian value. " [Illustration: "THE THREE SISTERS. "] Of course I paid my respects to the sisters of Niagara, or rather, tothe islands of that name. To do so I had to leave the carriage and walkto the islands over little bridges, and again that feeling offascination overcame me, and looking round to see that the driver wasnot following me a second time, I stealthily pulled out my verse andabandoned myself to my poetical inspirations. I had my eyes fixed uponthree rocks in front of me, round which the waters, in all sorts offorms and colours, were dashing. "The Three Sisters, " I repeated tomyself. "Three sisters--some idea to work in here. Let me see, thedaughter is the mist--the three sisters--why, there they are!" Oh, whywas I born a caricaturist? All poetry had vanished; Niagara'sfascination was dispelled! When next you visit Niagara stand on the last of the three sisters andfind the three portraits in the rocks. It is a puzzle picture; a_fac-simile_ of which I here present you with. I was next driven to the Inclined Railway, to descend which would enableme to see the Falls from below. Arrived there, I found an old ladycross-examining the attendant anent the safety of the railway, which, truth to tell, is somewhat appalling to look at, the incline being at anangle of thirty-one degrees. The motive-power is water, and what the oldlady wanted to know was whether the water would hold out long enough tobring her back again. "Niagara dry up in five minutes? Wal, old gal, that's clever! Guess thisrailway's bin workin' every day you have--forty-five years now. " The questioner, who had witnessed, at the least computation, sixtysummers come and go, promptly vanished at this soft impeachment, and Idescended alone. [Illustration: INCLINED RAILWAY, NIAGARA. ] Wonderful, magnificent as Niagara indubitably is, that sense whichenables me to drink in and appreciate to the full Nature's works ofsublime grandeur and vastness was ruined for the day. My eyes had beheldthe "Three Sisters" in the rocks; after that they discovered faces ineverything. They fell upon this mountain of ice and beheld spray thathad frozen into a grinning mask. Cautiously I picked my way along thetreacherous surface in the direction of its ear to see the spray risingup from the other side, when suddenly my feet slipped on the ice and Ihad had a fall as well as seen one. In all probability this _contretemps_ would have been avoided had I notbeen followed by one of those pests, a guide, the sight of whom causedme to make undue hurry over the frozen surface. Harpies of this ilk arethe bane of sight-seeing all the world over. My next performance was to drive through the town of wood for thepurpose of striking the water at another point; this accomplishmentbeing attended with the risk of being run over by passing trains, whichrun vindictively as well as promiscuously over the unprotectedthoroughfares. Having run this gauntlet successfully, I passed through a house which isa store containing photographs and mementoes of the place and a coupleof persevering, persuasive maidens, whose efforts to make life a burdento you until you buy some of the rubbish are usually rewarded withunqualified success. After fighting my way through this edifice I wastaken in hand by a juvenile guide, who discoursed in the orthodoxfashion of his kind about the Whirlpool Rapid, pointed out where plucky, foolish Captain Webb met his death, crushed by the force of water, and, lower down, the spot where his body was found. Then my young chaperonunburdened himself of a string of horrors concerning men in barrels, insane women who from time to time have thrown themselves in, the littlesteamer whose occupants shot the rapids for a wager and nearly paid fortheir temerity with their lives, and many more similarly pleasantreminiscences were conjured up through Niagara's haze on this drizzlyafternoon. [Illustration: WHERE CAPTAIN WEBB WAS KILLED. ] Subsequently I had to make use of another "elevator, " which, judging bythe velocity of the ascent and descent, is probably worked by adetachment of specially-trained tortoises. Down by the rapids I made thepleasing discovery that after all I had some sense of the sublime left, for I was roused to further anticipated flights of enthusiasm by themagnificent spectacle of the vast volumes of water foaming, rushing, eddying, swirling along on their onward course with rush impetuous andirresistible as the whirlwind, and I felt for my pocket-book to completemy ode to mighty Niagara. I had not noticed until that moment two commercial-looking individuals, obviously British, seated close by and gazing biliously upon themarvellous rapids; but I heard one remark to the other: "'Enery, that's where Webb 'it 'is 'ed, hain't it?" I disappeared rapidly in the direction of the "helevator, " and fled thedisenchanted scene. Blondin vulgarised Niagara; Jonathan is going to turn it into a colossalmill-sewer. So make hay while the sun shines, or rather when the rainfalls, and see it soon. [Illustration: TOURISTS. ] To us in England who are in the habit of rushing to a station to demanda ticket for a journey across England, or to the North of Scotland, orto the West of Ireland, and expect as a matter of course to find thenecessary accommodation, it seems strange that the Americans are so"previous" in their arrangements. The sale of tickets, which is hereconducted with ease and despatch at the various termini, or, if youdesire to be "previous, " at the depots of the companies in the centre ofthe town, is in the States made a means of causing "corners" inspeculation. There are, I am informed, actually brokers who buy up thetickets for the express mail trains, and whose prices rise and fall likethe stocks on 'Change. For instance, in Chicago there is a whole street of these brokers. Iwanted to go to Buffalo. I got a prominent citizen to escort me to therailway, and I felt some honour had been conferred upon me when I paidthe full fare and had a corner seat in the Pullman allotted to me. WhenI arrived at the station I discovered that next to me was a mother withtwo children, who were already climbing over my armchair instead oftheir own, and fighting for and tearing the papers and magazines I hadjust purchased. There was another horror I hadn't noticed at my firstglance, moreover. This took the shape of an infant of some months, whichimmediately began to squeal with a shrillness that forcibly reminded meof the siren on the Atlantic. No craft ever flew before the siren of anapproaching Atlantic liner more quickly than did I from that infant. Iat once abandoned my seat. Now instead of going as one would in England to a station official, telling him you are going by the next train and taking your seat in itas a matter of course, I had to go into the city again, interview theofficials at their office, and ask as a special compliment to be allowedto start a few hours later. All this is very surprising in a countrywhere, of all places, time is money. In a long journey you pass through many States, in the two senses of theword. Possibly you may find yourself in a state of thirst, but althoughyou are surrounded by drinks galore you cannot get the wherewithal toquench it, for you are passing through a proclaimed State, and drinkingin that is illegal. Or you may be passing through a State free from thetemperance faddist, where intoxicating beverages are to be had forpaying for them, and suddenly discover that you are in a state ofhunger, say five hours after your dinner; but the coloured gentleman whoofficiates as cook is snoring, and fifty dollars won't buy you amouthful of bread, so you find that your last state is considerablyworse than your first. I have experienced both. I had the good fortune to "strike" an English friend on my journey, andwith him I shared a compartment in the Pullman. The overheated state ofthe cars caused us both to have an unnatural thirst, and we longed for arefreshing draught of air and liquid. Lunch was announced. I was quicklyin the dining car, and sat down opposite to an American, who had alreadytackled his soup and poured out his first glass of claret from a quartbottle. Feverishly I seized the wine-card. My vis-à-vis looked at meover his spectacles, and called out to the "coloured gentleman, " "Bringanother glass. " The glass was brought, and the stranger (I had neverseen him before) filled it with claret and placed it in front of me. "Thanks awfully!" I said, "but--er--really--er I am going to order. Don't let me deprive you of your wine. " [Illustration: AMERICAN TRAVELLING. NOTHING TO EAT. ] "Why, sir, guess you may order what you like, but you won't get it! Iwas caught once myself, fifteen years ago. Kean't buy liquor in thisState we're strikin' now, stranger. I bring mine along with menow--enough for two, in case some green traveller crops up. You'reheartily welcome, sir, and here's your health!" This is the local legislation! My feeling of disgust for the arbitrary, narrow-minded, parochial parasite of the law-jobber was tempered by thegenerosity of the native, and this is only one instance out of hundredsI have experienced of the extreme kindness and courtesy of strangers inthe States. [Illustration: AMERICAN TRAVELLING. NOTHING TO DRINK. ] I could not resist this splendid opportunity to tantalise my Scotchfriend and fellow traveller. He sat down beside me and I handed him thewine-card. He wiped his fevered brow and his parched lips parted in asmile as he ran his eager eye down the list. When he had scanned thenames (and prices) I broke in with: "I say, old fellow, champagne to-day; a magnum of the best--it's mybirthday, so hang the expense! Oh, yes, I know it's a ten-pound note, but I do feel this infernal shaking, noise and heat, and when else wouldwe feel better able to appreciate a good sparkling 'tall drink'? I pay, and I insist--you order it and see that we get it!" My friendly stranger on the other side simply gazed at me without movinga muscle of his face, and said not a word, still I haven't the slightestdoubt that he was thoroughly enjoying the joke in his American fashion. My Scotch friend's face brightened up at the prospect of refreshing hisparched larynx with a long drink of champagne; but it was difficult tosee whether he or the "coloured gentleman" looked the blacker when thelatter informed him that the only beverage he could have was ginger ale!_Verb. Sap. _: Never travel on an American railway without your own wine. Surely the railway companies, who justly pride themselves on the waythey study the comfort of their travellers, should warn the unwary intime, for it is not everyone who is lucky enough to meet with a goodSamaritan as I did. A friend tells me that some of the "coloured gentlemen-in-waiting" onthese cars have an eye for business, and when a stranger is victimisedby these stupid and selfish laws, they serve up to him Rhine wine out ofa teapot as weak tea! If you doubt the truth of the following, ask any traveller who hasrushed through the States at the rate of two hundred and fifty miles anhour to verify it. You sit down to the principal meal of the day in the dining car at saysix o'clock. Not happening to be an American, you intend to eat yourmeal in a reasonable time, say an hour, instead of five minutes. Whyhurry? What is there to do before retiring to the sleeping car to bejolted sleeplessly about for seven or eight hours? Nothing; so take aslong as possible over your meal. You leisurely order a wine from thelist, and it is brought, uncorked and placed by your side. After thesoup and fish you think you will take glass No. 1, but no, not a bit ofit! You are now rushing through a proclaimed State, and your glass andbottle are promptly removed. Sancho Panza never looked so surprised asyou do. To add insult to injury, or rather injury to insult, you arebrought that frightful cause of indigestion, "iced water. " I have beentold "by one who knows" never to touch the ice on these railway cars; itis not safe, though for what reason I cannot at the moment recollect. Itcomes from some wayside cesspool or out of a rusty copper boiler, or isthe refrigerated perspiration off the railway carriage windows, orsomething dreadful; anyway, it is unsafe. So you look at it and toy withthe next course on the chance of flying quickly through this detestablestate of narrow-mindedness and broad absurdity. Your patience isrewarded. You fly past some wooden houses and blazing factories andvulgar advertisements of quack medicines, the vendors of which forsoothare those who prohibit a weary traveller from aiding digestion bydrinking an innocent and harmless beverage. The "coloured gentleman"returns smiling with the bottle and glass. "Guess we've cut through that State; this isn't proclaimed. " You drink confusion to the priggish provincial faddist whose State wehave just passed, and continue your dinner. I am a slow drinker. During my late illness, the illness that caused mytrip to America, I had to take all my meals dry--allowed to drinknothing whatever, not even a drop of water; so perhaps it is notunnatural that after months of this treatment I should find a difficultyin drinking before my meal is over. So when the above-mentioned incidentoccurred to me, it so happened that I was in no hurry to raise my glassto my lips. At last I took it up, but before I could transfer any of itscontents to the interior of my throat a dusky hand was placed on mineand the glass was removed. "Sorry, but we're in another proclaimed State now!" I prayed that one of these fiendish faddists might enter the car at thatmoment. I passed a solemn resolution that I would pour all the contentsof the cruets down his cursed throat and make hideous caricatures ofhim all over the wine list! More wooden houses and their wooden-headed occupants were passed, and atlast I was at liberty to have a drink. Ice is not of necessity pure nor wine impure. If these ignorant foolsare unable to drink without proving to the world that Nature intendedthem for beasts, it is no reason why they should make laws for theirbetters, particularly for the stranger flying through their country, which they misappropriately call free. Again I hark back to the laying of railway lines, which I repeat wemanage better in England than they do in the States. The sleeper in hisberth in an American car is tossed up and down to such an extent thathis vocabulary is exhausted in anathematising the sleepers under therails. It doesn't seem as if the Transatlantic lines are ever going toadopt our thorough system of track-laying. I met a railway expert on theboat going out who had been to England to inspect officially the layingof a railway, and he assured me that if they were to take up all thetracks in America and relay them in our way it would financially breakthem, enormously rich as the railway kings of the States are. [Illustration: SLEEP(!)] I must candidly say I don't care about sleeping in those cars. The heatcan be avoided by paying extra and having a coupé to yourself, orsharing it with a friend, as I did. My first experience was on thatjourney from Chicago which I mentioned before, and I shall never forgetit. I had at the last moment to take the only berth left, and ithappened to be a top one. I was the last to retire that night, and mystruggles to climb to my perch were so ludicrous that I was glad therewere no spectators. I placed my handbags, hat-boxes, &c. , one on top ofanother, and mounted them as cautiously as an acrobat ascending apyramid of decanters, and scrambled in. I then proceeded to divestmyself of my articles of clothing. I noticed that the snoring of thegentleman in the berth underneath grew softer and somewhat stifled, andas I wound up my watch and placed it, as I thought, under the pillow, hejumped frantically out from behind his curtains and went head over heelsamongst my improvised steps. Then I began to realise what had happened. I had not understood the mechanism of the arrangements, and under theimpression that I was placing my clothes, &c. , on the ledge, I was inreality dropping them on to the unfortunate occupant of the netherberth, hence the muffled snoring, and when my forty guinea repeaterdescended upon some unprotected portion of his cranium it put theclosure on his dreams in a most abrupt manner. When you are introduced to an Englishman he invariably invites you toeat something. "You must come and dine with us quietly at home, don't-cher-know, " or "I must rig up a dinner for you at the club somenight, " &c. A Scotchman suggests your drinking something--urges upon youthe claims of the Mountain Dew; a Frenchman wishes at once to show yousomething, the Bois de Boulogne or the Arc de Triomphe; a German desiresyou to smoke something; an Italian to buy something; and an Australianto kill something, but an American wants an opinion "right away. " "Waal, sur, what do you think of our gre--e--eat country? What do youthink of this wonderful city? What do you think of the Amurrican gurl?" This latter is a question which one is asked in the States morning, noon, and night. To endeavour to effect a compromise by admitting that she is quite ascharming as the English girl, as pretty--though of course of adifferent type--still equally charming, is a waste of time. You will bemet with the commonplace "Get out!" and an added enquiry, "Now don't youthink she's just the most fascinating and lovely creature on this earth, and by comparison with your English girls ain't she just sweet?" [Illustration: A WASHINGTON LADY. ] My own tactics were simple--I hedged. "Well, you see, " I replied to a question similar to the above, "I havemet but few as yet of your representative American girls. To be sure, Ihave seen your cosmopolitan New York beauty, your Washington diplomat, and your Chicago daughter of Boom, and so on; but there are yet manyfields of beauty unexplored, and I prefer to withhold my opinion till Ihave had an opportunity of judging from further experience. I am quiteprepared to admit, however, that the general impression made upon anobservant Englishman is that American ladies dress better than does theaverage Englishwoman; or, at any rate, carry themselves with more grace, and thus show off their gowns to greater advantage. " "Correct! That is absolutely true, " said a lady to me in Washington, after I had delivered myself of the above stereotyped remark. "YourEnglish girls have awful figures, and they know absolutely nothing aboutputting on their gowns. Why, my dressmaker in London--the verybest--made me laugh till I was nearly sick, by describing to me thestupidity of her English customers. She declares that she positively hasto pin on a new dress when sending it home, a label stating: 'This isthe front'; and one day, when she omitted this precaution, she had ariding-habit returned with the complaint that it did not 'set'correctly. The lady had put it on wrong side foremost. " This was told mein all seriousness by one of the brightest and most intelligent ladies Imet during my stay in America, who, I am quite sure, was firmlyconvinced of the truth of the statement made by the dressmaker. It happened that one day I had been hard at work in my rooms at thehotel, and as the daylight failed, before turning on the unrestfulelectric light, I lit a cigarette and threw myself into therocking-chair to enjoy a peaceful quarter of an hour, when a knock cameto the door and a card was brought to me, "Miss Liza PrettyvilleSimmerman, the _Examiner_. " Another interviewer! Had the card been Patrick McKee O'Fleister, the_Examiner_ might disappear with the setting sun for aught I cared, butthe name struck me as being pretty (lady interviewers generally havepretty names). It occurred to me that it would be interesting to see ifthe name fitted the owner, so I said I would see her. It fitted. "Sorry to disturb you, " with a delightful accent and musicalvoice. A pretty interviewer! A pretty American girl with a musicalvoice! A _rara avis_. I ordered up tea for two. "You know, sir, what I am going to ask you. What do you think of theAmerican girl?" "That, " I said, "I'll tell you on one condition, Miss Simmerman, thatyou first tell me what you think of her yourself. " "Ah!" she replied, with a laugh, "that is not so easy a task--we do notsee ourselves as others see us. " [Illustration: A LADY INTERVIEWER. ] "No, Miss Simmerman, and even when one listens to strangers, or readstheir impressions, one is apt to form a wrong estimate of oneself. Letme therefore change the question, and ask, what do you think of theEnglish girl?" "Oh! I think she is delightful. " "How would you describe the typical English girl?" "Well, she is very tall and thin, and quiet, and has a nice voice, lotsof hair, and walks well. " "And talks seldom?" "Yes, she is not as vivacious as the American girl, but she is moresincere and thorough, and a deeper thinker, and not so much merely onthe surface as our girls are. " "But, " I put in, "you say, do you not, that she does not know how todress her hair or wear her clothes properly?" "Yes, that is so, and it is noticeable more particularly in herheadgear, which she wears well over her eyes; in fact the higher she isin the social scale, the more tilted is her hat. One thing the Americangirls do envy is the healthy, fresh, clear complexion of the Englishgirl. The green of the grass and the splendid complexion of your girlsare the two things which first strike the American visiting England. Both of these, we are told, are due to the climate, and this doubtlessis a fact, for when an American girl has been in England a short timethe colour comes to her cheeks, only to disappear on her return to hernative land. Another thing we admire is the English girl's figure. American girls are either slim as compared with English girls, or elsevery stout. We have not the happy medium of the daughters of England. " "Pardon me, but is not the pale-faced daughter of America a littlespoilt?" "From an English point of view, yes. American men's one idea besideswork is the worship of American women. You say anything you like aboutAmerica or Americans to Jonathan, but you must give nothing but praiseto the American woman. " "But we in England love our women folk also. " [Illustration: A SKETCH AT "DEL'S. "] "Ah! yes, but there is not such a contrast between an Englishman and anEnglish lady as there is between an American and his wife. Our 'QuiVive' women are so much superior to the men. " "I will admit that. " "Very well, then, I will admit that American girls are somewhat awkwardwith their arms, and have no idea what to do with them. As they walkthey stick their elbows out, and when they stand still they hold theirarms exactly the way the dressmakers pose when having a dress tried on. " "I suppose they have little use for their arms?" "Well, as a fact, American girls do not busy themselves or enjoy work asEnglish girls do. Their fathers, husbands, and brothers work, and theylook on. " "Yes, I have noticed that all over the States. Women talk, men listen, but when men talk it is dollars, dollars, dollars. The girl is bored, and sighs for London or Paris, until she is old enough to talk dollarsherself. " In face, I notice, the American girl is quite distinct from her Englishsister. I notice a difference in the way the upper lip sweeps down fromthe outer edge of the nostril; but more noticeable still is the factthat the cheek-bones of the American girls are not so prominent, and thesmooth curve down the cheek to the chin is less broken by smallercurves. In social life the American girl charms an Englishman by hernatural and unaffected manner. Our English girls are very carefullybrought up, and are continually warned that this thing or that is "badform. " As a result, when they enter Society they are more or less infear of saying or doing something that will not be considered suitable. As a matter of fact they are not lacking in energy or vivacity, butthese qualities are suppressed in public, and only come to the surfacein the society of intimates. American girls from childhood upwards aremuch more independent; they have much more freedom and encouragement incoming forward than ours. The vivacity and liberty expected of anAmerican girl in social intercourse are considered--as I say--bad formfor our girls. [Illustration: YOUNG AMERICA. ] The observant stranger will, if an artist, also be struck by the factthat the face of an American girl, as well as the voice, is often thatof a child; in fact, if one were not afraid of being misunderstood, andtherefore thought rude, one could describe the American girl better bysaying that she has a baby's face on a woman's body than by anyword-painting or brush-painting either. The large forehead, round eyes, round cheeks, and round lips of the baby remain; and, as the presentfashion is to dress the hair ornamentally after the fashion of a doll, the picture is complete. The eyes of an American girl are closer together than those of herEnglish cousin, and are smaller; her hands are smaller, too, and so areher feet, but neither are so well-shaped as the English girls. Let me follow the American girl from her babyhood upwards. The first isthe baby, plump, bright-eyed, and with more expression than the averageEnglish child; a little older, see her still plump, short-legged, madeto look stout by the double covering of the leg bulging over the boots;older, but still some years from her teens, she is still plump from thetip of her toe to her eyebrow, with an expression and a manner ten yearsin advance of her years, and you may take it from this age onwards theAmerican girl is always ten years in advance of an English girl; nextthe school-girl; then that ungainly age "sweet seventeen. " She seemstwenty-seven, and thenceforwards her plumpness disappears generally, butremains in her face, and the cheeks and chin of the baby are still withher. Suddenly, ten years before the time, and in one season, happens what inthe life of an English matron would take ten. The bubble bursts, thebaby face collapses, just as if you pricked it with a pin, and she isleft sans teeth, sans eyes, sans beauty, sans everything. This is theAmerican girl in a hurry, and these remarks only apply to the exhaustedNew York, the sensational Chicago, the anxious Washington, and theover-strained child of that portion of America in a hurry. [Illustration: AN AMERICAN MENU. ] I have not quite made up my mind as to whether I like the American girlor her mother the better. They are both vivacious and charming, but ofcourse the younger is the prettier, and in point of attractivenessscores more than her mother. It is true, as I have said, that American girls do "go off" very soon. Imust confess that one evening at dinner, surrounded by charming youngAmericans, I was bold enough to say so. It was a very inopportune momentto have made the remark, for seated next to me was a remarkably fine andhandsome young lady, who informed me that she had five sisters--I thinkit was five--and I was assured by our host that they were all of them as"elegant" as my fair neighbour, and that the mother looked as young asthe daughters. At the reception, after dinner, I was introduced to the mother, andfound the exception that proved the rule. We had quite a discussion uponthe staying powers of the American beauty; but despite all arguments Iam convinced, through my own observations in England and America, thatAmerican ladies do not wear so well as English. No doubt this is due, insome measure, to the climate, and in a greater degree to the mode ofliving. However, before dealing with this rather ticklish subject, I hadbetter finish what I had to say about the evening in question, or thisparticular young lady may take my remarks as personal. [Illustration: MY PORTRAIT--_IN THE FUTURE_. ] We discussed age and wear and tear _ad nauseam_. I felt rather aggrievedby being put down by those members of the Press who had discussed mypersonal failings for the benefit of their readers, as several yearsolder than I really am (all due, no doubt, to my premature baldness). SoI asked for the secret of the American hair-preserving elixir, and mycharming companion assured me that she had really and truly discoveredan infallible composition for producing hair! This she promised to sendto me, and upon my return to England I received the following charmingletter, which I publish for the benefit of all those whose hair, like myown, is becoming, to quote an American paper, "a little depleted on thetop of the dome of thought. " I have not yet tried the remedy, but Iintend to do so, and when I appear again on the American platforms Ishall probably rival Paderewski, who owes a great deal of his successand fortune to his "thatch. " The following is copyright: "LIKA JOKO HAIR RESTORER. " "MY DEAR _Mr. Furnace_, "Fearing you would think me lacking in a sense of humor I have hesitated to send you the receipt you asked for, but, being an American, I fear it would not be true to my country's principles to allow such an opportunity for promoting growth to pass unheeded. Two tablespoonsful alcohol, Two tablespoonsful flour of sulphur, Two tablespoonsful castor oil, One pint boiling water. "Put in bottle, shake well and allow it to stand three days before using. Rub well into the scalp every night. "Here it is, and I trust soon to receive the pen and ink sketch in proof of its unrivalled success. "Very sincerely, "----" "Brooklyn, "April 20th, 1892. " I suppose my benefactress, if I disclosed her name, would be worried todeath by the multitudinous proprietors of shiny-surfaced "domes ofthought. " Notice she calls me a furnace! Too suggestive of the sulphur!alcohol!! boiling water!!! I must confess that it was with some trepidation I accepted aninvitation to a reception of the Twelfth Night Club of New York--a clubfor ladies only, which invites one guest, a man, once a month--no othermember of male sex is allowed within the precincts of the club. Isurvived. Next day the papers announced the fact under the followingcharacteristic American headlines:-- TWELFTH NIGHT GIRLS REJOICE. FURNISS GETS A WARM GREETING. CARICATURIST TALKS TO TWELFTH NIGHT WOMEN. ROTUND ENGLISHMAN TELLS HIS EXPERIENCES IN HIS BREEZY WAY. [Illustration: I AM ENTERTAINED AT THE TWELFTH NIGHT CLUB. ] I was pleased to read that the lady reporter considered that I "bore thecourtesies with the grace of a well-bred Englishman and with lessembarrassment than the average man evinces at being the only one of hissex present upon these occasions(!). According to one of the iron boundrules of this club the guest of honour is the only man admitted, and assuch Mr. Furniss was received with enthusiasm. If he could haveprojected his astral body to the other end of the room, and from therehave sketched himself as he turned off autographs to the pleading groupof women, it would not have made the least funny picture in hiscollection. " I agree in this latter part, for the whole affair struck me as intenselyfunny, and not at all appalling--in fact, I spent a very delightfulafternoon. A lady whose dress the papers described as "a costume ofbrown brocade and lace" played beautifully. Another "dressed in greysatin and chiffon" sang charmingly. A third who wore "a skirt of blackand a primrose bodice trimmed with lace" recited with much talent, and agalaxy of the belles of New York, ladies of society, and professionalstars of the pen, the platform and the stage combined to make feel athome. I had to acknowledge in thanking them that although I perhapsfailed to draw American women, American women had certainly succeeded indrawing me. After this pleasant experience it was with a light heart I accepted asimilar invitation when shortly afterwards I visited another city. AgainI was to be entertained at a Ladies' Club, but to my surprise I foundit, not as I did the New York Club, modestly accommodated in a largeflat, but a club having its own imposing building--as important as anyin the West End of London. Carriages lined the street, and a crowdsurrounded the entrance. Still, I was not unhappy. The entertainmentwould surely be proportionately long, and I would have less to say. Iwas, as at the other club, unprepared, preferring to pick up some ideafor a reply during the entertainment prepared to honour me. The hall andstaircases were crowded with a most fashionable gathering; two largereception-rooms--with open folding doors--were well filled with ladiesseated. The President met me at the door and escorted me to a smallplatform in the centre of the rooms, on which were a reading-desk and aglass of water! After formally and briefly introducing me, she asked ifany man was present. It so happened that in a corner behind the pianoone was found and immediately ejected, and I was left alone to begin! Myfirst impulse was to make a rush for that corner behind the piano, butrows and rows of seated dazzling beauty formed a barricade I could notnegotiate. I had in the few words of introduction caught the name of SirEdwin Arnold and others who had stood where I did at that moment. Yes, --but they were doubtless warned beforehand of what was expected ofthem, and therefore came prepared. I, on the other hand, stood there"flabbergasted"! I confess I never felt so cornered. No, if I had beencornered--but there on a platform to face the music! No, not the music, there was none! I had to speak--about what? for how long? to whom? [Illustration: RECEPTION AT A LADIES' CLUB. ] I made a plunge. I confessed honestly I was unprepared. I explained thatI had accepted the invitation on my arrival--believing I was to beentertained, not to be the entertainer. That I had none of theflattering phrases ready of those who had stood before them on similaroccasions, and furthermore I did not believe in such platitudes. This Iquickly saw was my key. "Now, ladies, as I am face to face with this unique gathering ofAmerican women--and alone--I have at last a chance I have long waitedfor. I want to tell what I _really_ think of you. I respect you for yourcleverness. To roll off empty compliments and--if I could--poeticalplatitudes also with my tongue in my cheek, as others have done, wouldbe to insult your intelligence. You only want to hear me speak on onesubject, yourselves, the American woman, and compare her with theEnglish woman. Let me first speak as an artist. [Illustration: WIFE AND HUSBAND. ] "Now, if there is one thing I have heard repeatedly from the lips ofAmerican women it is that the English man is superior to the Englishgirl. You, in fact, look upon the English girl with contempt. Youcertainly admire and emulate to a certain extent the fashionable Societywomen of England, but the ordinary English girl you treat withindifference, and speak of with contumely. You look upon her as abadly-dressed idiot. That may strike your ears as a sweeping assertion, but my ears have tingled over and over again by hearing that verysentiment coming from your own pretty mouths. Now, as we are alone, letme say a word or two on that point. You say the English woman is a fool. You say that the English man is bright, clever and brave. One has onlyto look round the world to realise that your opinion of the English manis right. That one little dot on the map, England, predominates thegreater portion of the globe. That is the result of the plucky andaccomplished English man you so much admire. Now, I will ask you onequestion. Did you ever hear of a clever man who had a stupid mother? Thehistory of the world shows that all great men had mothers with brains. In considering this recollect that we are agreed that the English man issuperior to the American man. Does that show that the American mothersare cleverer than the English mothers? No, --it points to the reverse, that the English girl you look down upon, under her soft, gentle mannerhas something superior to you American women--she has solidity andbrain-power. That is why the English man is superior to the American. Now, ladies, you, with your pretty faces, your charming manners, yourvitality, and shall I say it? your worldliness, have boys who are--well, equal to what you consider the English girl to be. Of course it isalways unsafe to generalise, but as you generalise yourselves andsweepingly assert that the English girls are born idiots, I want you tounderstand from a man who has not come here to tell you lies, but totell you the truth, that if America is really to be the great country ofthe future, the sooner you begin to model yourselves on the Englishgirls the better. " I said a great deal more, but I shall not confess anything further aboutthe charming American ladies just now. [Illustration: A DREAM OF THE WHITE HOUSE. ] We English have an impression that all American men, women, and childrenare politicians, and it is the dream of every youthful American one dayto occupy the White House. But in the great contest of 1896 there wassomething deeper than mere ambition. When I went over in the steamer Itravelled with some overworked, big city merchants who were sacrificingtheir holiday in Europe to vote for Mr. McKinley; the little childrenwore the national flag in their buttonholes; and the last evening we hadat sea a lady called me on to the deck and said, "Look at thatbeautiful golden sunset! It is a symbol that America is for gold. " Andas we looked behind at the sea-mist we had passed through, she found inthat the symbol of silver! In fact, for a foreigner, I had had quiteenough of the Presidential election before the steamer arrived at theWhite Star Line landing-stage. I crossed the Herring Pond in chill October, so as to be in New York forthe last stages of the Presidential contest. The last stages of theseelections, although exciting and interesting from a political point ofview, are not to be compared with the earlier scenes for effect. For thepurpose of sketching scenes the artist should be there in the heat ofsummer, and in the heat of the Conventional controversies. At the timeof brilliant sunshine, when in that year America was so much _enévidence_ in England, when Yale was rowing so pluckily at Henley, whenHaverford College was playing our schools at our national game, when theAncient and Honourable Artillery Company of Boston were being fêtedright royally in the Old Country, when London was fuller of Americanvisitors than at any other time--it was then that all the fun ofpolitical affairs was taking place in the United States for the fightfor Gold _v. _ Free Silver. It is at the two gigantic Conventions at which the rival candidates arenominated that the artist finds material for his pencil, the satiristfor his pen, and the man of the world food for reflection. By allaccounts, these Conventions baffle description. Everything is sacrificedto spectacular effect. They take place in huge buildings decorated withbanners, emblems of all kinds, startling devices, transparencies, andportraits of the candidates. Bands play different airs at the same time;processions are formed and marched all over the hall, carrying emblemsand portrait banners, the State delegates carrying the State standardsin front of each procession to the cheers and yells of their supporters. Similar demonstrations are carried on in the galleries. Girls dressedsymbolically representing silver or gold, or some topic of interest inthe election, wave flags and lead demonstrations, perhaps acting as anantidote to the less attractive surroundings. The election being a purely commercial question, I attended the meetingsheld in commercial districts, where the excitement ran high. During thelunch hour crowds attend the political gatherings held in the centre ofthe business districts in large stores turned into halls forspeechifying and demonstrations, and great as the subject is, and graveas is the issue, the ludicrous is the first feature to strike thestranger. A great empty store, running the whole length of the groundfloor of one of the monster ten, twenty, or what you will storiedbuildings, was appropriated for the purpose. The bare walls were drapedwith stars and stripes, and innumerable portraits of McKinley and Hobartconfronted you on every side. In the centre was a roughly-constructedplatform; on this a piano and seats for the orators. At 12. 30 sharp (thebusiness lunch hour) a crowd surged in; bankers, brokers, dry goodsmerchants, clerks, messengers, and office-boys, straight from the QuickLunch Counters--a great institution there--filling every corner of thehall. An attendant carried the inevitable pitcher of ice water to theorators' table; a "Professor" hastily seated himself at the piano andplayed a few bars; a solemn-faced quartette took its position in frontof the rostrum, and the meeting was opened. [Illustration: THE POLITICAL QUARTETTE. ] The campaign songsters had taken a leaf from the Salvation Army, andappropriated all popular airs for political purposes. Praises of SoundMoney and Protection were sung to the air of "Just tell them that yousaw me, " and denunciations of Bryan, Free Silver, and all thingsDemocratic to the tune of "Her golden hair was hanging down her back!"The quartette aroused the greatest enthusiasm. An aged Republican seatedimmediately in front of the platform, who had voted every Republicanticket since Lincoln was elected, waved his stick over his head, and thecrowd responded with cheers and encores. The quartette retired, thechairman advanced, motioned with his hand for silence, and announced thename of the first orator of the occasion, who happened to be aclergyman--a tiresome, platitudinous person. Somehow, clergymen on theplatform can never divest themselves of their pulpit manner. They bringan air of pews and Sabbath into secular things. The minister denouncedBryan and Democracy in the same tones he used in declaiming against Agagand the Amalekites on Sunday. At last he brought his political sermon toa close, and the quartette again came to the front, sang a few morepolitical adaptations of popular songs, and the chairman announced thenext speaker, a smart young lawyer of the Hebrew persuasion. After him, more songs and more speakers of all kinds, and at half-past one themeeting came to an abrupt conclusion. The crowd vanished like magic, thehall was empty, the lunch hour was over! When night fell, oratory was again rampant in all parts of the city. Atevery street corner one saw a waggon decorated with a few Chineselanterns and covered with portraits of the candidates. In front theorator shouted to the casual mob, and at the tail end his companiondistributed campaign literature. One crowd exhausted, the waggon droveon, and gathered more listeners at another stand. In this way, instrolling through the streets, one was met with a fresh line of argumentat every turning. Republicans, Democrats, Prohibitionists, Socialists, etc. , all had their perambulating orators. It was as if all the SundayHyde Park orators had taken to waggons, and were driven about throughall quarters of the town, from Whitechapel to Kensington. At one streetcorner a Catholic priest was rallying his Irish compatriots to Tammanyand Bryan, and urging them to shake off the fetters of the bloatedBritish capitalist; and at the next a Temperance orator was pleadingthe hopeless cause of the Prohibitionist party. The campaign was not so much a fight between Silver and Gold as betweenSound Money and Sound Lungs. BRYAN'S CAMPAIGN. Number of speeches delivered 501Cities and towns spoken in 417States spoken in 29Miles travelled since the nomination 17, 395Number of words spoken on the stump (estimated) 737, 000 WHAT BRYAN DID IN ONE DAY. Travelled from Jacksonville, Ill. , to Alton, Ill. , and spoke in seven towns and cities. Slept eight hours. Talked seven hours. Miles travelled, 110. Speeches made, 9. Persons who heard him, 60, 000. It would be impertinent on the part of any English journalist to use theordinary language at his command to describe that scene. Let him copythe headings of those who have given the people of the United States alanguage of their own: ARMY OF LOYALISTS. A Hundred and Twenty Thousand Men March with Old Glory up Broadway. GRANDEST PARADE IN ALL HISTORY. The Great Thoroughfare a Tossing Sea of Red, White, and Blue and Gold. Cheers and Music fill the Air with Melody. Legions Marshalled for the Honor and Safety of the Union and the Prosperity of the People. PATRIOT ARMY'S GLORIOUS MARCH. WARRIORS OF PEACE, BATHED IN GOLDEN SUNLIGHT, PASS THROUGH STAR-SPANGLED LINES. PARADE'S RECORD-MAKING FIGURES. Number in Line, 125, 000. Miles long (estimated), 14. Parade started at 10 a. M. Parade finished at 6. 26 p. M. Number of spectators (estimated), 1, 200, 000. No pen or pencil could give any idea of the intense feeling andexcitement over that election. To realise its effect one must have seenthe faces of business men in cities like New York--faces pallid withcare, eyes restless with inquiry and uncertainty, mouths twitching withanxiety. To them Bryan spelt ruin. You could read that in the faces ofevery one of responsibility. We had huge meetings and long speeches from morning to midnight. In thechurches the pulpits were turned into hustings, and for the momentministers preached the Gospel and McKinley in equal proportions. Milesof sound money men paraded the streets, and at night the rivers northand east were given over to political aquatic demonstrations. Hugebanners flaunted the sky, and tons of party literature strewed thefloors of every house; but the whole story was better told and moreimpressively demonstrated in the faces of those united in commerce--99per cent. Of the better class in the city. They looked worn and anxious;their words were words of confidence, but expressed with an uncertaintyand reserve which were significant. One day I met a prominent citizen--an ardent Republican--and I asked himhow he thought the elections were going. He said, "I feel like the oldwoman Ingersoll tells of, who did not believe in ghosts, but wasterribly frightened of them. " This reminds me that the Free-thinkingIngersoll had been stumping the country, and clergymen, such as Dr. Parkhurst, had been turning their pulpits into political platforms tobring their influence to bear on the voters. To all those who were inNew York during that momentous time the scene will linger in theirmemories when the names of Bryan and McKinley have ceased to interestthem. And the curious thing is that this is no exaggeration. To see, as I did, thousands of well-dressed city men marching past at quick time, withmartial tread, to the music of innumerable bands, from half-past ten inthe morning till seven o'clock at night, is a performance thatEnglishmen can hardly realise, and one that they will certainly neversee in their own country. Its very seriousness, simplicity, andimpressive monotony made it all the more striking. Not a soldier to beseen, no triumphal cars, no break in the stream of respectabilitymechanically moving throughout the day. In England, on publicdemonstrations, one goes to look at the crowd, but here the crowd wasthe procession. This political fever seemed to work up the enthusiasm ofevery man, woman, and child when the march was over, on, I may tell you, a bright, hot Indian summer's day in November. [Illustration: AFTER THE GREAT PARADE: "AM I TO SIT ON AN ORDINARY SEATTO-NIGHT?"] Crowds of the paraders continued to march in smaller squads through theside streets for their own enjoyment, and overflowed into hotel lobbiesand restaurants, covered with emblems, flags, gold bugs, andchrysanthemums, which were brought into the city by thousands for theoccasion. And then some humour was imported into the serious business ofthe day. One youth strolled into a _café_, and when he was offered achair by the waiter, he drew himself up, and said, "Am I to sit on anordinary seat to-night?" They blew their tin horns, rattled theirrattles, and waved their flags in and out of every place until late atnight, and they were still singing and demonstrating in the morning, but with that extraordinary common-sense which is characteristic ofAmericans, the Bryanites and the McKinleyites shaking hands and settingabout their business with redoubled energy, having another crisis in thecountry to record as a landmark in the history of the republic. On the last day of my first visit to America I found myself in the headdepôt of the New York detective force. The courteous and talentedpresiding genius of that establishment had left his busy office to showme over their museum, a chronicle of the city's crime, and as I wasthanking him afterwards, he said: "Is there anything I can do for you?" "Well, " I replied, "I have seen the best side of life in New York, now Ishould like to see the worst. " "The very worst?" "The worst you have. " The worthy officer eyed me up and down as if he were going to measure mefor a suit of clothes. "Very well, " he replied, seemingly satisfied with my resolute bearingand undaunted mien and determined visage, which showed my daring andenterprise. Beside me a Stanley or a Burton would have lookedeffeminate. "A detective will be at your hotel at ten o'clock to-night. " And he was. I had just come in from dinner, and had changed my clothes for an oldsuit that had braved the weather in crossing, and was consequently wellsalted by Atlantic brine. "May I offer you a cocktail?" I say. "No, thank you, " he replies. (_His_ nerve doesn't want fortifying, evidently!) Mine does, so I have aManhattan as I hastily pencil a line to my wife to be sent to England incase I do not leave by the _Majestic_ next day. "Now, then, what's your programme?" said I in an airy way, as we reachedthe street. "Trust to me, " said the "'tec, " "interfere with no one, and keep yourpencil and your notebook in your pocket till I tell you. Keep yourmouth shut and your ears and eyes open, and as they say in thepantomime, 'you shall see what you shall see. '" We were soon whizzing along the elevated railway, and I was trying toimpress my guide with stirring tales of midnight meanderings in thegreater city, London. I left out any mention of Dublin, for my companionrejoiced in a truly Milesian cognomen, and still bore strong evidence ofhis native country in his accent, mixed with a good dash of American. "Guess you're a pretty 'cute Britisher, and shure it's the likes of youI'm mighty glad to strike in this _tre_menjious city!" I felt somewhat flattered by this encouraging condescension, and I admitnow that I did not feel particularly happy at the idea of bearding thethieving lion, with his hyena-like satellites, in his den. I feltsomething like a criminal under arrest myself, and I am sure thateveryone in the car must have thought that the world-famed detectiveforce of New York had added another notorious catch to the many theyhave so cleverly made. As we passed close to the windows of the houses, and actually lookedinto the rooms on the second and third stories, Detective Jonathan H. O'Flaherty would point out to me a room here and there which was beingwatched by his comrades, and as we approached nearer and nearer to thepurlieus of the poor, he positively detected seated in rooms in shadyhotels which harboured thieves a forger, a housebreaker, and othernotabilities of a worse character. Indeed, I would not have beensurprised had the arm of the law been literally stretched out at anymoment, and one of these gentlemen transferred from his seat through thewindow and deposited by my side in the carriage. America is a free country. England, we are assured, is not; but the factthat the police are allowed to arrest anybody they please withoutshowing any authority whatever is a curious contradiction which theBritisher may be pardoned for smiling at. Detective Jonathan H. O'Flaherty and I had a rather warm argument uponthis point, and I must say that in the end I had to admit that there wasa good deal to be said in favour of the utter want of liberty to whichAmericans have to submit. "For instance, " said my guide, "to-morrow is a public holiday. Atdaybreak I guess we'll be afther locking up every thief, vagabond, andpersons suspected of being varmint of this description in this greatcity, and it's free lodgings they'll have till the holiday's played out. In that way crime is avoided, and the truth of the saying proved that'prevention is better than cure. '" "But there is an unpleasant feeling that this autocratic power may leadto mistakes. In England the police must have a warrant, " I said. [Illustration: ITALIANS. ] "Guess, stranger, if we waited for a warrant the varmint'd vanish, andthere'd be the divil to pay. No, sir, I reckon we Amurricans don't waitfor anything--we just take the law into our own hands right away. Ashort time ago I was sitting enjoying some singing in one of the saloonsin the Bowery here, and right through in front of me sat two foreignerswith the most perfect false whiskers on that I ever clapped eyes on. That was enough for me. I went outside, sent one of my men forassistance, and then sent in a theatrical lady's card to one of thegentlemen. The bait was taken, and he came out. We arrested him straightaway, and made him send in for his friend, who came out, and we nailedhim as well. Turned out afterwards that they had come to kill one of theactresses--love affair, revenge, and all that sort of thing. In yourcountry guess you'd have arrested them after the murder; we had thembefore. There was no harm done, but they got a fine of a few dollars. " He put his hand suddenly upon mine as he said this. For a second Ithought that he imagined _my_ whiskers were false, and that this wasonly a plant to lock me up! It was evident my nerves were becomingunstrung, and as soon as we were in the street my good-humoured andexcellent guide told me that in another five minutes we would begin ourvoyage of discovery. We passed through the Chinese quarter, down MottStreet, and I could not but feel a pang of sympathy for these aliens, looked upon by the Americans as vermin. It is a strange war, thisbetween John Chinaman and Sambo for the vassalage of the States; but inpoor England, the asylum of the alien, all nationalities have an equalchance, and the nigger, the Chinaman, the Jew, and the German can walkarm in arm, whether in the squalid streets of Spitalfields or thearistocratic precincts of Pall Mall. But there is a war going on in London between two races of differentcolour, undisturbed and unseen, for the gory scenes of warfare areenacted in the bowels of the earth. It is to the death, and has beengoing on for years, the combatants being the red cockroach and theblackbeetle. Both came to our shores in ships from distant lands. Theblackbeetles were first, and had possession of underground London, butthe cockroaches followed, disputed the right of territory, and thus thewar began. The latest reports from the seat of war assert that thecockroaches are victorious all along the line as far as Regent's Park. But this is digression. I merely made use of the cockroach similebecause it occurred to me as I traversed the Italian quarter and gazedupon its denizens, an occasional accidental rub against one of whom mademe shudder. Innocent they may be, but they don't look it, and when I wastaken up a court--a horrible, dark, dank _cul-de-sac_--and shown theidentical spot which a few weeks beforehand had been the scene of amurder, I made a sketch in the quickest time on record, keeping one eyeon the ghastly place and the other on a window where a ragged blind waspulled quickly and nervously back, and a white face peered suddenly outand as suddenly retreated. I did the same, pulling my detective friend after me. [Illustration: WHERE THE DEED WAS DONE!] It is said that one-half the world does not know how the other halflives, but not the ninety-ninth part knows how it dies. In the vicinityof Mulberry Bend I was shown a house in which another bloody deed hadrecently been perpetrated--another cockroach killed. The blood was asfresh and visible as that of Rizzio in Holyrood Palace, but this excitedno curiosity among the passers-by--crimes are more plentiful thanmulberries here. Paradise Park, The Bowery, New York, is a very high-sounding address. Itis one that any European might imagine as a retreat of aristocraticrefinement and sylvan beauty; there is nothing in the name to suggestthe Seven Dials of London in its old days; and yet the place is itscounterpart, the only difference being that the Five Points, as it iscalled, is two degrees worse than the Seven Dials that's, all! [Illustration] Standing at these misnamed crossways, I noticed hurrying past an Italianwoman bearing a load of household furniture on her back, and followed bya man--her husband, I was told--cursing her. "They always move at night, " said my guide. "The women do all thecarrying, and this is in a country where woman reigns _soo_preme, too!" Next comes a youth with a crutch. "One of the cleverest thieves in the city. No one suspects him--guesshis crippling is his fortune. " I should like to tell you of other interesting people I saw, of myperambulations through Baxter Street, the Jewish quarter, of the visitsto the joss house, opium joint, grocery stores, halls of dazzlingdelight, and dens of iniquity I made that night. I had my sketches andnotes before me to continue this chapter, when I received a New Yorkpaper. In it I discovered an illustrated article headed "In His OwnBlack Art, " purporting to be an account of my visit to the slums with adetective. After reading it I laid down my pen and took up my scissors, I felt it impossible to disclose any more. The rest I leave to myshadower on that occasion, reproducing also some of the sketches this"faithful copper-fastened distorter of features" set down, with manythanks to him and a sincere wish that his headache is better. [Illustration: IN AN OPIUM JOINT. ] "IN HIS OWN BLACK ART. * * * * * "Mr. Furniss writes very cleverly, it should be said. He writes good London English, for he, like many of 'the infernally good fellows' of Fleet Street, 'don't you know, ' believes that the vernacular is only written in its virgin purity in that city. However, let that pass. [Illustration] "But there was one thing that I couldn't consent, even as his friend, to overlook. Mr. Furniss was determined to go 'slumming. ' He had letters to several members of the police department, but the friends who had given these valuable credentials had evidently selected only the captains of the highly respectable precincts. Of course, they could not imagine that Mr. Furniss would want to visit the joss house and opium joints of Chinatown. Nobody would, to look at him. And yet, in his tireless study of 'American' character, he penetrated even these mysteries. "Everything was arranged for the tour during the night before his departure on the _Majestic_. It was a charmingly dark night, admirably suited for those _chiaroscuro_ effects that a black-and-white artist is supposed to seek even in his dreams. An experienced Central Office detective took him in hand with all the _savoir faire_ of an Egyptian dragoman. "HITTING THE PIPE. "With the wisdom of an artist and the news-sense of a Park Row hustler, Mr. Furniss lit a cigarette, and said: "'Show me all. ' "This remark filled me with terror. Was it right to permit this well-meaning but over-zealous friend of my country, my people and myself to sound the depths of social degradation in the metropolis and lard an otherwise charming book with screed and sketches dragged from the slums? He was likely to mistake Donovan's Lane for Harlem Lane, and Paradise Square for Maddison Square! Any man would be liable to do so after a few days' visit to a strange city. How many of the American birds of passage who flock to London every summer know the distinction between Mitre and Capel Courts? One is the scene of a ghastly Whitechapel murder; the other is the financial center of the Eastern world! [Illustration] "When, therefore, it was seen to be impossible to dissuade the talented young caricaturist from his blue-glass view of metropolitan society, it seemed necessary to provide for our self-defence. One of the cleverest pen-and-ink artists in America was engaged to accompany the party as a second detective. A flying visit was paid to Mott Street, and the services of High Lung, a distinguished crayon manipulator, recently arrived (by way of Vancouver and the dark of the moon), were secured to make a Chinese-American caricature of the charming but over-curious Englishman. "Everything worked to a charm. Mr. Furniss went where he intended. He saw all. He made sketches. He visited the shrine of the great Joss. He ate birds' nests and rice. He saw the deadly opium smoked, and 'hit the pipe' a few minutes himself. "The night came to an end with dawn. Headache destroyed curiosity. Our own faithful, copper-fastened distorter of facial beauty set down in Mr. Furniss's black art what he had seen and did know. Here are the results, H. F. It is to be feared he has imitated your style. "Bon voyage, master of the quick and the lead! Draw us, if you must; but draw not the long bow. "J. C. " [Illustration] CHAPTER X. AUSTRALIA. Quarantined--The Receiver-General of Australia--An Australian Guidebook--A Death Trap--A Death Story--The New Chum--Commercial Confessions--Mad Melbourne--Hydrophobia--Madness--A Land Boom--A Paper Panic--Ruin. SYDNEY--The Confessions of a Legislator--Federation--Patrick Francis Moran. ADELAIDE--Wanted, a Harbour--Wanted, an Expression--Zoological--Guinea-pigs--Paradise!--Types--Hell Fire Jack--The Horse--The Wrong Room! [Illustration] Wise chroniclers are welcome to the opinion that "the dreaded CapeLeeuwin was first rounded by a Dutch vessel, 1622. " All I can say isthat the Cape has got sharpened again, for there is no roundness aboutsave the billows of the Indian Ocean, which everlastingly dash againstits side. I'll agree, however, with any chronicler that the cause of thechronic fury of the Indian Ocean at this point is caused through anger. To call that grand if barren promontory after a twopenny-halfpenny Dutchcockle-shell is a gross insult to the thousands of miles of sea betweenthat point and any other land. Fortunately the little Dutch vessel had aname which sounds all right if only pronounced in plainEnglish--_Lioness_ in place of _Leeuwin_--but the vessel might have beencalled _Rats_, or _Schnapps_, or some other name even less dignified, and one that would have been adopted just the same. It is the principleof the thing that the great sea objects to, and it is not slow to showits rage, as all who round it know full well. Chroniclers are found whoseem to have agreed that the name is the whole cause of the roaringwinds and waves around Cape Leeuwin, but that the roughness is inreality the result of satisfaction in bearing one so awe-inspiring, andthat the "Lioness" is trying to live up to her natural wildness andfury, and fully succeeding in doing it. I regret that I was in too great a hurry to visit Fremantle, which liesat the head of the Lioness, particularly as on my journey to Australia Ihad cut out the following passage from a description I came across ofthat place. I read this, and re-read it, and still continue to read it, as a choice specimen of the guide-book-maker's delirium: "The first _coup d'oeil_ of Fremantle is a white scattered township onan undulating plain fringed by a sea-beach and scant vegetation. As youland you are struck on all sides with the unusual activity around you. Long sinuous trains of loaded cargo trucks are coming and going, locomotive whistles warning the pedestrian to beware, lines of railsintersecting each other, crowds of lumpers, and the busy air of a largeshipping centre bewilder you, and you are carried back to some old-worldport where ships of all nations call and disgorge their lading. " [Illustration: COALING. ] There! Are you not anxious to go to a place with the assurance that youwill be struck on all sides as soon as you land with unusual activity?Do you not burn to see what "a long sinuous train" is like? Are you notwilling to brave the dangerous locomotives crossing the intersectinglines of railways, just to see those crowds of lumpers? Then to bebewildered by the busy mercantile air, and before you have time to fullyrealise all this you are to be "carried back to some old-world portwhere ships of all nations call and disgorge their lading. " That last proposal settled my mind; no attractive trains or lumpers, undulating plains or scant vegetation, or anything equally attractive, would induce me to arrive at a place, after five or six weeks'travelling to get there, to find myself at once carried back to someold-world port before seeing something of the rest of Australia to repayone for the long and tedious journey. I therefore avoided Fremantle. There is one attraction to visit that port which the traveller from theOld World will appreciate, after his experience of the fleecing dues andcharges at Adelaide, Melbourne, and other Australian ports, in whichofficials all but tear the clothes off the visitor's back to tax them. In this port your mantle at least is free. In spite of the following paragraph from the same source: "WesternAustralia has emerged into the full glare of the world's light andrenown, and not to know its golden wonders is to argue oneself unknown, "I determined to remain in obscurity. [Illustration] The guide-books assure us Albany deserves more than "passing notice. "This is true enough, but travellers do not always get a chance of givingthe place its deserts. This was particularly the case with me on myfirst visit. Quarantine was then in force, and, with myfellow-passengers, I was forbidden to land. All I then saw of the peopleof Western Australia was limited to a few hours watching thecoal-lumpers at work trucking coal along a plank from an ancient hulkmoored by the side of the P. And O. Steamship _Victoria_. After theanimated scenes of coaling at Malta and Aden, and particularly the wild, indescribable scene at Port Said, coaling at Albany fell decidedlyflat. The only diversion that varied the monotony of the proceedings waswhen a truck would capsize in its Blondin-like trip and pitch the coalsinto the sea. [Illustration] The most interesting personage in Albany is Captain B----, the harbourmaster. I call him the Receiver-General of Australia, for he is thefirst inhabitant of Australia to receive and welcome the new comer, andhe is also the last to take farewell of the parting guest. Captain B----has held the post of harbour master at King George's Sound, Albany, forover thirty years, and, though over seventy years of age, he seems equalto many years of service yet. Certainly a stranger gets a goodimpression of the country if he takes Captain B---- as a sampleAustralian, and one wonders, when one sees this fine old salt run up thegangway with the agility of a youth of seventeen, whether allAustralians are equally active. Chatting with Captain B----, Icomplimented him on his youthful physique. "Why, sir, " said he, "I canclimb up anything. I can board the ship hand-over-hand on a rope andnever touch the side with my feet. " This seemed pretty good for a man ofover seventy, but I did not regard it as an exaggeration. Captain B----remembered his father and uncle, both naval men, going to the funeral ofKing George IV. His reminiscences included the experiences of singing ina choir at the coronation of the Queen, and also when Her Majesty wasmarried. When the Captain ran down the gangway shouting orders to hismen, the strength of his lungs was as evident as the agility of hisbody. Anyone who took this worthy official as a typical Australian wouldbe greatly deceived. Diminutive in stature and voluble in speech, he isin every way the reverse to the average-born Australian. The Australianis generally tall, not to say lanky, and by no means communicative. An American walked into the smoking-room of a P. And O. Ship outwardbound, as it was leaving St. George's Sound, threw himself down on asofa, stuck his feet on to a table, spit, and said to those in thesaloon: "I thank my stars I am clean out of that one-horse town Albany!" Another traveller who had joined the ship at the same town and who layhuddled up in a corner more dead than alive after a severe attack oftyphoid followed by pleurisy, remarked: "Well, you must admit, sir, it is the healthiest place in WesternAustralia. " "Co-rect, stranger--co-rect, " replied the Yankee. "Co-rect! guess that'swhy I have cleared out. This darned Albany is 90 per cent. Of climateand only 10 per cent. Of business. " [Illustration: SLEEPY HOLLOW. ] I visited Albany on my return journey. It struck me that in "SleepyHollow" 90 per cent. Of the natives were in bed and the other 10 percent. Were dozing on the seats on the parade. When I started for the Antipodes the place that I looked forward toseeing more than any other was Western Australia. It is the part ofAustralia most discussed at home, where it is being boomed with all theartifice of the promoter's gang. Every ship brings living cargoes toWestern Australia; every newspaper is full of Western Australia. On thefront page are shipping advertisements offering every facility for quickand cheap transit; in the centre of the paper leading articles appear toventilate the wonders of the West; towards the end of the paper--in theCity news--thousands eagerly scan the Stock Exchange for prices ofWestern Australia. There is another column still in which one might findinteresting news concerning Western Australia--the deaths column. When I arrived in Australia the one place that I determined nothingshould drag me to was Western Australia. No, not all the gold in themines would get me to that pestilential plague spot. Here is a placeboomed "at home" and abroad at the time of Queen Victoria's Jubilee, when nightly speeches were made at banquets glorifying the charms of thespeculators' Eldorado, Western Australia--when columns were written ofits boasted civilisation, and cheers were given when "Advance Australia"was roared out, and bumpers were drunk by the stop-at-home wirepullers. Just read the following, published at the moment:-- "A WESTERN PLAGUE SPOT. "HOW FEVER IS RAGING IN PERTH. "Various visitors to Perth have expressed their opinions upon the awful conditions, from a sanitary point of view, of the Western city, and almost daily news is telegraphed across of the ravages from typhoid, pneumonia, and other diseases in consequence. "That the state of affairs is in no way exaggerated by prejudiced outsiders is proved by a full-page account in a recent issue of the Perth _Herald_, and which is headed: 'Typhoid Fever in Perth; An Alarming Situation; The Position of Affairs Grows Worse. ' "The opinions of doctors, nurses, experts, and others are published, all going to show that public and private action is almost in every case as if the one aim was to increase the death-rate to the highest possible figures. "The water supply is contaminated; drainage runs into the catchment area, and even fæcal matter is plainly evident in the samples analysed; there is no supervision of the milk supply; vegetables are grown under most dangerous conditions; stagnant drains are in almost all the streets; about public places of recreation there are fever beds; many of the population are crowded in small boarding-houses like rabbits, and ordinary precautions for the removal of filth neglected, even if that were enough in itself; houses are built on pestilential swamps; the wind blows the dust about spots where the typhoid excrement has been deposited to breed germs by the million; and bread, meat, and other food carts go about uncovered to collect it, as if to make sure that any who escaped all other sources of the danger should not be allowed to escape the plague. "Even the public esplanade has to be shunned, the silt from the sewer which is being used for reclaiming being a mass of foul matter. "It will interest 't'othersiders' to read this about the conditions of life:-- "'Many of the dwellings in which the t'othersiders are to be found huddled together are first-class fever "germinators. " The rooms are small, the ventilation bad, the bed linen rarely changed, while not the slightest attention whatever is paid to sanitation. It is estimated that there are at least 400 small tenements, from two to five rooms, serving as "boarding" and "lodging" houses, and in these over 3, 000 persons are sheltered. '" Stories of how fortunes are made and lives are lost in the race forwealth in Western Australia would fill volumes. A typical story, and a genuine one to boot, is worth recording. Awell-known racing man travelling on a steamer round the coast wasattracted by a seedy, out-of-elbows individual seated all alone. He gotinto conversation with him. The seedy stranger was reticent abouthimself, but voluble about others, particularly those who were makingtheir piles in Western Australia--he was going there if he had to walk. The idea of a man walking was a repulsive thought to a racing man, so hemost generously insisted upon this dilapidated acquaintance accepting£10 to help him to get to the goldfields. The stranger was to pay himback some day if he ever struck oil. Time went on, and one morning theGood Samaritan received a letter with the £10 enclosed and a request tomake an appointment. The two met again. The out-of-elbowsfellow-traveller turned up to keep the appointment he had asked for, dressed in the height of fashion; he not only looked a millionaire, buthe was one! Yet he was sad and depressed, and recited the history of hisgood fortune to the good-natured sportsman in a most dismal tone. Thoughhis words were full of gratitude and thankfulness, he seemed, strange asit may appear, somewhat reproachful. "Yes, thanks to you, I have struck a gold mine, the one the world is nowtalking about, and you shall have half of it; that is the reason I askedto see you. " "Not I, " was the reply. "I don't want it; besides, you have relatives. " "I had, " said the millionaire, looking sorrowfully away. "I had threebrothers. I was very fond of them, and sent for them when my luck cameand, thanks to you, my fortune also. They arrived in Western Australiafull of life and hope and jubilation, three of the finest and strongestfellows in the Colonies. They were all dead and buried within amonth--stricken down by the damned typhoid fever. " [Illustration: PROSPECTORS. ] Every day I spent in Australia I had similar stories to these toldme--of how those rushing into the death-trap to dig up gold were buriedthemselves instead. Every day I heard of the swindles as well as of thesewerage. Both the towns and the business stank. Bogus mines werefoisted into the "new chum, " and huge companies started to work them;businesses advertised as big affairs with tremendous capitals were inreality a paltry village hut or two, with a few pounds of goods flunginto them. If you are not robbed in England right away by such swindles, you areinvited to sail for Western Australia. I met the manager of a Western Australian mining property, who wasjustly savage at the influx of "new chums" sent out by the directors ofthe company he represents. These ne'er-do-wells, of all ages and of alldegrees of stupidity and vice, arrive weekly, with letters ofrecommendation from the London directors, and in most cases actualcontracts signed for berths as book-clerks, secretaries, correspondingclerks, &c. , &c. --worthless incumbrances, but, even should they be foundcapable, not a berth open for one per cent. Sent out: a fault showingthat the directors in London are ignorant of the working of things theyare supposed to direct. A sharp manager, finding himself face to facewith a cargo of these silly "new chums" so landed, after going carefullyover the binding contracts they came armed with, addressed them thus:-- "You, Mr. Nogood, hold a contract made in London by your uncle, adirector of this company, to be engaged on arrival as clerk at £10 aweek. You, Mr. Boozer, are to be engaged at £6 a week as book-keeper;and you, Mr. Flighty, at £5 a week as an assistant engineer, and so on. Now, gentlemen, in my position as manager here I may tell you plainlythat your relatives and friends--the directors in London--are notconversant with the business here in detail. Were they, I am certain, gentlemen, you would never have signed these contracts agreeing to giveyour valuable services to us for such a ridiculously small remuneration. Things are dearer here than in London, you know; you could not live onsuch miserable pittances. Now I am unfortunately in the unhappy positionthat whilst here absolutely at the head of affairs and an autocrat, I amat the same time bound to accept these contracts made in London, and amtherefore powerless to improve your unfortunate acceptances of theseposts assigned to you. However, if you will agree to tear up thesecontracts I shall engage you weekly all the same, but at doublesalaries. Do you agree to this, gentlemen?" They all did. The contracts were destroyed, they received doublesalaries, for a fortnight, were not asked to do anything, and were alldismissed with a week's notice by the autocrat, the manager of theproperty, who has his picked, tried, and trusted men to do all the worknecessary. The Western Australian boom is over. The rooks have plucked everyfeather they can off the poor pigeon. The Land of Promise, the Land ofMyth, the Land of Sharks and Sharpers, is discovered by the payingpublic, and is in disgrace. Truth will out, and the truth about WesternAustralia is out of the designing promoter's bag now, never to be caughtin it again. Africa suggests a comparison. In mining there is a greatdifference between Africa and Australia. Take, for instance, the Rand inAfrica: it is one long reef of general excellence, divided into minesall of solid value. Australian mines, with one or two notableexceptions, do not run so; they are short, broken and erratic. Each of these when struck may or may not yield the three ounces to theton they are boomed as having, but what is not explained to theinvesting public is the fact that the mines are limited anduncertain--they are not continuous, they are most expensive to open andwork, and consequently they are practically worthless, and theinvestors' money is swamped and the land shows no return. A man who has most exceptional experience in mining, in a conversationwith me used an expression _à propos_ of the character of the mininglodes. He said that they were "patchy. " That expresses everythingAustralian. Australia is a patchy country. Look at the sheep stations: agood season or two, property investment, rush, extravagance, no rain, ruin, despair, exodus. So it is with land, with everything--it ispatchy. The people are patchy. One set, pleasant, refined, kindly, lovable; the next objectionable, vulgar, low and detestable. A friend of mine on board the steamer had the following interestingconversation with an Irish lady moving in Australian society: "Do you happen to know Mrs. Larry O'B. And Mrs. Mike O'C. ? "Do I know thim? Well, iv course I do. Shure, me darlin', both of theirhusbands stood in the same dock wid moi husband on their thrial formurder--for killin' a process server in Oireland years ago. Moi husbandwas acquitted, worse luck!" "Worse luck?" "Yis. Maybe y'don't know as how the other two gintlemen got sintincedand were sent out here as convicts, and both of thim now aremillionaires, and my poor man is still workin' hard for his livin' inthe ould counthry. " Hydrophobia is unknown in Australia. A traveller on arrival has his petdog taken from him and the poor animal is thrust into quarantine for sixmonths. These four millions of inhabitants, spread over the largestcolony in the world, consider themselves so precious they quarantineeverything and everybody but lunatics. Why not quarantine lunatics? Arethey not dangerous? Did not a whole city go mad? Stark, staring, ravingmad--Mad Melbourne--and yet a Maltese terrier is quarantined in the sameport for six months! [Illustration: QUARANTINE ISLAND. ] Yet lunatics arrive and make lunacy rampant, and a whole city is leftafter such a visitation an asylum of melancholia--Mad Melbourne. Lunacyfrequently takes the form of egotism. Peasants imagine themselvesprinces; Calibans believe themselves to be Adonises; beggars imaginethemselves millionaires. It is a harmless vanity and hurts no one, but amad city may ruin thousands by suddenly imagining itself a gold mine. Melbourne a few years ago imagined it suddenly became the hub of theuniverse. The world and his wife had but one burning desire--that was tolive in Melbourne. Some lunatic started this ridiculous idea, and theboom spread like lightning. Melbourne was by this magic boom turned intoan Aladdin cave. No prairie fire ever started with such suddenness, with such fury, burning up, as it leapt and galloped along, all thereasoning powers and common sense of the people. Those who cleared aspace around them to avoid destruction were tongued by the fire ofspeculation, and before they could move away were irreparably lost. Great and small, old and young, were carried away in the blaze ofspeculation. The frightened reptiles and beasts running in front toescape it were, it was thought, miserable fools who had not the pluck orsense to aid in setting speculation in Melbourne on fire. A fancifulpicture on paper this? True, so was the great boom of 1887 merely afanciful picture on paper. Had it been otherwise banks would not havefailed, nor would families have been ruined wholesale, nor would tradeand speculation have been left charred roots and stubble on the scene offolly--Mad Melbourne. It is difficult to say how it began--it is unnecessary to say how itended. I am told that at the height of the boom Melbourne wentfrantically and absolutely mad. Poor men and women rushed about fancyingthat they had suddenly become millionaires. In the few hours betweenbreakfast and lunch they had bought a piece of land for £1, 000, and in afew hours had sold the same block for £10, 000--on paper. They then heardthat the purchaser had re-sold it for £20, 000 before dinner, they boughtit back for £30, 000, and re-sold it over supper again for £50, 000, agood day's work--on paper. Everyone did the same--all were mad. Moneyflowed in from the Old Country in millions, champagne flowed freely allover Melbourne in gallons, everyone was intoxicated with joy and sousedthemselves and their friends in champagne to wash down success. Vehiclesrushed speculators through the streets, trains whisked them to the landfree, luncheons free awaited all at every turn, fortunes at every step. Melbourne was mad drunk--lost! Buildings--comfortable, sensible buildings--were pulled down and "skyscrapers" and mansions were erected in their places. Bridges, good for ahundred years to come, were pulled down and millions spent in erectingin place of the old ones others not more serviceable or of more use. Huge docks, not wanted, were built at fabulous outlays--all thesebuildings stand as monuments of Melbourne's Madness. The extraordinary good spirits of the Melbournites is a healthy sign. Those who not only lost all their money invested, chagrined by theirfolly and left with liabilities that will cripple them for life, smileand bear their fall right cheerily. Some of these notes made by me whilst seeing the Kangarooists at home"in a hurry" may not be received in the proper spirit. All new countriesare sensitive, and resent truths coming from a stranger, while at thesame time their home critics, though far more severe, are tolerated andunchallenged. Now I met one of the most prominent Australians, a man ofthe world, a leading legal light and a Member of Parliament. It was inthe Legislative Chamber I had a conversation with him on mattersAustralian. He led off: "This bit of a place here (Sydney), with apopulation less than that of a second-class provincial town in England, has in it people with more cheek than would be found in the capitals ofLondon, Paris and St. Petersburg rolled into one. Why, these people havesome ingrained vain idea that everything and everybody connected withthem are the most important things and the most important people in theworld. Small-minded people in a large country--that is what they are--acountry the size of Europe with a population less than that of Londonwith the intellect of a country village. That is Australia. " [Illustration: I AM INVITED TO PRESENT MYSELF. ] "And divided among themselves. Do you believe in Federation?" This conversation took place in June, 1897, and three years after, Australian Federation had become a reality. It is therefore interestingto repeat the opinion of this important Australian on Federation, exactly as it took place: "Well--yes and no. I believe in the principle, properly worked, in acountry ripe for it; but here in Australia, my dear sir, we do not knowwhat federal government means. I have travelled round and round theworld--ha! ha! not in a hurry, my dear sir, but with the object ofseeing and learning all about the political workings of countries aswell as other subjects. I travel so much sometimes that on waking in themorning I have to rub my eyes to think for a moment whether I am in St. Petersburg or Ottawa, San Francisco or London. I travel so much, onecountry and another to me is like walking out of this room into thenext. I am, in this respect, an exception. This place is provincial, theminds of the people are essentially provincial, they do not understandbig questions--Federation is a very big question. Now, sir, I am shown anew machine that you have at home for cutting your hair--good, it isscientific, a thing of beauty and tremendously costly. I say, 'Yes, that's all very well, but I cannot see how Mr. Furniss can affordsuch a machine for cutting his hair. ' Then everyone cries: 'Oh, hedoes not believe hair should be cut!' Why, I say nothing of thesort--hair-cutting is an excellent thing, a necessary thing perhaps, butwhy have in a small establishment tremendous machinery to do it?" At that moment I caught sight of my head in a glass; the same thoughtstruck me, why indeed? "That is Federation here, " my interesting acquaintance continued. "Here, in this little bit of a community, not the population of onecity--London--spread over the whole of it want five separate governmentsto govern those few millions cut up into States!" From all I could gather, Federation in Australia might possibly berealised some day, but it would be in the dim and distant future, certainly not "in our time"! There is a good story told _à propos_ of the candidature of "TheCardinal. " Of course, the votes recorded for him were solely Catholic, the Irish turning up in great force. Two gentlemen from Erin were foundfighting a deadly battle. When separated and the battle changed for oneof words in place of blows, Mike declared that he'd "livil the baste tothe ground for not voting for the Cardinal. " "And who has he voted for?" "Whoi the blackguard tills me he's voted for Patrick Francis Moran--whoever heard of Patrick Francis Moran?" "Oive voted for the Cardinal--iv course Oi have, " replied the other, "and it's glad Oi am that Oive nearly kilt that varmint for Moran'ssake!" Needless to explain to you Patrick Francis Moran was the Cardinal. Kangarooists drive engines much in the same way as they drive horses, oranything else--a reckless, devil-may-care style. A certain driver in Queensland was told to run the journey through andmake no stoppages--this just suited him. On he went. He found the irongates closed at a crossing in a town he passed through; he did not pullup--not he--he rushed right through, carrying the gates away. Of course, he was reprimanded for this recklessness. "You might have killed the passengers. " "Why, we only carried two!" This satisfied the Enquiry Committee as reasonable--in Australia. This Queensland driver has his prototype in New South Wales. You willfind him on the express between Melbourne and Sydney, known as "HellFire Jack, " a _sobriquet_ he has gained by his dash and daring inrunning the express. He had brought us on at a rare rate, and havingcompleted the middle run, we pulled up to exchange drivers and engines. The conductor noticed me gazing at the portly form of the engine-driver, who had just jumped off. "That is Hell Fire Jack. Jack is a wonder--here we are a quarter of anhour before time, and Jack had an hour and a half to make up in hisrun--he did it--Jack always does--he'd make up anything. It's he asnearly got the sack for making a splendid run some time ago--160 mileswithout a stop. Nothing wrong in that? Well, you see we had four stopsto make in that 160 miles, and he didn't make 'em. Some bookies in thetrain wanted to get to the races, and made Jack a handsome bet hecouldn't get 'em there in time--Jack did--that's all--bless you, he's awonder--never had an accident neither, not one! He knows all aboutengines--can stop and mend 'em on the road if it's wanted. And you oughtto see him pick up his express disc with his train going at 60 miles anhour. There is a little arm sticks out of the side of the engine, andthe disc is suspended at the station. Jack takes it, as I say, going 60miles an hour, never eases up--not he--but the disc he has to drop inits place has fallen off long before! and the next train has to wait anhour to find it. Oh, Jack is a wonder--good-bye, Jack!" I returned to the carriage relieved by knowing that Hell Fire Jack wasno longer in charge. Two men were conversing about travelling of adifferent kind--one was saying to the other: "Why, the last time we metwas on the Coolgardie Coach--wasn't as smooth going as this, eh? ha! ha!I shall never forget our driver--don't you remember how drunk he was, and how we had to tie him into his seat?--and when he did upset us wewent flying a couple of hundred yards away. I saw him as I was landingon my head on the rock tied to his seat turning over, laughing at us. Iwonder what became of the old lady and gentleman inside--they carried'em off for dead, you know. He did make those horses fly--they were gladof the rest, never moved when first down, did they?" I suppose this was the joke of a Hell Fire Tom. Motor-cars will soon beintroduced into Australia; then we shall hear of Hell Fire Harry--and afuneral. The Kangarooists really do not value life as we in the Old Countrydo--they certainly do not value horseflesh. You can buy a good horse forone shilling. Catsmeat in London is dearer than live horseflesh inAustralia. They ride and drive anything and everything. I recollect visiting the best-known horse-bazaar in the Colonies, andwas shown round by an expert. "That horse is all right, but I can't recommend it as a stayer. You wantit for harness? Well, I don't like to deceive you; it ain't much goodafter going seventy miles--no, it's a rotten-hearted beast. It might goeighty miles at a stretch, but I won't guarantee more. " "Eighty miles! Good heavens! In the Old Country half that distance at astretch would mean cruelty to animals. " "Maybe it would--those English horses have the best barrels in theworld, and they are pretty to look at, but no legs. Why, 120 miles is adecent run here; rough work through the bush too, but then soft astan--no hard roads like in the Old Country, you know. " "Yes, but the bush is the bush, and you have to go up and down ravinesand over trees and obstacles of all kinds. " "Right you are. It frightens you at first, but, like the Irishman whosaid his wife didn't mind a beating as she had got so accustomed to it, these horses are accustomed to the ups-and-downs of the bush, and youget accustomed to it too after a few hours. You may have it prettyrough. Lor' bless you, some never stop at anything--there's JackMadcapper and Tom Devil McCary, why, they are daisies. They buy theirhorses here--well, they work 'em, never stop to open a gate, let thehorses go and clear it, over they go buggy and all. Fences? Well it's alittle relish now and then to jump 'em, and you ought to see the buggiesfly in the air. They always take a rope or two to mend up a bit. If ahorse is injured, they go on with the rest and leave it, and wire us foranother team. Horses ain't worth thinking about out here, and the gatesain't much use, nor the fences either, now that we have nothing to keepin them. " I turned to the "vet. " "Valuable race-horses are the best off after all, then?" "Well, they have neither bits of gates nor fancy fences to negotiate;they have stone walls and solid five-foot timber jumps. They have to goover the whole lot clear, or come to grief. I have shot about 1, 000crippled first-class crack racers in ten years on the course alone. " "Then there is no love for the horses here?" "Nonsense! we love 'em. Why, it is a touching incident, I tell you, whenI come on the scene to save further pain for the poor animal. The boywho has had it in charge runs over with a cloth to throw over hisfavourite. Then he draws me on one side, and says, 'Don't shoot, sir, till I'm away, I can't bear it. '" [Illustration: LANDING AT ADELAIDE. ] Adelaide is a charming place when you get there, but you have to getthere first. Getting there is no easy matter if you arrive by sea, asyou must when coming direct from the Old Country. Both for comfort andeffect Adelaide is better approached by land, as when coming by railfrom Melbourne. The railway has to cross the range of hills which shutsAdelaide in from the east, and some fine views of the city and theplains are obtained. From the anchorage at Largs Bay the city is barely visible, andtravellers have to take train through Port Adelaide up to the city, ajourney of about eight miles across the plains. These plains have beencleared of trees, and the country is bare and uninteresting. Before starting on this journey, however, the unhappy voyager has muchto go through. In this respect Adelaide compares badly with Melbourneand Sydney. Sydney harbours the largest steamers in the centre of thecity; Melbourne allows them to come to the back door--at PortMelbourne; while Adelaide compels them to stay outside in the middle ofthe road, or roadstead, and a very rough roadstead it is. When theweather is at all fresh, the landing is positively dangerous. The steamlaunches which come out to the mail steamers are bound round from stemto stern with huge rope fenders. When the launches are jumping, wriggling and plunging alongside the steamers, it is no easy matter toget into them, and anyone but a sailor or a professional acrobat wouldfind it safest to be lowered over the side in a basket. The voyage tothe jetty at Largs Bay is a brief epitome of the Bay of Biscay, theAustralian Bight, and the monsoons of the Indian Ocean. When you reachthe jetty, you are hoisted on to it by practised hands as the launchjumps to the right level. Then--splash! and up comes a green sea throughthe boards and you are wet to the skin. Bathing, it seems, likeeducation, is "free and compulsory" at Adelaide. Perhaps this is a partof the quarantine operations--disinfection by salt water. This sea bathis, however, the only thing, as far as I am aware, that the travellergets for nothing in South Australia. Passengers' baggage is charged forwhen it lands at the jetty at the rate of 1_s. _ 3_d. _ per cwt. , and thesame has to be paid on leaving. When at last you get into thetrain!--such a train! but perhaps the railway department does not likethe risk of having good carriages soiled by passengers' wet clothes--youcompare this "boat express" with those of Folkestone, Dover, Harwich, and Southampton. The first-class carriages are not equal to thethird-class on the English lines. Being an express, this train runs morethan a mile without stopping. Then you have to change trains. When youget along again, you notice that the railway to Port Adelaide runs alongthe street without any fence whatever to prevent people from driving orwalking on to the line. Fatalities of course are common, and excitelittle notice; bolting horses and consequent accidents are of almostdaily occurrence, and the local residents get quite to enjoy beingpitched out of their buggies. Life here cannot be dull, while it lasts. Passengers are lucky if they reach Adelaide within an hour and a halfof leaving the steamer, the distance being about ten miles. The Zoological Gardens of Adelaide are particularly fine. The situationis lovely, the plan is excellent, and originality shown in the design ofthe houses. The specimens are fairly numerous and all excellent of theirkind, and at most points, this is the best "Zoo" in the Colonies. Themost original house is that of the guinea-pigs, which is a huge doll'shouse, complete with blinds and even a scraper at the door, and aninscription outside, "School for Young Ladies--conducted by the MissesGuinea Pig. " The cage that attracted me most was that of Pondicherryvultures. Mr. Gladstone has often been caricatured as a grand old bird, but the Pondicherry vulture is a replica of the veteran statesman, collar and all. [Illustration: PONDICHERRY VULTURES. ] [Illustration: THE MAID OF THE INN. ] There are many beautiful drives around Adelaide--at least, as beautifulas is possible when the scenery is marred by a barrenness of soil, alack of greenness in the grass, an absence of wild flowers, and a dulluniform and sombre tint upon all the trees. The hills, which looksomewhat featureless from the city, are riven in a hundred places byrocky gorges or gullies, and many well-made roads cross the range atvarious points. The roads to Belair and Mount Lofty, to Green Hill, Marble Hill, Moriatta, and a score of other places, give at numerouspoints fine views of the hills and the plain, and some of thewaterfalls, notably the one at Waterfall Gully and at Fourth Creek, areeminently picturesque in a rugged way. I was advised to ignore all thesebeauty spots in favour of one--namely, Paradise. The name seemed toaugur well, and my adviser seemed so serious that I determined to makemy way to Paradise. In my mind I conjured up a place of infinite romanceand beauty, the choice of all the pleasant places in a pleasant land;the Garden of Eden of the Southern Hemisphere. Expectation was at floodwith sunny imaginings as I journeyed over level and dusty roads towardsthis land of promise. I drew Paradise as I saw it, and the sketch willtell more about its beauties than volumes of description. I made for thehotel, and there I found a lady who took me into the garden and pointedout a gap in the fence through which I could squeeze my way intoParadise. I went expecting to be rewarded by a glimpse of the romanticand picturesque of which I was in search. I had been told of thewonderful orange groves of this place. There were trees with orangesgrowing--about enough to feed an average school-treat; and at last I sawthe point of all the joke--a girl-child was tempting a boy to stealoranges; the serpent had left, so I made for the hole in the fence andquitted Paradise for ever, I have looked for the humorist who sent methere, but we have not met since, which is perhaps as well. [Illustration: THE WAY INTO PARADISE. ] [Illustration: PARADISE. ] One of the chief characteristics of Australian city life is its lack ofcharacteristic features. The types of civilised humanity one meets mightbe denizens of Islington or Battersea for any distinguishing trait tostamp them as Antipodeans. There is a certain breezy familiarity andabsence of suavity in their manners and deportment, but otherwise theyare an average lot of mixed Britishers and no more. [Illustration: ADAM AND EVE. ] As soon as I arrived I went about in search of a type of the Australiangirl for my pictures, and was sketching one from my hotel window astypical of a real Australian, when the Captain of our ship came in andsaid, "Oh, there's that Cockney, Miss So-and-so!" She came over in our ship second-class, and had never been in Australiabefore! I recollect a similar instance in Ottawa, Canada. I was returning fromGovernment House, where I had been taken by the Mayor to sign thevisitors' book, and as we were returning in the electric car I satopposite a fine, smart specimen of a youth. I whispered to my Canadianacquaintance, "Is that a genuine type of a true Canadian?" "Yes, a perfect type. " I made the sketch. The following evening I was the guest at Government House, and to mysurprise I noticed that one of the servants at dinner was the typicalCanadian I had sketched. He was MacSandy, fresh from Aberdeen! But if I have been mistaken, others are sometimes mistaken in me, for afew hours before the surprise recorded above happened I was in my hotelin Ottawa, the morning after I had appeared in the Opera House in the"Humours of Parliament. " An eminent Canadian divine was ushered into myquarters, and addressing me said: "Allow me to introduce myself, and to say that I listened with thegreatest pleasure and profit to your most admirable discourse lastevening. " I bowed my very best. [Illustration: A TYPE. ] "I must say, " continued the rev. Gentleman, "that your efforts in thecause of Christianity in this city are marked by a fervour andearnestness that cannot fail to convert. " "Really, " I said, "you flatter me. " "Ah, no, sir; you are one of the brave soldiers of Christianity whomarch through the world addressing huge audiences and influencing themasses, taking life seriously, and denouncing frivolity andworldliness. " "Well, " I said, "I don't think I do any harm, but I must disclaim for mypoor efforts to amuse--" "Amuse, sir!" repeated the astonished divine. "Surely I am speaking tothe gentleman whose stirring discourse it was my good fortune to listento last evening in Dominion Church?" "No, sir, I was in the Grand Opera House. " "Then you are not Dr. Munhall, the Revivalist?" "Bless you, no, sir. I am Furniss, the caricaturist. " "Good gracious! where's the door? Let me out! They have brought me tothe wrong room!" CHAPTER XI. PLATFORM CONFESSIONS. Lectures and Lecturers--The Boy's Idea--How to Deliver It--The Professor--The Actors--My First Platform--Smoke--Cards--On the Table--Nurses--Some Unrehearsed Effects--Dress--A Struggle with a Shirt--A Struggle with a Bluebottle--Sir William Harcourt Goes out--My Lanternists Go Out--Chairmen--The Absent Chairman--The Ideal Chairman--The Political Chairman--The Ignorant Chairman--Chestnuts--Misunderstood--Advice to Those about to Lecture--I am Overworked--"'Arry to Harry. " [Illustration: QUEEN'S HALL, LONDON. I WAS THE FIRST TO SPEAK FROM THEPLATFORM. ] That hateful word "lecture"! Oh, how I detest it! In the juvenile brainit conjures up mental punishment in the shape of a scolding, for to be"lectured" is to be verbally flogged, and the wrathful words that smitethe youthful ear carry with them just as sharp a sting as the knots ofthe lash that fall on the hapless back of the prison culprit. To the boyish mind the lecturer is pictured as an old fossil to whom hehas to listen attentively for an hour without understanding a word ofhis learned discourse. The funereal blackboard, the austere diagrams, the severe pointer and the chilly glass of water, a professor somethinglike one of the prehistoric creatures he is talking about, with his longhair and long words, his egotistical learning, his platitudes and pausesand mumblings, combine to depress the youngster, who all the time islonging for the fresh air and an hour of cricket or football. Then thenotes he is supposed to take! True, there is a certain momentary feelingof pleasure and importance on acquiring the first clean, new notebookand long, well-sharpened pencil, but it is of very, very brief duration. The boy won't be happy till he gets it, but he's anything but happy whenhe's got it! He sees (of course I refer here to public lectures) some"prehistoric gurls, " as an Irish boy once termed them to me, takingcopious notes, but the long words and learned phrases stagger thebudding scientist and befog his as yet undeveloped brain. I am speakingfrom my experience when I attended the first of a series of lectures byleading professors of the Dryasdust species. Nor does the subsequent cross-examination by the parents enhance in theyouthful idea the pleasure of being lectured to. In boyhood's days the student has to attend his lectures, and when theyare over he rejoices accordingly; but what about the lectures in afterlife? Although I have given many of these latter myself, I cannot saythat my experience as one of the audience has been very extensive, as Ihave only heard one or two. The first I heard was delivered by ProfessorHerkomer some years ago. The subject interested me, as I thought I knewmore about it than the lecturer himself, and Herkomer's delivery wasparticularly good, but it was a "lecture" in the strict sense of theword. We were scolded, and went away like whipped boys. When I stood onthat identical platform a few years afterwards _I_ scolded everybody--itis the duty of the lecturer to do so. A lecturer must be a personage altogether superior--this is essential. If he does not possess this attribute, he must assume it. Modesty isineffective; mock-modesty is distasteful; you must instruct youraudience. The commonest platitudes will serve if you call it a"lecture, " and address them to an audience as if they were a lot ofschool children. [Illustration] [Illustration] When a lecture-entertainment has been written, the question then is howto deliver it. Now, with the exception of returning thanks for "art" or"literature" or for "the visitors" now and then at a City banquet, I wasquite unaccustomed to public speaking. A friend of mine suggested Ishould take lessons in elocution from "one of those actor fellows. " "Itis not what you say but how you say it, " he said to me. "Indeed!" Ireplied, rather nettled. "Matthew Arnold had a wretched delivery, and Ithink there was something in what he said. " "True, but you are not aMatthew Arnold, nor I should say a George Dawson either. So take lessonsin elocution, my boy, and save yourself and your audience. " Therefore, modestly I went to consult a professor of elocution with my lecture inmy pocket, feeling very much as I did when I first walked to school, orto my first editor with my youthful artistic attempts. I had, by theway, attended an elocution class and a drawing class in my school days, but no boy was expected to learn anything from either. It is curious to notice how parents willingly subscribe to the schoolextra, "Elocution class, " in the belief that it gives boys confidence. Iwas a nervous boy, so I joined. The drawing extra certainly gives a boyconfidence, because he sees the feeble productions of the drawing-masterand feels he has little to learn in order to become one himself. I shallnever forget my first attempt in the elocution class at school. TheProfessor selected a piece for the day--it was to be learnedletter-perfect. Now I unfortunately parodied it and burlesqued theProfessor, who stood at the end of the library, giving us suitableactions to the words. We all faced him like a company of soldiers formedin a square. Being small, I, sheltered by the big boys in front, indulged in my antics with impunity. Certainly I did not want confidenceat that moment. This over, we sat down round the library, and then thecustom was to call out a boy to recite the piece of the day alone forthe benefit of the others. He called upon me! Confidence had fled. I wasnot struck with stage fright, but with Professor fright. I tried torepeat the words and thought I did, but not until I was stigmatised bythe Professor as incorrigible, and ordered to sit down, was I aware thatI had really given my parody and not the piece. When I went in search of another Professor this incident of my last cameto my memory, and I felt unhappy. Attitude is everything, thought I. Ishall look in at the picture galleries as I pass and compare theoratorical attitudes of the people of the past. I was rehearsing beforeone in the National Gallery when my antics attracted a lady. I lookedround to see the effect--she was laughing. It was Miss Mary Anderson, the celebrated actress. I told her I was about to lecture and was on myway to take lessons in elocution. "Do nothing of the sort, " she cried. "The public does not want to hear your attempts at elocution. Say whatyou have to say in your own way. Speak slowly and distinctly, and leteveryone hear right at the end of the room. " So it came to pass thatMiss Mary Anderson was my only teacher in elocution, and this was theonly lesson I received. Although what I say on the platform may not beworth listening to, I take good care that no one has to ask me to speakup, and put their hands to their ears to hear what I am saying; nor do Ithink, as I avoid the "preachy" style of delivery, my audiences getweary of hearing my voice. [Illustration: MISS MARY ANDERSON. ] MY FIRST PLATFORM. [Illustration] "By desire, " I rehearsed my first lecture, "Art and Artists, " at theSavage Club, previous to my giving it in public. In those days theSavages smoked their pipe of peace in a long room in the Savoy, overlooking the graveyard where so many of their tribe lay at rest. Irecollect the reading-room at the back looked on to a huge building withmournful black lettering on it, announcing the fact that it was theoffice of some Necropolis. Truly a doleful surrounding for the clubwhose members are engaged in promoting the gaiety of nations! The longroom was divided into two, the longer portion being the dining-room, andthe smaller one the card-room, and on Saturday evenings, when they allsat round smoking their calumets, and singing their songs, and dancingtheir war-dances, the room was tried to its utmost capacity, and as onthe occasion to which I am referring the tribe paid me the compliment ofassembling in its numbers, the whole room was required. It was late inthe evening when I arrived, and I found the lanternist in a state ofagitation because the partition was not down, and he was, therefore, unable to put up the screen, as the card-players vigorously protestedagainst any disturbance. Now it has always struck me, perhaps more forcibly on this occasion thanon any other, that the most selfish men on the face of the earth are tobe found in the card-rooms of clubs. The time was close at hand for meto make my maiden effort in public lecturing, and I was not going to bebaffled by a handful of card-players; so, backed by the authority of thesecretary, I ordered them in Cromwellian tones to "Take away thatpartition!" The players were all but invisible, surrounded as they wereby volumes of smoke, out of which there issued incalculable quantitiesof great big D's intermixed with the fumes of poisonous nicotine. Downwent the partition, up went the screen, on went the game. I firmlybelieve they would not have looked up had Cavendish come to deliver adiscourse from the platform on whist. I was quite prepared to proceedwithout disturbing their game, but a difficulty arose--there was noplatform, and I required their tables for the purpose. The grumblinggamblers had to submit at last, and cards in hand they betook themselvesto another room, so I was able to mount my first platform--a collectionof tables. Now I don't know how it is, but it is a fact that there isnothing more unnerving than to stand on a table. The infantile prodigywho is put up on a table for the first time so as to be better admiredby fair visitors, and who has previously struggled manfully from one endof the room to the other on the floor, totters and falls at the firststep when raised to this higher elevation. Anyone can with ease stand ona chair and hang up a picture or anything of the sort, but standing on atable has the effect of making you grow weak in the knees and light inthe head. This is not the effect of the extra height, but the knowledgethat the table was constructed so that you could put your feet under it, and, therefore, they have no right on top of it. Have you ever been in a court of justice in Ireland and seen a witnessperched upon a table? In that enlightened country a table takes theplace of the witness-box. The result is delightful. Standing in awitness-box and leaning comfortably over the bar, you can becomparatively at your ease, your legs can tremble unobserved, and youseem to be in a measure protected from the searching gaze of the public. Not so in the Emerald Isle. The chair is placed in the centre of thetable in the well of the court between the judges and the counsel, andthe unfortunate witness, finding himself in this elevated and awkwardposition, becomes nervous in the extreme. His feet are a great source ofdiscomfort to him. He doesn't seem to know what to do with them. Firsthe tucks them under the chair, then he crosses them, then he turns histoes out, then he turns them in, and just when he is beginning to getaccustomed to his embarrassing situation, the cross-examination begins, and he is at the counsel's mercy: "Now thin, don't be gaping at the jury, sir; why arrn't you respectfuland keep your eye on his lordship?" "Now, sir, attind to me whin I'm speaking, look me straight in the face, and answer me!" "D'ye see this gintleman on me right? Now, now, don't hisitate, keepcool!" It is more than the poor witness can do to keep on the chair. The judgeis on his right, the counsel on the left, and the jury in front of him, and after vainly trying to keep his eye on them all at the same time, inobedience to his counsel's injunctions, he is requested by the opposingcounsel to observe some witness in the court behind him. In my opinionthe witness ought to be provided with a swivel chair, or else the clerkswho sit round ought to be adepts in the art of table-turning. [Illustration: GIVING MY "HUMOURS OF PARLIAMENT" TO THE NURSES. ] Some years later I had another experience of speaking from an impromptuplatform; perhaps the most unique audience I ever addressed. It was atMerchant Taylors' Hall, when a reception was given to hospital nursesfrom all over the kingdom. My pencil perhaps can give a better idea ofthe sundry and various varieties of the "nursus hospitalicus" from thedifferent nurseries of the country. There was no proper platform orstage, so the attendants had the task of moving all the heavy tables inthe splendid hall together, so as to form a substitute. This I thoughtvery efficient, but when I mounted it I found that I could much betterhave given an exhibition of fancy sliding or skating than illustrationsof the pedestrian peculiarities of Members of Parliament. I was inwardlypleased to think that my audience was entirely composed of skillednurses, who were close at hand should anything happen, for I had seriousmisgivings about the slippery surface of my improvised stage. Visions ofmyself with a broken arm or leg floated before me, and, indeed, I don'tthink I should have been so very sorry had an accident occurred, soenraptured was I by the sight of so much feminine beauty. Those in front were all seated on the floor, while the rest werestanding in the huge hall, there being no seats. I noticed that theprettiest dress was that worn by the nurses from the lunatic asylums. Ifelt that I would eventually come under the supervision of these ladies, for a military band, regardless of my performance, was playing aselection from the "Gondoliers" just outside in the corridor, and if Ihad not had it stopped, I would certainly have gone out of my mind. Iparticularly noticed on this evening that various points were passedover in silence by my audience which are invariably taken by others. Inthe second part of my entertainment I make a speech in the character ofthe "Member for Boredom, " anent the use of black sticking-plaster inpublic hospitals. This is intended by me to be more of a satire than ahumorous incident, and I am supposed to bore my audience as thehonourable gentleman is supposed to bore the House; but on this occasionthe nurses, who understood very little about politics, simply roaredwith laughter at the mention of a subject with which they were sofamiliar. Truth to tell, I was rather doubtful whether I had succeededin entertaining the charming ladies, and was therefore particularlygratified to receive the following note from Sir Henry Burdett: "DEAR MR. FURNISS, --I hope you were satisfied with your audience after all. They were quite delighted with your 'Humours of Parliament, ' and the fame of your handiwork will be carried all over the United Kingdom and to the Colonies, for there were over 1, 100 nurses present, and some from the Colonies. This is the greatest gathering of nurses which has ever been held, and I was much struck with the discipline they displayed in responding cheerfully to the request that they would keep quiet and settle down. "If you were as pleased with the audience as they were with you, the meeting ought indeed to be a happy one. .. . "With many thanks for your most excellent and successful performance, which gave just _éclat_ to the gathering to-night, "Believe me, faithfully yours, "HENRY C. BURDETT. " The most difficult audience of all to address is a small audience. Ifeel far more at home before an audience of three or four thousand thanI do before three or four hundred. But the most critical audience, Ithink, is a boys' school. Not that they criticise you so much at themoment, particularly if you appear as an antidote to Dryasdust. Butexperience has shown me that something one may have said has opened afresh idea in the youthful mind, and the criticism, though frequentlybelated, is more genuine than that of the matured members of the publicwho simply wish to be amused for the passing hour. [Illustration: SPEAKER BRAND, AFTERWARDS VISCOUNT HAMPDEN. ] Sometimes I have discovered in my audience public men I am "taking off"in my entertainment. This more frequently happened in the "Humours ofParliament, " where the M. P. Of the place in which I appeared came if Iwas not too unkind to him. But it more often happened he sent a memberof the family in advance, to find out whether the great man waslampooned or not. A friend of mine on a visit to a country house informed me that hishostess, seeing I was "billed" for two nights in the neighbourhood, previous to arranging a house party to hear me, took the precaution tosend the Curate the first night to report. He came back and condemned meand my show unmercifully; my manner, matter, and voice were all bad, andI was certainly not worth hearing. So the party did not go. It sohappened that in the particular entertainment I was giving--"America ina Hurry"--I imitate a lisping country parson struggling through awretched entertainment with a lantern! The most trying, at the same time most interesting, experience I had wasin my first tour with my "Humours of Parliament, " when I appeared atLewes. The ex-Speaker of the House of Commons, Viscount Hampden, was inmy audience, and it was interesting to watch him as I gave my imitationsof him, calling an unruly Member to order. It was all but arranged for me to give my "Humours of Parliament"before her late Majesty at Balmoral. I got as far as Aberdeen, but adeath in the Royal Family put a stop to all entertainments. SOME UNREHEARSED EFFECTS. The dress suit and the regulation white tie are essential to those whoappear in public upon the platform. Mr. Frederick Villiers, the popularwar correspondent, is an exception to this rule. He appears in hiscampaigning attire, with his white helmet on and a water-bottle slunground him; but of course it would be somewhat incongruous for a man inevening dress, that emblem of civilisation and peace, more suggestive ofthe drawing-room than the battle-field, to dilate upon the platform onthe horrors of campaigning, and to take you through the stirring scenesof "War on a White Sheet. " It would be equally absurd for a lecturer on, say, "The Life and Habits of a Microbe, " to be dressed in the garb of abackwoodsman; but I was once obliged to deliver a lecture on "Art" in arough tweed suit. It so happened that I was giving a series of lectures in the vicinity ofBirmingham, and I was stopping with a friend of mine, the Director ofthe Art Gallery and Museum there. He suggested my leaving my Gladstonebag, containing my change of clothes, in his office, while I spent myday rummaging about old book shops for first editions and making callson various friends. My host having had to go to London that day, I wasleft to my own devices, and it was about five o'clock in the eveningwhen I went to the Museum for my belongings. To my horror I saw a noticeup: "Museum closed at three o'clock on Wednesdays, " and this wasWednesday! I rang and knocked, and knocked and rang, but all in vain. Icrossed over to some other municipal buildings to see if there wasanyone there who could help me out of my dilemma, but my spirits wentdown to zero when I was there informed that the custodian of the keyslived miles out of the town. Back I went to the Museum, fiercelyplotting an ascent up the water-spout or a burglarious entrance througha back window, when, to my delight, I saw an attendant gesticulating tome from a window three or four stories from the ground. My time wasrunning very short, so I rapidly explained to him the predicament I wasin, and implored him to throw my bag out of the window. He told me thathe was a prisoner locked in to look after the building, that there werethree or four double-locked doors between him and the private office inwhich my coveted bag was lying, and wound up with the cheeringannouncement that my case was hopeless. I had only a few minutes left in which to catch my train. A glance at mycuffs showed me that one's linen has to be changed pretty frequently ina Midland town, so I made a frantic dive into a shirt-maker's. [Illustration: THE SURPRISE SHIRT. ] "White shirt, turn-down collar. Look sharp!" "Yes, sir; size round neck, sir?" "Oh, thirty, forty--anything you like, only look sharp. " Time was nearlyup. He measured my neck carefully. The size was a little under my estimate, so I got the shirt, bolted for the station, and jumped into the train asit was going off, my only luggage being my recent purchase. I got intothis, and soon I was on the platform in my tweed suit. I apologised tothe audience for making my appearance minus the orthodox costume, sayingit might have been worse, and that it was better to appear without mydress clothes than without the lantern or the screen. I believe theysoon forgot there was anything unusual about me, but I think that as Iworked up to my subject, and became more and more energetic, they couldsee that I wasn't altogether happy. That wretched shirt certainly fittedme round the neck, but the sleeves were abnormally long for me, and thecuffs being wide, they shot out over my hands with every gesture. If Iuplifted my hands imploringly, up they went, halfway up the screen; ifwith outstretched arms I drove one of my best points home, those cuffswould come out and droop pensively down over my hands; if I brought myfist down emphatically, a vast expanse of white linen flew out with alightning-like rapidity that made the people in the first row start backand tremble for their safety; and when, after my final grand peroration, I let my hands drop by my side, those cuffs came down and dangled on theplatform. If my reader happens to be much under the medium height, and ratherbroad in proportion, I would warn him not to buy his shirts ready-made. I cannot understand the idea of measurement that leads a shirtmaker tocut out a shirt taking the circumference of the neck as a basis. I knowa man about six feet high who has a neck like a walking-stick. If hebought a shirt on the shirtmakers' system, it would barely act as achest-preserver; and on the other hand, this shirt in question, as Isaid before, certainly fitted me round the neck, but I nearly stepped onthe sleeves as I went off the platform at the close of my lecture, andsome of the audience must think to this day that I am a conjuror, andthat on this occasion I was going to show them some card trick with theaid of my sleeves, which would have been invaluable to the HeathenChinee. Indeed, this is not the only time I have been suspected of beinga sort of necromancer. I had a friend who was so anxious to improve his artistic knowledge thathe used to come night after night with me to hear my lecture on "Art. "It frequently happened that there was not a seat to spare in the hall, and on these occasions he used to come up on the platform and sit behindthe screen, where he could see the pictures just the same. I think onthe particular night I refer to I was delivering a lecture on"Portraiture, " and at a certain passage I show a very flatteringportrait, supposed to be the work of an old master. The portrait havingappeared, I then dwelt upon the original, and pointed out "that nodoubt, if we could see the original of this portrait, if we could seeagain the man who sat for it, I would not hesitate to say that we wouldbe alarmed at the inconsistency of pictorial art. I will show you, ladies and gentlemen, what I imagine this gentleman must have beenlike!" As I was speaking, some old gentleman in the side gallery had eitherfallen asleep or was very excited by my remarks, for he somehow jerkedthe cord which fastened the top of the screen to the gallery, and snapwent the cord and down came the screen! Behind it there was an expanseof empty platform, with a semi-circular seat, and on it sat my friend, the enthusiast on art, fast asleep! The limelight, no longer checked bythe screen, fell full upon him, and the rounds of applause whichfollowed showed me that my unrehearsed effect, which might have ruinedthe evening, had made it instead a great success. [Illustration: DISCOVERED!] There are sure to be occasional mishaps when the lecturer is assisted bythe lantern; but as in my case, when one is not taken too seriously, itis easy to turn the misfortune off with a joke. A fly was the offender on one occasion in my experience. I was showingsome portraits of Mr. Gladstone in my entertainment "The Humours ofParliament, " and was doing my level best to rouse an appreciative NorthCountry audience to a high pitch of enthusiasm for the man theyworshipped so. I was telling them that at one moment he looks like this, and at another moment he looks like that, when I was amazed to hear themgo into fits of laughter! In describing Mr. Gladstone I dilate upon himfirst in a rhetorical vein, and then proceed to caricature my owndelineations, and it has always been flattering to me to find that theserious portraits have been received with a grave attention onlyequalled by the laughter with which the caricatures have been greeted. But not so on this occasion. I spoke of his flashing eye (titters!), hisnoble brow (laughter!), his patriarchal head (roars!), and a mention ofhis commanding aquiline nose nearly sent them into hysterics! Now in mylecturing days mishaps may have occurred which were due to some fault ofthe lantern or operator provided by the society I lectured to; but withthe splendid set of lanterns I had made for my entertainment, engineeredby the infallible Professor who exhibited for me, I never troubled tolook round to see if the picture was all right. But for a second itstruck me that by some mischance he might be showing the caricatures inplace of the serious portraits. Quickly I turned round, and the sightthat met my eyes made me at once join in the general roar. There was agigantic fly promenading on the nasal organ of the Grand Old Man, unheeding the attempts which were being made on its life by theProfessor, armed with a long pointed weapon. It had walked into theProfessor's parlour--that is to say, into his lantern--and taken up itstemporary residence between the lenses, whence it was magnified ahundredfold on to the screen! [Illustration: THE FLY IN THE CAMERA. ] If anything of this kind happens to a Professor lecturing on somescientific subject, it is no laughing matter, especially to a gentlemanlecturing at a meeting of the British Association. At one of thesegatherings a well-known Professor was giving a most interesting andappreciated address, illustrated by the limelight, on the subject of"Quartz Fibres. " If I remember rightly, he was explaining to theaudience that the strands of a spider's web were purposely rough so thatthe spider could climb them easily, but that a quartz fibre was smoothand glassy, and a spider would never attempt to ascend one. He showed onthe sheet a single thread of a spider's web and a single quartz fibre, and amid the breathless excitement of the audience a real live spiderwas put into the lantern. The applause with which it was greeted musthave made the poor thing nervous, I suppose, or else it may have had anattack of stage fright; anyhow, it curled itself up in a corner andrefused to budge. A sharpened pencil, which magnified on the screenlooked like a battering-ram, was brought into play, and the unfortunatecreature had to rouse itself. "Now, ladies and gentlemen, you willnotice that it is quite impossible for the spider to ascend the quartzfibre--it may try, but it is bound to fail--but see how it will rush tothe strand from its familiar web!" The spider received an extra dig withthe pencil, and then with astonishing alacrity ran to the quartz fibre, up which it climbed with the greatest ease amid the roars of thedelighted audience. The fact was that the Professor had omitted toexplain that his argument only applied to female spiders. These have apernicious habit of running after their spouses and belabouring them, sothe poor hubby is provided by Nature with a hirsute growth on his legswhich enables him to escape by climbing, and nothing would delight himmore than for his wife to give chase to him if there was a quartz fibreanywhere near. Sometimes there is no gallery in which to place the lantern, and thenthe pictures have to be shown from the floor of the hall, when it seemsto be the delight of everyone coming in late to walk up the centre inthe full light of the powerful rays of the lantern, presumably for thepleasure of beholding their image projected in silhouette on to thescreen. Those awful feminine hats ought to be abolished, and all latecomers ought to be made to find their seats on their hands and knees, asthey run the risk of upsetting the thread of the lecturer's discourse, and the gravity of the audience as well, I remember once when I wasgiving my lecture on "Portraiture: Past and Present, " and illustratingthe portraits on medals, I came to some near the bottom of the screen. "Here, " said I, "we have the Lord Mayor and the Lady Mayoress of London, 1300 A. D. " At that moment the Mayor and Mayoress of the town, who, foreffect I suppose, had come in a quarter of an hour late to the seatsreserved for them in the centre of the hall, walked past the rays of thelantern, and were of course projected on to the screen, unconsciouslyburlesquing my picture, and causing an effect they had not anticipated. I referred just now to mishaps that will occur with the best-regulatedlanterns. The gas, for instance, may become prematurely exhausted, whichnecessitates a stoppage while the cylinders are being changed, and whenRudyard Kipling's work, "The Light that Failed, " was published, Iimmediately sent for a copy, thinking that probably the author had triedentertaining with the aid of the limelight in India and had had someexperience of this kind. I could give that clever author plenty ofmaterial for another volume on "The Light that Failed"--a collection ofanecdotes connected with the magic lantern. But, as I said, it doesn'tso much matter to the entertainer as the lecturer, who must be _ausérieux_, and when I was a lecturer I felt any mishap of the kind verykeenly; but an entertainer is a privileged being, and can turn thematter off with a joke at the expense of his manager, his gas-man, hisaudience, or his subject. No less a personage than Sir William Harcourthappened to be on the screen when my gas went out one evening inScotland. I had to retire from the platform while new cylinders of gaswere being adjusted, and when I made my reappearance I assured myaudience that it was probably the first occasion on which Sir Williamhad been put out for want of gas! [Illustration: LATE ARRIVALS. ] I recollect, though, once at Bradford, where I was lecturing, theaudience were put out for want of it, for the operators supplied by theassociation I was lecturing to were utterly incompetent. The gas wasbad, to begin with--it became small by degrees and beautifully less, andsuddenly went out altogether! So did the operators. They simply boltedout of the hall, and left the lantern to manage itself. CHAIRMEN. Du Maurier made a delightful drawing for _Punch_ of a sandwichadvertising contractor dismissing a man with a board on which was theletter H. "Now, look 'ere, you H! The public don't want yer, nor _I_don't, nor nobody don't--so 'ook it!" Or something to that effect. [Illustration: RESERVED SEATS. ] I wish lecturers could dismiss chairmen in the same peremptory fashion, for I am sure the public don't want him, nor _I_ don't, nor nobody. Their boredom had better be dropped like the poor letter H--which, bythe way, some chairmen drop pretty frequently. I'll classify the chairmen as follows:--The Absent Chairman, the IdealChairman, the Political Chairman, and the Ignorant Chairman. _The Absent Chairman. _--I must divide the Absent Chairman into twoheads. Two heads are better than one, but if both are absent--the one inbody and the other in mind--it is evident no head is better than two. The absent in body does not turn up at the lecture--forgets all aboutit, or remembers too well what he suffered before. The lecturer and hisaudience are kept waiting. The absent in mind does turn up, though--turns up anything but trumps. He--"ah!--feels--ah!--thehonour--ah!--of presiding this evening. " He "has the honour--ah!--ofintroducing the lecturer, a lady--ah!--a gentleman, I should say, whosename is a household word. Who does not know the name of--ah (feels inall his pockets for syllabus)--of--ah--this gentleman who is about todelight us all this evening on a--yes, yes, "--takes from his pocket apiece of paper from which he reads: "The Rev. Carbon Chalker, M. A. , onMicrobes found in the Middle Strata of Undiscovered Coal. " "This rev. Gentleman no doubt----" he proceeds, when he is quickly interrupted bythe secretary, who jumps up and says, "Excuse me, Mr. Chairman, that islast year's syllabus you have in your hand. " The Ideal Chairman is one who rises and says, "Ladies and gentlemen, --Ihave the honour this evening to introduce to you Mr. Snooks, who hassomething interesting to tell you, and one hour in which to tell it. Iwill not stand in his way or take up your time by saying anythingfurther. " Now how seldom this happens! As a rule the chairman makes anexcuse to deliver a speech on his own account. The most extraordinarycase of that kind I ever heard of occurred at Birmingham. The amiableMember for one of the districts in Birmingham, whose name is alwaysassociated with "three acres and a cow, " had to take the chair at alecture given one evening to the people. As soon as the popular M. P. Rose to speak there were loud cries of "Three acres--three acres! How isthe coo? How is the coo?" It was just at the time when he had introducedthat question. He rose to the occasion and made a long and elaboratespeech upon the subject at heart. He went on speaking from aboutthirty-five to forty minutes. When he sat down the gentleman who hadarrived from London to give his lecture on "Wit and Humour" simply roseand said: "Ladies and gentlemen, --I have the honour this evening topropose a vote of thanks to our member for his very interesting addressupon the subject of 'Three Acres and a Cow. '" Someone else got up andseconded the motion, and it was carried unanimously amid great laughterand cheering. Then the chairman rose and began thanking the audience forthe compliment they had paid him, and for the kind way in which they hadlistened to him. And a twelve-month later it dawned upon him that he wasonly the chairman of the meeting. This may be a pure invention, but itis the story as I heard it. [Illustration: CHAIRMAN NO. 1. ] A story is told of a distinguished irritable Scotch lecturer who on oneoccasion had the misfortune to meet with a loquacious chairman, thepresiding genius actually speaking for a whole hour in "introducing" thelecturer, winding up by saying: "It is unnecessary for me to say more, so I call upon the talented gentleman who has come so far to give us hisaddress to-night. " The lecturer came forward: "You want my address. I'llgive it to you: 322, Rob Roy Crescent, Edinburgh--and I am just offthere now. Good-night!" I cannot vouch for the truth of either of these stories. However, I haveknown chairmen myself who were very nearly as bad. I remember one--Ithink he was a doctor--who rose to introduce me. Instead of two or threeminutes he took ten or twelve minutes. Of course he said I was very wellknown, and went on with some very flattering remarks about my work, andthen he added: "Ah, how well I remember--yes, ladies and gentlemen, howwell I remember years ago those political sketches of the late Doyleand others, and when I think that in years to come that Mr. Furniss'sattempts will be handed down to our children as I may say, recording thegreat events of the time we are passing through. Yes, let us see whatthe value will be to our children to know that Mr. Gladstoneonce--("Order, order, " and "Hear, hear")--that, I say, Mr. Gladstone--(cries of "Sit down, we have not come to hear you")--that, Isay, Mr. Gladstone, the grand old man of our time--("Sit down, sit down, sit down, we have not come to hear you--sit down")--Yes, and when I saythat Lord Beaconsfield, whom I have no doubt you will see upon thesheet--("Wrap yourself up in yours, go home to bed, go home to bed"). "Cries of this sort went on; the gentleman struggled on for about aquarter of an hour and then sat down. Well, I discovered afterwards thathe was a very ardent politician, not altogether in tone with theaudience, who were opposed to him in politics, and that he seized thischance of repeating a political speech he had often given to others of adifferent class. As a matter of fact my lecture that night had nothingwhatever to do with Parliament; it was purely art matter; and thisgentleman happened to be a great art collector and connoisseur, and inreturning thanks for me afterwards made a very graceful little speechabout art matters. If he had only asked me beforehand, of course itwould have been a very agreeable opening instead of rather anunfortunate one. But it is quite as distressing to the lecturer to findthat a chairman knows too much about his subject as to find one whoknows nothing. If you happen to have delivered your lecture in anotherhall, and someone present who has heard you is the chairman of anevening when you are going to give it again, he will get up and informhis audience, with the usual flattery of chairmen, that there is a greattreat in store for them, that he has had the pleasure of hearing youbefore, and you are going to tell them this, and going to tell themthat, and in some cases he will even give a mangled version of some ofthe stories--in fact, will take all the plums out of the pudding thatyou have ready to tickle the appetites of your audience with. Some chairmen impress their audience that they know far more about thesubject than the lecturer. But worst of all is the chairman who knowsabsolutely nothing about the subject or about yourself. I remember oneevening some pompous chairman getting up and saying: "I have greatpleasure this evening in introducing to you Mr. Furniss. I know you haveall heard of Mr. Furniss, and anyone connected as I am with engineeringmust look upon one of his great achievements with delight. All who havebeen to the great Metropolis and travelled along the ThamesEmbankment--a beautiful way that skirts the Thames--and have consideredthat at one time what was a heap of mud is now one of the handsomestthoroughfares in the world, must always consider that the work of thegentleman in front of you in being the constructor of that immense workdeserves the gratitude of his countrymen, and I therefore take thisoccasion, before he rises to address you and enlighten you upon theengineering and the large contracting work in the great city in which hehas the pleasure to live, to assure him as a brother engineer of thegreat work which he has performed for his fellow-countrymen. " On enquiry I discovered that a namesake of mine was the contractor forthe Thames Embankment, which was built when I was in knickerbockers. Of recent years I have had few experiences of chairmen, butproportionately their mistakes seem to be as of old. In the North ofEngland last year I was specially engaged to appear before a literarysociety, and I supposed, by their paying me to go so far, they were, with Northern shrewdness, acquainted with the article in which they wereinvesting. On these special occasions it is strange that a chairman isconsidered a compliment to the performer, and most certainly it affordsthe entertainer himself amusement. For instance, in this case Irecollect my chairman--a most accomplished and representative man in theneighbourhood--was introduced to me as soon as I arrived at the hall. (Imay mention it was not my first visit. ) He quickly introduced me to theaudience: "Ladies and gentlemen, --This evening I have the honour ofintroducing to you a gentleman whom we have all heard about, but few ofus, if any, have seen before. We all know his work in Parliament in thepages of _Punch_ for some years past; we all have enjoyed the writingsof 'Toby, M. P. ' This is Mr. H. W. Lucy, of _Punch_, our old friend 'Toby, M. P. '" I was giving my "Humours of Parliament, " and during the eveningI, of course as "Toby, M. P. , " informed the audience at times that thiswas Harry Furniss's idea of Parliament, but I begged to differ with thatgentleman, and it was rather a variety for me to play a ParliamentaryJekyl and Hyde for one night only. [Illustration: CHAIRMAN NO. 2. ] If one must have a chairman, why should not the performer be allowed toturn a chairman into account, as that popular and versatile barrister, the late Sir Frank Lockwood, was in the habit of doing? When he lecturedat Hackney he "brought down the house" in his description of SergeantBuzfuz in "Pickwick" by giving a laughable imitation of hischairman--the late Lord Chief Justice, when Sir CharlesRussell--cross-examining a witness. For all I know, others may followthe example of poor Lockwood. We shall read of the Bishop of Ripongiving imitations of the Archbishop of Canterbury; Sir AlexanderMackenzie is ready to make the musical world roar by his burlesque ofPaderewski; and Lord Kitchener, when he returns from the war and givesthe inevitable lecture, will delight military circles by his imitationsof his chairman, the Commander-in-Chief. [Illustration: THE PUMPKIN--A CHESTNUT. ] But I personally have no objection to a chairman if I am announced as a_lecturer_ and it is the habit of the particular society to pay thelecturer the compliment of formally introducing him. But my appearancesas a lecturer are few and far between, and when I, as I generally do, appeal direct to the public, I am most anxious to avoid giving myplatform work any appearance of a lecture; yet the Press insist upon anyentertainment given by men of my class being a lecture. I am a bit of anamateur conjurer, and I thoroughly believe were I to appear on theplatform on a bicycle or on an acrobat's globe, and keep three balls inthe air with one hand and spin a plate on a stick with the other, and atthe same time retail some stories, the notice in the Press on thefollowing morning would begin: "Mr. Harry Furniss gave an instructive_lecture_ last night on subjects with which we are familiar. Some of hisstories were good, some poor, and some we had heard before. " And that isthe rub! We had heard some stories before! I repeat I honestly have noobjection to a chairman--the Ideal Chairman, who will inform theaudience that you are an acrobat, and not a lecturer; but I do object tomy friends and brother journalists who will tell the public you are alecturer when you are not, keeping many of their readers away, and whowill also publish your jokes. Of course, all stories are "chestnuts" anhour after they are told. When I first went on the platform I retailednew stories, but they were invariably served up in the next morning'spapers, and were therefore known to many of the audience who came tohear me on the following evening. In fact, I once overheard a man atbreakfast in an hotel saying, "No, I don't think much of Furniss; I haveread that story of his about the pumpkin in the papers. " Now this storyof the pumpkin was an impromptu of mine the evening before, and I wasnaturally puzzled by over-hearing this remark. When the speaker left theroom I took up the paper he had been reading. It contained an account ofmy effort on the platform the night before, and my impromptu story wasin it! Of course, as in everything else, one must not be too original on theplatform if he is to be served up in every course. If you treat generalsubjects in anything but a general way, and you are humorous andoccasionally satirical, you will find that national failing, want ofhumour, will tell against you, as well as certain prejudices politicaland social. The selection of lecturers is generally in the hands of acommittee. You have probably said something that grated upon the Radicalopinions of one member, or upon the old Tory prejudices of another, ortold some joke that they failed to see. So long as you keep to microbes, and heavenly bodies, and objects of the sea, you are proportionatelysuccessful with your dulness. But to be professionally humorous and acritic is to be eyed with suspicion. Your programme is criticised andgenerally misunderstood. Perhaps I can show no better instance of thisthan what occurred to me in connection with my old friend "LewisCarroll, " the author of "Alice in Wonderland. " The Rev. C. L. Dodgson ("Lewis Carroll") in some respects was thetypical Oxford Don--once a schoolmaster always a schoolmaster. Helectured his friends as he had lectured his youths, and treated grown-upmen of the world as if they were children. In due course I visitedOxford to give my entertainments--"Humours of Parliament" first;"America in a Hurry" followed a few years afterwards. In the latter Igave a wordless imitation of that eccentric American, Talmage, at thesame time carefully pointing out to my audience that I imitated hisgestures and voice--not Talmage in the character of a preacher, but as ashowman; I was therefore surprised to receive the following letter: "CHRISTCHURCH, OXFORD. "DEAR MR. FURNISS, --Yesterday I went to Russell's shop and bought four 5_s. _ tickets for your American entertainment on the 23rd, thinking I would treat three young friends to it, and feeling quite confident that there could be no objectionable feature in any entertainment produced by you. An hour afterwards I chanced to notice in the programme the item 'A Sermon in Spasms, ' and, in the quotations from Press notices, a commendation of your 'clever imitations of Dr. Talmage's sermons, ' and immediately went and returned the tickets. .. . It did not seem necessary to speak (to the shopkeeper) of the more serious aspect of such an insult to Christianity, and such profaning of holy things. .. . " I hastened to assure the rev. Gentleman that Talmage was an"entertainer, " like myself, that I used no words in imitation of him;merely his eccentric manner and showman's voice. I also hinted that Ialways had a number of clergymen in my audiences, and those who hadheard me found nothing whatever objectionable, nor could they detect inwhat I did anything touching upon sacred things. This brought a lengthyrejoinder, from which I quote the following interesting passage: "The fact that thousands of clergymen have _not_ been deterred by that announcement from going to the entertainment does not surprise me. In this age of ever-increasing irreverence, it is my lot to hear many a profane anecdote told; and the _worst_ offenders in this line are, I am sorry to say, _Clergymen_. " If this was so--and the Rev. C. L. Dodgson could not possibly exaggerateany more than "Lewis Carroll" could avoid exaggeration--how much betterit would have been for him to listen to my wordless and harmlessimitation of a public entertainer than to sit in the Common Room andlisten to profane anecdotes from the lips of his fellow ministers ofreligion! To those about to appear on the platform I would give the same advice asMr. Punch gave to those about to marry--"Don't. " "Lectures, " "Readings, "or whatever they are called, are very little in demand now compared withtwelve years ago. Many of the literary institutes and lecture societiesare either dying from inanition or are content with a course of lecturesof a poor description. This has been brought about by trying to do thething on the cheap, and thereby disgusting the subscribers, who are notgoing to turn out of their cosy, warm houses on a winter's night to heara poor speaker with a dull subject. The subscription lists are thereforedepleted, and the societies cannot afford to engage experiencedlecturers and entertainers. It is a great mistake to imagine one has only to "write something, " and, provided with a few "slides, " a reading-desk, and a glass of water--anda chairman, mount a platform and read. Of course, an agent can always"boom" a novice--someone who has travelled, or written a book, or goneto smash, or become notorious in any way--for a course of "lectures, "provided there are sufficient chairmen to be found willing to act as anextra draw. [Illustration: IN "THE HUMOURS OF PARLIAMENT. " BALLYHOOLEY PATHETIC. ] Anyone nowadays thirsting for notoriety jumps on to the platform as alecturer. He may have been "Perhaps a soldier full of 'cute ways, andfearless like his Pa! Stake your dollar sudden and quick to boom. Seeking a bauble reputation even at the Commons mouth. " Or he may havebeen an aristocratic stowaway in a troop-ship, for instance, and becomethe hero in the pages of our new English-Americanised Press paying forand publishing his startling disclosures. The lecture is the natural sequence of the boom fever--a lecture, say, on "Red Tape Rats. " A reading-desk, a glass of water, a map, a fewamateurish snapshot slides exhibited by means of a lantern, _and_ agreat and popular chairman--then success is assured. But the crowd isnot present to be interested in rats, nor are the reporters there towrite about rats, nor is the chairman presiding so as to refer to thestowaway's paper on rats. For the chairman has his own Red Tape Rats tolet loose with which to startle the audience and nobble the Press. Thenext day the report of the lecture is not headed "The Hon. BabblingBrook on Rats, " but runs "An Admiral of the Fleet on Naval Reform, " or"A Field Marshal with a Grievance, " and a list of the fashionable partyon the platform is considered of more importance than the lecturer'sremarks. [Illustration: HARRY FURNISS AS A PICTORIAL ENTERTAINER. _Drawn by Clement Flower. Reproduced by permission of the proprietors of"The Graphic. "_] In more tranquil times a penny-reading style of entertainment willsuffice. A bishop or a duke may take the chair, and Charity take theproceeds. But the chairman with a name is the thing with which to catchthe interest of the public. What I have said about lecturing in England applies equally to Americaand Australia, and I wish it to be distinctly understood that, as I amwriting these lines for the benefit of those who think of accepting thetempting offers to go on the platform, I have no personal feeling in thematter whatever. Both in America and in Australia I have had splendidaudiences; but in consequence of the long distances and expenseslecturing does not pay, and the stories one reads about men returningwith thousands and thousands of pounds in their pockets are absolutelyfalse. Do not believe them. They are manufactured statements for boomingpurposes. Dr. Conan Doyle honestly gave his opinion, and the correctone, that taking one thing with another you can make just as much moneyin England as you can in America or the Colonies. Of course there areexceptions, --I might more truly say accidents. Even a poor speaker, ifhe happens to be a clergyman (and some critics are unkind enough to saythat these generally go together), and an author who has written asuccessful story, may in America have a great chance of making money, for the publishers and booksellers will advertise and push him so as tosell his books, --they will go so far as turning their shops into ticketoffices. Then, too, he will find the _meenisters_, particularly if he isa Scotchman, will advertise him in advance from their pulpits, andprobably in return get the "lecturer" to preach a sermon. Consequentlyhe has two publics to work upon which no other lecturer or reader canprocure, --the religious and the literary. But that is not a genuine testof the professional lecturer or reader. All literary men on the platformwill get a certain number of people who have read their books in acelebrity-hunting country. They want to see the author, and once theyhave seen him they are satisfied. Return visits I know of, such asthese, have been appalling failures. No, a man must give anentertainment which is in itself amusing and of such stuff that peoplewill go even if any one else had given it--metal attractive to hisaudience, instead of merely being looked upon as a curiosity in the sameway that one looks upon an orchid in a flower-show or a prize ox atIslington. But for the ordinary man, no matter how good he may be, toexpect to have a triumphal tour, returning with a shipload of Americandollars, is, believe me, absurd on the face of it. The lecture businessdied out years ago. When that country was younger all the people in theprovinces attended lectures as part of their daily education, but nowthat class of entertainment is as out-of-date as a German Reedentertainment. I confess that I was overworked at one time. As an illustration of merephysical endurance it is perhaps worth recording. In fact, much in thesepages might well have been published under the title of "Confessions ofEndurance" in Sandow's magazine or in the _Lancet_, for the edificationof those professional men who give advice to others not to overwork andinvariably overwork themselves at the same time. Travelling every day, giving "The Humours of Parliament, " with my imitations of rantingM. P. 's--nearly a two hours' tearing recitation--to large audiences everynight, was perhaps sufficient for one man. The excitement of the successI made, the "booming, " interviewing, and unavoidable entertainment atevery town, the late hours, the early start, the business worries, freshto each place, day after day, week after week, can only be understood bythose who have gone through it. But this was only part of my work. Eachweek as I travelled I had to keep up my contributions to _Punch_--awhole page and several small drawings. I also wrote an article, fullyillustrated, on every town I went to week by week for _Black and White_(subsequently reprinted in book form, "On Tour"), to say nothing ofdrawing in the train. Let me briefly give a fair average of one day's work at the time: [Illustration: REDUCTION OF A PAGE DRAWING FOR _PUNCH_ MADE BY ME WHILSTTRAVELLING BY TRAIN. ] _Morning. _--Start 9. 30 train, eight hours' journey, --means up at seven, breakfast at eight. In train dictate letters to secretary, who takesdown in shorthand. (I never yet found a secretary who could write in atrain. I can write quite easily; the secret is to _sit up_, holding padin hand, and let the body move with the oscillation of the train. Towrite on your knee or on a table, or in any other way but this, isimpossible. ) 3. 30 arrive at destination; go to hotel and order dinner. Then to my "travelling studio"--a large case fitted up with everythingnecessary for drawing in black and white. Straight to privatesitting-room, order dinner to be ready in half-an-hour, at work atonce--before the others and the luggage arrive. After light dinner, tohall or theatre to see if arrangements are complete. Then visit fromlocal manager or secretary--friends--strangers, a walk round the town toget "copy, " tea, a good hour's drawing (no matter how tired I can workon tea), dress, off to evening's work on stage; autographs to be writtenand people to meet; back to change, supper at some club, speeches; back3 a. M. , bed, sleep--no, only occasionally. Hotel servants turn onelectric light, begin sweeping the passage--sw--w--w--whish, sw--w--w--whish! they chat and laugh just outside one's door; theygradually sweep down the long, long passage. Doze--sleep. Bang, bang!"Five o'clock, sir. " Bang, bang! the Boots awakening commercial men forearly trains. Thump, thump! baggage packing-room over your head. Commercial, or sportsman, or entertainer, or whatever he may be, whistles or sings loudly as he dresses. Altercation with Bootsabout trains in passage. Bells, bells! "Hot water, hot water. Bath ready, sir. " Train leaves at 8. 15. I'm up. Somethingattempted--sleep--something not done, --I have earned but not got anight's repose. So in the cold, wet, misty morning off again with aheart for any amount of work; still achieving, still pursuing, learningto labour--and not to wait! Mr. E. J. Milliken, of _Punch_, frequently wrote to me in 'Arry verse. When I was confined to my bed with fever in the summer of 1893, I wasterribly busy. I had my _Punch_ work, my syndicated "London Letter" (acolumn-and-a-half of a newspaper, with four or five illustrations), andmuch other work to do every week, and I, much against my doctor's andnurse's wish, worked all the time. _A propos_ of this I received thefollowing: "'ARRY TO HARRY. "DEAR 'ARRY, "'Ow are yer, old 'ermit? I 'opes you're gittin' on prime For a sick man you put in good work, mate, and make the best use o' your time. You're like no one else, that's a moral. When _I'm_ ill I go flabby as suet, But you keep the pot at full bile! 'Ow the doose do yer manage to do it? "I'm glad to believe you're a-mendin', though kep' on the strictest Q. T. The confinement must fret you, I'm sure, 'ow I wish I could drop in to see, And give you a regular rouser. But that is a pleasure to come; When we _do_ meet again, we will split a fizz magnum, and make the thing hum. "I drop yer these lines just to show yer you ain't gone slap out o' my 'ed, Because I'm cavortin' round pooty permiskus, while you're nailed to bed! 'Taint a prison I'm nuts on, old pal, and I'll swear as it doesn't suit _you, _ So 'ere's wishin' you out of it, 'Arry, and well on Life's war-path, Hurroo!!! "I sent over my pasteboard this mornin' to do the perlite _cummy fo, _ But this 'ere is _entry noo_ barney, a bit of a lark like, yer know. I picter you jest rampin' round like a big arktic bear in a cage! Well, keep up yer pecker, my pippin, and keep down yer natural rage. I'm yours to command, when you want me, to gossip or work, fetch or carry; "And that Harry may soon be O. K. And a 'arf, is the wish of "Yours, "'ARRY. " I should like to confess my real reason for going on to the platform. The fact is that for many years I was mistaken in the country, particularly in Liverpool, Leeds and Bradford, for an artist who signedpolitical caricatures "H. F. , " and whose name, strange to say, is HaroldFurniss. I understand he is about twice my size. So that I thought if Ishowed myself in public, particularly in the provinces, it would be seenthat I was not this Mr. Harold Furniss. Now, unfortunately, on the stageor platform I look tall--in fact, bets have been made that I am over sixfeet high. On three or four occasions after I have left the platform orthe stage I have had to grant an interview to gentlemen who have madebets on this point. The explanation is, however, simple enough: as thereis no one on the stage or platform but myself, there is nothing to givemy height, so the particular object of my appearing in public wasfrustrated. [Illustration: DOWN WITH DRYASDUST. ] CHAPTER XII. MY CONFESSIONS AS A "REFORMER. " Portraiture Past and Present--The National Portrait Gallery Scandal--Fashionable Portraiture--The Price of an Autograph--Marquis Tseng--"So That's My Father!"--Sala Attacks Me--My Retort--Du Maurier's Little Joke--My Speech--What I Said and What I Did Not Say--Fury of Sala--The Great Six-Toe Trial--Lockwood Serious--My Little Joke--Nottingham Again--Prince of Journalists--Royal Academy Antics--An Earnest Confession--My Object--My Lady Oil--Congratulations--Confirmations--The Tate Gallery--The Proposed Banquet--The P. R. A. And Modern Art--My Confessions in the Central Criminal Court--Cricket in the Park--Reform!--All About that Snake--The Discovery--The Capture--Safe--The Press--Mystery--Evasive--Experts--I Retaliate--The _Westminster Gazette_--The Schoolboy--The Scare--Sensation--Death--Matters Zoological--Modern Inconveniences--Do Women Fail in Art?--Wanted a Wife. [Illustration: _From a Photo by Debenham & Gould. _] My attack upon the National Portrait Gallery was in the form of alecture entitled "Portraiture Past and Present. " I found the subject solarge, so complicated, I may say so octopus-like, embracing such variedperiods and phases, and throwing forth its arms or ramifications in somany directions, that I soon discovered I was struggling with a monstersubject, with which it was impossible to grapple completely in thelimited time allowed for the performance. Still I managed in a light wayto review the history of portraiture from Dibutades to Millais, andfrom its display in the Temples to its discouragement at the NationalPortrait Gallery, taking as my text Carlyle's dictum that "HumanPortraits faithfully drawn are of all pictures the welcomest on HumanWalls, " a sentiment that appeals to all, for there is no doubt humanbeings interest us more than anything else. The Pyramids of Egypt awe, but our interest is in those who raised them; Ancient Rome enchants inexact proportion to our interest in the Ancient Romans; the Forum is buta frame which the imagination instinctively fills with the forms of themighty men who moved there; the Amphitheatre would have little interestbut for those who made its dust; and when we wander through ourParliament at Westminster it is not so much the place that interests usas the senators associated with its name. I confess that when I travelon the Continent I cut cathedrals and study the people, in theboulevards, in the streets, in the market-place. When I have spare timein London I do the same, and at one time made a point of spending a daynow and then wandering about the East End of London for the purpose ofstudying character; and it was while so occupied that I happened tostray into our National Portrait Gallery. I was astonished and disgustedat such a collection having such a name, and there and then decided thatI would make this the subject of my lecture, and the following isbriefly my indictment as I then laid it before the Grand Jury, composedof the Press and the Public: "Of all places, a Portrait Gallery should appeal to you most, and theNational Portrait Gallery is the place in which to spend a happy day. "That is, if you are not critical. If you are, then get thee to alibrary and bury thyself in books of biography, for portrait painterswere deceivers ever, historical portrait painters in particular. "The National Portrait Gallery was founded about thirty years ago, andthe founder, Lord Stanhope, had the audacity to ask for a yearly grantof £500 for the purpose of supplying the nation with a representativecollection of national portraits. The first purchase made by thetrustees was a portrait of Sir Walter Raleigh (rather suggestive of theundertaking ending in smoke). However, it has struggled on, such as itis. "Truly it is in no sense a National Portrait Gallery, and although therichest and most civilised nation in the world now generally grants£1, 000 a year to supply itself with representative portraits of itsgreat men and women, being I may say about the price of one portrait bya successful painter, the portraits of our great lights do not swell thenumber of the collection. "It has been difficult, no doubt, even with this immense amount of cash, to get portraits of those of the past. They have been locked up in thestately homes of England. "Of late years Charles Surface, Earl of Spendthrift, knocks hisancestors down to the highest chance bidder, but the National PortraitGallery knows them not. "The reason of this is not far to seek. "Taking up at random an annual report of the trustees, I read: 'Thesalaries of officials amount to £1, 176, other expenses £591, the police£635, total £2, 402. ' And now we come to the interesting item: 'The moneyspent on the purchase of portraits £255'! But the particular section ofthe report dealing with this item says seven works have been purchasedfor £143 18_s. _--that is, £20 11_s. _ 1_d. _ each. "Small wonder then that many works in the National Portrait Gallery ofEngland--England where portraiture flourishes--are unworthy of theattendance of even £35 worth of policemen. Can we wonder when £635 ispaid to the police to gaze at £143 18_s. _ worth of portraits, thepurchase of the year?" and so on. The result of this "ridiculing the State, " as the _Times_, in itsleader, expressed it, for the penurious pittance it doles out of therevenues of the richest country in the world towards the maintenance ofa National Portrait Gallery, was that I was the cause of arousing thePress of Great Britain to the miserable condition of the NationalPortrait Gallery, which ended in our having one in its place more worthyof the country. Besides drawing public attention to the National Portrait Gallery, inthe same lecture I put in a word for the struggling unknown portraitpainters. Speaking of payment reminded me of the story told ofBularchus, a successful painter 716 B. C. Candaules, King of Lydia, paidhim with as much gold as would cover the surface of the work. I told myaudience that I doubted whether, if that system existed now, theportrait painters would leave any room at all on the Academy walls forsubject pictures. Would Meissonier or Alma Tadema, say, paint your portrait for threenapoleons, and would you pay Slapdash, R. A. , fifteen thousand for alarger one? I then made the assertion, "It is not too much to say that afashionable portrait painter often receives £900 for his name, and £100for the value of the picture to the sitter as a portrait. It is theartist's autograph with a dash of something attached. " I asked, "Whyshould snobbery tempt those away from an honest, well-painted portraitby a less-known man, to accept a failure with a Society signature?" aquery that was replied to by my receiving any number of letters from allover the country asking me to recommend artists; in fact, at the time Imight have started an agency for portrait painters. One of the artists Isuggested had already had a very striking portrait of the ChineseAmbassador, Marquis Tseng, hung in the Academy, and over that paintinghe had had a trying experience. His sitter, like Queen Elizabeth, objected to shadows, not like the conceited Queen through vanity, but, being an Oriental, he really did not understand what the shadows were, and rushed to the glass to see if his face was dirty. He was a highofficial in his own country, and naturally anxious not to be mistakenfor the Dirty Boy. Again he got into a frightful state at the glazyappearance of his skin--it was an oil painting. "Only opium-eaters have shiny skins, and I am free from that vice. Thisis a libel, sir, and will disgrace me at home. " Then he had no idea of perspective, but a great idea of his own rank, and commanded my bewildered brother-artist to paint the red button onthe top of his hat, the feather down the back, the orders in front, andwas disappointed that his different coats and sashes, three and fourdeep, could not all be shown at once. Another illustration of the difficulties of portrait painters I gave inthe same lecture has since been so frequently repeated in the Press thatI fear it will be stale to most of my readers--the story of the man whocalled upon the portrait painter and asked him to paint his father. "But where is your father?" "Oh, he died ten years ago. " "Then how can I paint him?" asked the artist. "Why, I've just seen your picture of Moses, and surely if you can paintthe portrait of a man who died thousands of years ago, you can moreeasily paint my father, who has only been dead ten years!" Seeing the sort of man with whom he had to deal, the young artist agreedto paint the defunct gentleman, and the picture in due time was senthome. It was carefully hung on the drawing-room wall, and thenewly-blossomed art patron was called in to see it. He gazed at it forsome time in silence, his eyes filled with tears, and then, slowlynodding his head, he said softly and reverently, "So that is my father!Ah, how he is changed!" But out of this lecture comes another story--the story of "The Great SixToes Trial. " I must start at the beginning of its strange, eventfulhistory, the same way as, in my lecture, I began with the origin ofportraiture. Now the late George Augustus Sala, in his leader in the _DailyTelegraph_ on this lecture, accused me of not giving the origin ofportraiture. "Mr. Harry Furniss was bold enough to maintain that, although Greek art remained the model art of the world, portraiture hadvery little to do with it. Mr. Furniss should not tell this story to theprehistoric toad, for that reptile's presumably long memory might enableit to remind the graphic artist that thousands of years ago the art ofportraiture was invented by a sentimental young Greek girl, the daughterof a potter of Corinth, Dibutades. " In the same article he sneered at"a whimsical caricaturist lecturing his contemporaries, " and in hisreferences to me was about as offensive as he could be. [Illustration: G. A. SALA. ] The second stage was my letter to the Editor of the _Daily Telegraph_. That paper not printing it, I sent it, with a note, to the Editor of the_Pall Mall Gazette_, who gave both letters a prominent position: "SIR, --Can you find space for the publication of the following letter which I addressed to the _Daily Telegraph_ in answer to their leader in last Friday's issue, as the insignificant paragraph, 'Greek Portraits, ' which alone the _Daily Telegraph_ inserted, in no way states the facts of the case?" "SIR, --The writer of the leader in your issue of last Friday is guilty of the very fault of which he accuses me. He charges me with not acquainting myself with the subject I treated of in my lecture; he has manifestly not troubled to acquaint himself with that lecture. The ignorance--at any rate, the omissions--that he lays to my door do not exist. Did he expect me in the course of a short hour's lecture to a general audience--which was certainly not prepared for any history or technicalities--to bring forward in my opening sentences the whole story of the rise and development of Greek portraiture? The principal omission of which he complains is the legend of the daughter of Dibutades--calling it an omission because, forsooth, he did not read it in the _Times_ report! But, in point of fact, not only did I give the story at length, but I reproduced on the screen Mortimer's well-known picture of the incident. Surely it is not too much to ask, even for a caricaturist to ask--for such he somewhat scornfully terms me--that when so powerful a personality as a leader writer levels his pen against an individual, however humble, he should not depend upon the report of another newspaper, the exigencies of whose space naturally prevent, it may be assumed, the devotion of more than a column verbatim report to any utterances of a 'mere caricaturist. ' But, frankly, does the nature of my own occupation in the arts preclude me from pronouncing a correct judgment on portraits and portraiture? For that, after all, is the burden of your article. Is not an opinion, if correct, as good coming from a bootblack as from a Royal Academician? If so, I submit that mine, if worthy of discussion at all, might at least be ascertained and be considered with respect. If not, then I bring the lecture of Professor Herkomer, A. R. A. , published on the very same day as your article, to witness that my judgment was a fair one. By a curious coincidence, he lectured at Leeds on the self-same subject within twenty-four hours of the delivery of my own little lecture; he travelled over much the same ground; brought forward in some instances the very same examples as I, and deduced very much the same conclusions. " I happened to call in at the Garrick Club on my way to the _Punch_dinner, and there found a copy of the _Daily Telegraph_ containing theleader, on the margin of which was written with the familiar purple ink, in Lewis Wingfield's handwriting, "G. A. S. On Hy. F. " Wingfield wasSala's neighbour and friend, so this settled any doubt I had about theauthorship of the article I have just referred to. When I showed it todu Maurier, who sat next to me at dinner, he said, "I say, old chap, I'll tell you a capital story about Sala which you might use. When hewas an art student, he tried to get into the Art Schools of the RoyalAcademy, and for that purpose had to draw the usual head, hand, andfoot. When the Examiners counted the toes on the foot Sala had drawn, they found six, so Sala didn't get in, don't you know!" Now, as otherjournalists had quoted Sala against me, and a Nottingham paper attackedme in a long and rather vulgar and offensive leader, I, finding myselfshortly afterwards the guest of the Literary Club in Nottingham, seizedthe opportunity to reply. I regretted--though I supposed it wasflattering to me--to find that quite recently, although I had beentreated for many years with the greatest kindness in the Press, I hadbeen rather attacked. "I was proud, " I said, "to find that the firstperson to attack me in the Press was the greatest journalist the Presspossessed--Mr. George Augustus Sala. " What I really said after this Iprint side by side with what I was reported to have said: "WHAT I SAID. "I have not the pleasure of Mr. Sala's personal acquaintance, but no one has a greater admiration than I have for that great man in literature. Mr. Sala began life as an artist; not only so, but he began in that walk of art which I pursue, like another great man of the pen had done before him, for, of course, you all know the story of Thackeray going to Dickens and offering to illustrate his books. Dickens declined Thackeray's offer, and it is generally believed that that refusal so annoyed Thackeray that he became a writer and a rival to Dickens. It was a very good thing for him and for literature that Dickens gave him the refusal he did. Now, Mr. Sala, as I said, also began life as an artist, and I am informed that when an applicant for the Royal Academy he had to send in for examination the usual chalk drawings of a head, a hand, and a foot. The Examiners, however, discovered that Sala had drawn six toes on the foot. He was rejected, and no doubt this caused him, like Thackeray, to forsake the pencil for the pen, and he is now Art Critic of the _Daily Telegraph_. "In 1851 Mr. Sala painted the pictures upon the walls of an eating saloon, and that probably had given him the taste for cooking which he had evinced ever since. " "HOW I WAS REPORTED. "He (Mr. Furniss) had not the pleasure of Mr. Sala's personal acquaintance, but no one had a greater admiration for him than he had as being a great man in literature. Mr. Sala began life as an artist, and not only so, but he began in that walk of life which he (Mr. Furniss) pursued. He went to Dickens, and wanted to illustrate his books, but Dickens would not have the sketches; afterwards Mr. Sala went into literature, and it was a very good thing for him and for literature that Dickens gave him the refusal that he did. (Hear, hear. ) "Mr. Sala began not only as an artist, but as a caricaturist, and he had to send into the Academy Schools three 'short drawings, ' as they were called, of a head, a hand, and a foot. Unfortunately for Mr. Sala, he had six toes upon the foot he drew, and the Examiner, having counted these toes, pointed the matter out to Mr. Sala, who did not get into the Academy Schools, so now he was the Art Critic of the _Daily Telegraph_. In 1851, Mr. Sala painted the pictures upon the walls of an eating saloon, and that probably had given him the taste for cooking which he had evinced ever since. " The reporter had evidently trusted to his memory, and not to shorthandnotes--thus the blunder. I pointed it out, and at once corrected it in aletter printed in the same paper a day or so afterwards. My object inall sincerity was to have a joke--du Maurier's joke--at Sala's expense, but in leading up to it my very complimentary and perfectly accurateparallel illustration of Thackeray was unfortunately, by the reporter'scarelessness, attributed to Sala! This correction was entirely lost sight of by the Press, and I wasaccused by papers all over the country of having falsely accused him ofoffering to illustrate Dickens. Papers printed apologies to Sala, and insome cases paid Sala's solicitor money to avoid actions-at-law. I thenheard that he was going for me. I found a letter from Burnand to thateffect the evening I returned from a lecturing tour. Strange to say, that night Sala and I were both guests of a Medical Society's dinner atthe Holborn Restaurant. Both had to make speeches. I spoke before Sala, and referred to a misquotation from a speech I had made in the country, and purposely then and there made the _amende honorable_, of which he atleast understood the meaning. He ignored this altogether, and I nowmerely mention the incident to show that he was vindictive from the veryfirst. He would not listen to reason. Sir George Lewis, Mr. Labouchere, Mr. Burnand, and other mutual friends failed: Sala remained obdurate. Itwas freely reported after the verdict was given that the plaintiffnever had any desire to make money out of me, and had speciallyinstructed his counsel not to ask for damages! As a matter of fact, whenour mutual friends implored Sala not to proceed with such a trivial andridiculous action, he admitted that he wanted money, and in conversationwith Sir George Lewis--who all through acted as my good friend, andSala's too, doing all in his power (which is great) to induce Sala toaccept my necessary _amende_, --Sala declined. He had already pocketedseveral amounts from papers publishing the Nottingham paper's fancifulreport, and said to Sir George: "When Friswell libelled me, I got £500damages; and why should I not be equally successful against Furniss?""Yes, " said the astute Sir George, "but you must remember that I got youthat £500, and now I am on the other side. " [Illustration] What I really said, and what I was reported to have said, here I plainlyshow are two very different things. Still, in the words "and now he isArt Critic of the _Daily Telegraph_" there was a germ of libel--slanderone must call it, as the words were spoken--so I was advised towithdraw. Sala, however, made this an impossibility, and the sillyaction, fanned into "almost European importance, " to quote Lockwood, wasto be. To make matters worse, just before the GREAT SIX TOES TRIAL I received a note from du Maurier: "I am awfully sorry, old chap, but the capital story I told you of Sala and the six toes was about another fellow after all!" Although a letter from me was published immediately correcting thisridiculous blunder on the part of the reporters, pointing out that whatI did say was that Mr. Sala was not the only literary man who began lifeas an artist; and that I had quoted casually as an instance that_Thackeray_ in early life went to Dickens, my correction--though wellknown to Sala--was, to my surprise, ignored, and the words _I had neverused_ were made the point of the whole action! [Illustration: COUNSEL FOR THE PLAINTIFF. ] Mr. Kemp, counsel for Sala, rolled them out with unctuousness thenpaused for the Judge to write them down. Mr. Sala, in the witness-box, in melodramatic style denied that he had ever taken sketches to Dickens, and the jury noted that fact. Yet I had never said he did! andfurthermore Sala knew I had referred to Thackeray and not to him. Still, for some reason I could never understand, Lockwood allowed this to pass, and cross-examined Sala, admitting that he had heard the story ofThackeray and Dickens--as to my right as a critic--but never denied thatthese words attributed to me were absolutely a false report! The nextpoint Sala made was that an "offensive caricature" (reproduced bypermission on this page) was by me! It was Mr. F. C. Gould's. Sala knewthis; so did Lockwood, but he did not deny it: in fact, when the juryconsidered their verdict, the two points they were clear upon were (1)that I said Sala had offered work to Dickens, and had been refused; (2)that I was the author of the clever (but in Sala's opinion mostoffensive) caricature of himself and me. [Illustration: MR. F. C. GOULD'S SKETCH IN THE _WESTMINSTER_, WHICH SALAMAINTAINED WAS MINE. ] I prompted Lockwood in Court, but he told me that he would not botherabout facts, or call me, or deny anything--he took the line that thewhole thing was too absurd for serious consideration, and that he would"laugh it out of Court. " One report says that "Mr. Lockwood handled Mr. Sala very gently incross-examination, and got from him an explosive declaration that Mr. Furniss's statements represented him as an ignorant and impudentpretender. 'Don't be angry with me, Mr. Sala. '" But the Judge was angry with dear, good, kind Frank Lockwood, andscotched his humour, and refused to allow him to "laugh it out ofCourt. " It annoyed him, and he summed up dead against me. Lockwood couldonly squeeze one joke out of the whole thing. Sala in cross-examination said to Lockwood in a bombastic, inflated, Adelphi-drama style: "That was not my greatest artistic work. Perhaps my greatest was anengraving of the funeral of the Duke of Wellington. It was from myoriginal drawings. I engraved it on a steel plate, and it contained manythousand figures. " Lockwood: "All, I suppose, had the proper number of toes?" (Laughter. ) "They had boots on. " (Continued laughter. ) Sala got five pounds for the Judge's want of humour, not for mine. Having no chance of making my little joke in Court, I took my revenge byaccepting a commission to report and illustrate my own trial for the_Daily Graphic_, and the following--the only authentic account of theGreat Six Toes Trial--appeared the following morning: "It was unfortunate that the Royal Academicians were all busy varnishingtheir pictures for the forthcoming exhibition at Burlington House whenthe Great Sala-Furniss Libel Case was heard on Friday last, and that intheir absence you have had to apply to me (the defendant) for sketchesof the scene in Court. What a chance Mr. Calderon has missed for acompanion picture to the one he is painting of another great legalbattle--the Parnell Commission! A picture in next year's Royal Academyof the trial between two art critics is surely worthy to be handed downto posterity, say, in the Council Room of the Royal Academy. "That the subject is not a picturesque one, I admit, but I can offer thepainter an historical incident connected with it that should recommenditself. We all know that Sir Francis Drake playing at bowls when theSpanish Armada was sighted is a favourite theme with artists. In thiscase, although there is nothing Spanish about it, there is a parallelincident. I was, like Drake, by the sad sea waves, not playing at bowls, but sketching a common, or garden, donkey, when a telegram arrived fromLondon to say that the great trial was in sight, and my presence wasdemanded at the Royal Courts of Justice (Court 3) at eleven o'clock thefollowing morning. Let it be recorded that my nerve was equal to thegreat Admiral's--I finished the drawing of that donkey. [Illustration: DEFENDANT. ] "The morning was a gloomy one, and no doubt the weather had something todo with the solemn tone of the proceedings. A collection of brieflessbarristers, irritated jurymen, and wet umbrellas in dark corridors isnot enlivening; and when you arrive, to find the Court crowded, and youhappen to be, like me, considerably under the medium height, and ratherbroad in proportion, it is difficult to come up at all, much lesssmiling, to the feet of justice. Here is a subject for a _Punch_ puzzle. The defendant--how is he to get into Court? It is a mystery to me how Imanaged to squeeze myself through. I stuck to my hat, and my hat pulledme through (alas, a new one!). The hat was more rubbed the wrong way bythe trial than was its wearer; but it is an item in the expense of legalwarfare that ought not to be forgotten by the taxing master. However, Ifound myself sitting next my consulter and friend, the 'sage of ElyPlace, ' in good time. Although a case is down to be tried in aparticular Court, it may be transferred to another Court at a moment'snotice. This is bewildering to the parties interested and, from what Isaw, irritating to the legal fraternity. Tomkins _v. _ Snooks is down fortrial, Court 2. The legal call-boys bustle in the counsel and othersengaged. Mr. Buzfuz, Q. C. , pushes his way into Court, surrounds himselfwith briefs and other documents, when some mysterious harlequin of theLaw Courts changes Tomkins _v. _ Snooks to Court 4, and calls upon Brown_v. _ Jones, who are packed away in Court 3, waiting their turn. Buzfuzgets very angry, and bustles off to Court 4. In fact, getting your caseinto Court reminded me forcibly of that amusing toy, so popular then, called 'Pigs in Clover'--wigs in clover, I was nearly writing. Iapologise at once for the mere thought. We were transferred from oneCourt to another, and our friends sat out a case in the Court advertisedto try ours, wondering what on earth 'The Prince of Journalists' and Ihad to do with 'chops and tomato sauce. ' What followed has been prettyfully reported, so I need not dwell upon it. Indeed, I could not live inthe frightful atmosphere of those Courts, and would gladly pay twicefive pounds to be allowed to sit on the roof if ever I find myself adefendant again. [Illustration: MY HAT. ] [Illustration: THE PLAINTIFF. ] [Illustration: THE EDITOR OF _PUNCH_ SUPPORTS ME. ] "According to the reports, 'the plaintiff was supported by his wife, andthe defendant by the editor of _Punch_. ' The solemn occasion demanded acertain amount of gravity, which was particularly difficult for me toretain, as my 'supporter, ' although fully alive to the tremendousbearings of the case and the importance of the issues, failed to hide inhis expression those 'happy thoughts' that flow ceaselessly through hisfertile brain. The outward effect was a see-saw antic with his imposingeyebrows--a proof to me that his sense of the ridiculous had got thebetter of his gravity. 'Put on your gloves at once, ' he whisperedimpressively to me. 'Why?' I asked. 'Because you may then leave thecourt with clean hands!' (The 'putting on the gloves' must not be takenin a double sense. ) But this is a digression. You merely ask forsketches in Court. Well, I send you my recollection of Mr. Kemp, Q. C. , trying to be very angry with me; of my 'brother caricaturist' (_vide_reports), Mr. Lockwood, struggling to be very angry with Mr. Kemp, andpointing to the defendant, 'That miscreant! (note the effect upon me), and the Judge very serious with everybody. As an antidote, I wasspoiling a beautiful sheet of white blotting-paper by drawingrecollections of the donkey I was studying in the country when I wassummoned to town to take my trial. I am anxious to make this public, asI now remember that I left that sheet of sketches in the court; and whocan tell? Some one may yet 'invest those sketches with an almostEuropean importance, ' and the number of five pounds I shall be calledupon to dole out all round will be something appalling. [Illustration: SIR F. LOCKWOOD AND MYSELF. ] "_A propos_ of this truly great trial, the _Observer_ remarked, in itsleader upon it, that 'future treatises on the law of libel will, ifproperly and picturesquely indexed, be enriched with this entry, "Artcritic, statement held to be a libel upon, see Toes. " Indeed, the anticsof the law of libel ought to be written, edited, let me suggest, by Mr. George Lewis, and illustrated by the genius of Mr. Frank Lockwood. Iwill supply a footnote. " Over this _jeu d'esprit_ on my part Sala waxed very wroth, for besideshaving to pay £80 costs of his own, he brought upon himself columns ofchaff, of which the following is a fair specimen. "The Prince ofJournalists, " wrote a wag of journalists, "is lamenting that he hasjumped out of the Furniss into the fire, for of a surety five poundswill hardly repay Mr. Sala for the roasting he will receive from hisgood-natured friends. " Skits showing six toes were plentiful, jokes inburlesque and on the music-hall stage were introduced as a matter ofcourse, and private chaff in letters was kept up for some time. Oneprivate letter I wrote du Maurier, "Sala has no sole for humour--youhave made me put my foot in it, " and added the Six Toes signaturesketch. In this no doubt du Maurier found inspiration for Trilby. [Illustration] [Illustration: THE SEQUEL: I DISTRIBUTE THE PRIZES AT NOTTINGHAM. ] In the witness-box Mr. Sala took up a curious position with regard tothat filched and fatal joke. He said that I told that joke because hehad been invited to distribute the prizes at the Art School atNottingham shortly before, and that I had run down and, like themiscreant who sowed tares in his neighbour's wheat, deliberately madehim look ridiculous. As a matter of fact, I neither knew that Sala haddistributed the prizes, nor that he had ever put in an appearance atNottingham. Sala in his evidence said, "I have always been well receivedthere (Nottingham). The people have always been very kind to me, andthey expressed surprise at the libel. " Nottingham people reading this, assured me it was the very reverse of the facts, that Sala was sociallyanything but friendly and most objectionable in his behaviour whenthere; and they invited me to distribute the prizes the following year, which I did--the last stage of all of this strange, eventful joke, which ended, as it began, in good-natured laughter. * * * * * [Illustration] The one confession I desire in all seriousness should reach the ears ofmy fellow artists is that my object in attacking the Royal Academy("Royal Academy Antics, " 1890), was a thoroughly unselfish one. "It waspublished for the sake of those who, for one reason or another, are notwithin the inner circle. I was prompted to call the discriminatingattention of the public to the evil the Academy works and permits toexist, " by appeals from artists outside--heartbroken men and womensmarting under unfair treatment; I received letters recording cases ofgross injustice, followed by ruin and poverty--which made my blood boil. The shortcomings of the Academicians had been the subject of criticismfor many years, yet no improvement resulted. As the _Times_ patheticallyobserved: "At least it should not be taken for granted that improvementis impossible till improvement has been attempted. This much has beenforced upon us by the painful knowledge of the many bitter, oftenheartbreaking, disappointments which cloud the opening of the RoyalAcademy Exhibition, when London looks bright and blooming, and everyoneand everything around seems so full of life, and so eager and capable ofenjoyment. It is impossible for those whose office carries them behindthe scenes, in the midst of the festive and fashionable crowd whichthrongs the stately rooms of the Academy, not to think of the poorlodging and the shabby studio, and the easel, the rejected picture, thesubject of so much labour, the spring of so many hopes, which wasexpected to win bread, if not fame, for the painter. " Perfectly true, but oh, how pathetic! to those, like myself, "whose office carries thembehind the scenes. " It is pleasant to keep friendly with those RoyalAcademicians and their friends and worshippers--that "festive andfashionable crowd"--and to be on good terms with the givers of banquetsand the pets of Society; but I care little for such, for I am neither alogrolling journalist nor a Society-seeking artist, and at the risk ofhaving my independence mistaken for egotism, I have always expressed myopinions openly and freely, quite regardless of, and not caring one jotfor, those whose friendship I lost in consequence--no, not even as inthis case, where the very artists who confessed to me, and who appealedto me to attack the Academy, subsequently avoided me, as "it wouldn'tdo, don't you know, to be seen with Furniss, as I am in the running forthe Academy. " This was my dedication. [Illustration: THE SEE-SAW ANTIC. ] The one object in view was to disabuse the public mind of the erroneousimpression that the Royal Academy is an unprejudiced official publicbody, that they elect only the best artists, and reject only theunworthy--in fact, that R. A. Should be considered a hall-mark on work, as too many believe it to be, to the detriment of the majority ofartists. "Most of those artists who write and talk of art may beconsidered prejudiced--no one can well say that you are. What is theRoyal Academy to you?" was said to me. I was even encouraged by some ofthe Academicians themselves, who had from time to time fruitlesslyattempted to introduce reforms; but notwithstanding the efforts of theright-minded members of their body, the majority adopt the Fabian policyof sitting down and doing nothing, or bury their heads, ostrich-like, till the storm of indignation raised by their unworthy selfishness andindolence has blown over. I went thoroughly into the subject. I read Blue-books, criticisms, sober, solid reviews, Royal Academicians' confessions and defence. Iread everything connected with the history of the Royal Academy frombeginning to end. Then I appeared on the platform and gave lectures onArt and Artists and the Royal Academy, which drew forth leading articlesfrom the _Times_ and nearly every paper in the land. In my researches I found that the Royal Academy has been a narrow-mindedclique from its very initiation. It was procured by the trickery of anAmerican (its first President), West, from that "dull lad brought up bynarrow-minded people, " George the Third, described by Thackeray: "Likeall dull men, the King was all his life suspicious of superior people. He did not like . .. Reynolds. .. . He loved mediocrities--Benjamin Westwas his favourite painter. " "A royal patron on the sly secured, Which from the first its cheek to shame inured. "[A] [Footnote A: Soden's "Rap at the R. A. "] It was a contemptible pandering to unblushing and self-interestedsycophancy, involving practically the ruin of all that the best spiritsin the art world had laboured for since the commencement of the century. A society of unmitigated selfishness was thus started, and stillcontinues. When everything else around has been reformed, as the countryhas advanced and increased, the Royal Academy remains exactly as it waswhen so hurriedly formed one hundred and thirty years ago. To all this I received endless confirmation, but, alas! the writers didnot give me permission to publish their names. I have on my desk beforeme as I write this page a letter from the editor of our most artisticillustrated weekly: "Allow me to congratulate you; keep pegging away. The Royal Academy of Arts (plural) is nonsense; it is, as you say, aRoyal Academy of oil. If the R. A. Had done their duty years ago, wewould not see such farcical statues in the streets, nor should I (as atpresent moment employed) be writing to Berlin and Vienna for assistancein matters where skill and taste are required by art workmen. " ThePresident of a certain Royal Academy wrote: "I have just read your'Royal Academy Antics, ' and I must confess that, as far as I can judge, many of its strictures are deserved; . .. But I can venture to say thatmany of the antiquated mistakes made by the parent Academy have beencarefully avoided by our governing body. " [Illustration: THE FIRST P. R. A. ] From all sorts and conditions of artists and art employers I receivedcongratulations. Those from the poor struggling outsiders alone repaidme for the trouble I had taken. At that time, only eleven years ago, theRoyal Academy and other picture shows were in a very different positionfrom what they are now. Art is no longer a fashion; proportionately theRoyal Academy is going down. The glory of Lord Leighton, one of thebrightest of Society's stars, attracted hosts of fashionable people tothe gatherings of the Academy, and Sir John Millais, too, was much runafter by the fashionable crowd. Now that these are gone, the Academy haslost all interest in smart Society. "Academy Antics up to Date" wouldnot have any sale, "An Artistic Joke" in Bond Street would not have anyvisitors. I fought for the weak when they were crushed by the strong. Now that "My Lady Oil" is feeble and powerless, I desist. "The Royal Academy has been the subject of many bitter attacks, " wrotethe editor of the _Magazine of Art_, "during the last hundredyears--attacks which, directed against unjust or antiquated rules, haveusually been well founded. But never, perhaps, has so effective a chargebeen made as that which Mr. Furniss brings in his entertaining volume;and if it be true that ridicule will pierce there whence the shafts ofindignation will rebound, no little good may be looked for from thepublication. " [Illustration: NO WATER-COLOUR OR BLACK-AND-WHITE NEED APPLY. ] Precisely so. Others, serious and influential, had exposed the R. A. ; Itried what ridicule would do. But the public did not take me seriously, and the Press took me too seriously; and as the public does not buybooks on art, but is content with a _réchauffé_, my object to a certainextent was defeated. My Lady Oil of Burlington House is a very selfish creature; shepersistently refuses to recognise her twin-sister Water Colour, givingher but one miserable room in her mansion, and no share whatever in herhonours. My Lady Oil is selfish; My Lady Oil is unjust to favourengravers and architects, and to ignore painters in water-colours andartists in black-and-white. She showers honours on her adopted sisters, Engraving and Architecture, because the former mechanically reproducesher work, and the latter builds her pretty toy-houses for her childrento live in. This is really altogether absurd when you reflect that it is inwater-colour that English art excels, and that the copyist, theengraver's occupation will soon be gone, beaten away by slightly moremechanical, but more effective, modes of reproduction. Sooner or later John Bull will open his inartistic eyes, and see thatmediocrity in oil is not equal to excellence in water, and that thosewho originate with the pencil are far before copyists with the graverand drawers of plans. I then advocated a National Academy, a Commonwealth of Art, presidedover by a State Minister of Fine Art, in which mediocrity will find nospace till a welcome and a place have been given to all earnest work, regardless of its nature. Where the number of works of any one man will be limited, and wherethere will be no such mockery of good work as "rejection for want ofspace. " Where all the fine arts, and especially the national fine art(water-colour paintings), shall be recognised as arts, and the best ofthe professors of them shall at least be eligible for election. Where the committee of selection and hanging shall be--as in theSalon--elected by the body of exhibitors. Where reasonable time shall be given to the proper consideration ofevery work sent in. Where the women, in the rare event of their being equal to their brotherbrushes, shall be elected into the magic circle. Very few of the great public who find the splendid Tate Gallery "a thingof beauty and a joy for ever, " recollect the disgraceful treatment thedonor of it received at the hands of the Government and others. The wayin which Mr. --afterwards Sir--Henry Tate was "held up to derision andcontempt by a handful of irresponsible cranks" was a public scandal. Mr. Tate, in consequence, temporarily withdrew his princely offer of£150, 000 to the nation. All his friends, and they were legion, deeplysympathised with him. I, being one of the few who were asked by Mr. Tateto meet at his house and consider the form of the "British Luxembourg"before the offer was made public at all, took upon myself to write tothe _Times_ as follows:-- "Red-tapeism has triumphed, and all your art-loving readers are disgusted, but not altogether surprised, to find this morning that Mr. Henry Tate has retired from the scene with his princely offer of £80, 000 and his magnificent collection of pictures, which was to form the nucleus of the proposed gallery of British art. It is a bitter disappointment to the munificent Mr. Tate, and a warning to others who, like him, come forward with their purse and their pictures and offer them to an unartistic nation. It is bad enough to find that a splendid gift like this cannot be accepted; but even worse features in this lengthy controversy have been the gross personal attacks and ungenerous insinuations made against the would-be donor, which must be particularly hurtful to his modest and unobtrusive nature, and I now write to suggest that all those who sympathise with him (and surely their name is legion) should show him some public mark of their appreciation. To the British mind this at once suggests a banquet, and I would most willingly undertake all the arrangements in connection with it if my present state of health did not preclude my doing so; but, without a doubt, among Mr. Tate's countless admirers there must be many eager to adopt and carry out this suggestion. " Of course I was chaffed in the Press for so "characteristically, thoughgravely, " suggesting such a thing. My object in making the proposal wasmisunderstood. I was accused of putting the crowning absurdity on thewhole thing, of making a cheaply canonised martyr of Mr. Tate, and someungenerously hinted I was following up my joke of my "offer to thenation" by another. In fact, for the first time in the history ofEngland, a public man was not to have a public dinner when therehappened to be a matter of public importance to celebrate and ventilate!On the other hand, I received a letter from Mr. Tate, from Bournemouth, the day my letter in the _Times_ appeared, in which he thanked me for mywarm hearted letter in the _Times_, but begged of me not to press myproposal in his honour. "As you say, I am a modest man, and it would bemore than I could stand. What I _should like_ would be to see theartists calling a public meeting and protesting against the way in whichBritish art has been shelved. " In the same letter he assured me "thattoo much could not be said in condemnation of Sir Frederick Leighton'sand the Academicians' supineness. " In writing to thank me for droppingthe proposed banquet, he again referred to his great surprise anddisappointment that neither Sir Frederick Leighton nor any one of theAcademicians had given his scheme any support, and complained that thePresident of the Royal Academy had been much more loyal to his friendLord Carlisle "than to the cause of British art. " THE OLD BAILEY. In the winter of 1885 the following paragraph ran through the Press:--"Astatement has been circulated from a quarter that may be taken as wellinformed, that the City Lands Committee of the Corporation of Londonhave perfected plans for the improvement of the Central Criminal Court. It is not improbable that the process of reform has been accelerated bya recent letter to the public Press of Mr. Harry Furniss, the well-knowncomic artist, who, having been summoned as a juryman, suffered many woeswhile waiting to be called into the box. " As the _Saturday Review_remarked, the bitter cry of the outcast juror which I uttered isfamiliar enough to the public ear, but I had given it a more penetratingnote than usual; but it did not hesitate to say that it would notproduce any more effect upon those whom I sought to influence "than theless articulate, or even than the absolutely inarticulate, protests ofmany generations of his fellow-sufferers. " And the _Saturday Review_ wasright, for fifteen winters have passed since I wrote my protest to the_Daily News_. "I cannot help thinking the prisoners at the Old Bailey have every reason to congratulate themselves they are brought there as prisoners, and not as jurymen. They are well looked after, and have a clear way into Court, and plenty of room when they get there. These are their advantages; but, alas! the lot of the poor jurymen is not such a happy one. For some reasons, which may (or may not) exist in the mind of the summoning officer, I received a demand from him to appear and perform a 'super's' part in trial by jury at the Old Bailey Petty Sessions. I arrived at the Court punctually at the hour requested, and after fighting my way through a mixture of other small ratepayers, detectives, bailed prisoners, and nondescripts, I came to the first floor. Then I entered a dark passage, 'standing room only, ' and found it quite impossible to get near the Court, the outside of which resembled the entrance to Old Drury on Boxing Night. 'There ain't no room; just stand outside there!' where I managed to keep my temper and my feet for a considerable time. By degrees I squeezed into the Court with my hat and temper ruffled. I arrived at barrier No. 1. 'Have I been called?' 'Name?' 'Yes, yer 'ave, long ago; fined five pounds for not answering to your name'; explanation. Shoved on to barrier No. 2; explanation repeated. Shoved on to barrier No. 3; explanation repeated again, and reached barrier No. 4. The Judge: 'Swear'; and I swore. Final explanation; fine taken off. I have an excuse. 'Stand down!' Here I remain for an hour and a half in a pen, huddled up with more 'Hexcuses, ' as Mr. Husher calls us, some of whom, by their own statement, came from houses in which there were infectious diseases. Imagine how nice this would be with the jury-box full! I must admit the presiding Judge performed his task of selection with discretion, particularly when he let me off. But I observe that before the Judge there is a bouquet of flowers. I am told that this is the survival of an old custom of placing hyssop before the Bench by way of febrifuge to protect him from pestilential vapours from the dock. I would like to suggest that a bunch of hyssop be again substituted for the bouquet of flowers. In justice, I ask you this: Is it reasonable to fine an over-taxed ratepayer five pounds for not having heard his name through a musty brick wall? And may I through you make a proposal--that busy professional men should be exempt from this annoyance on payment of one guinea per annum, and that this fund should either be employed in building a new court, or provide fees for a really competent jury of junior barristers, who undoubtedly would be the right men in the right place?" My "cry" was taken up by the Press. "Purgatory is no name for it, " "TheOld Bailey Scandal, " and other startling headlines failed to moveBumbledom. The most celebrated Criminal Court in the world, situated inthe richest city, to this day remains a public scandal and a purgatoryto unfortunate jurymen. My suggestion in this "amusing jeremiad, " as itwas called by one paper, contained one serious proposal; but my protestagainst the only form of conscription known to our laws, and mysuggestion that the jury should be paid junior barristers, was, Iconfess, the only humorous idea I had in writing the letter! The majorportion was serious--so again I have been a victim to the want of humouron the part of my journalistic friends. [Illustration: THE CENTRAL CRIMINAL COURT. _From "Punch. "_] Mr. _Punch_ appeared as my "champion stout and warm" in a series ofverses, a few of which I quote: "That citizen is now in Court, a dismal den and dusty; Frowsy and foul its fittings be, its atmosphere is fusty; And oh, its minor myrmidons are proud and passing crusty! "They chivy him, that citizen, hustle him here and there; One elbow looseth his trim tie, one rumpleth his back hair: They greet his queries with a grunt, his grumblings with a stare. "A close-packed crowd doth hem him round, a tight, malodorous 'block' Of fustian men and women gross, of dry and dusty lock; His 'By your leaves' they heed no whit, his struggles wild they mock. "He may not stir, he cannot see. At length, in tones of blame, He hears them toss from lip to lip his own much-honoured name: 'What! Fined for absence!!! That be blowed!' He swells with wrath and shame. "And through the throng he madly thrusts, like Viking, through the press Strewing his path with buttons burst and fragments of his dress, Claiming reversal of that fine with dearly-bought success. * * * * * "How long, oh British citizens, will ye in patience bide The torture of the Jury-box remorselessly applied, The Usher's haughty insolence, the Bobby's baleful pride? "How long shall the 'twelve honest men, ' our constitution's end, Be treated worse than criminals, their time and money lend, Long hours of thankless horror in their country's cause to spend? "_Punch_ riseth in indignant wrath, your champion stout and warm: 'Tis time that Somebody should take this old abuse by storm, And sweep out the Old Bailey with the besom of Reform. " [Illustration: THANK YO-O-U!] I have to confess that letters to the Press have, as a rule, little effect in reforming; in fact, my only direct success was caused by an illustrated letter to _Punch_. The tent-jobbers were evicted, and the pleasant and not altogether picturesque pavilion for cricketers, in the centre of Regent's Park, was erected in consequence of this letter of mine to _Punch_: "DEAR MR. _Punch_, --I have discovered a nasty spot in one of the lungs of London. As you are the Doctor to cure all evils, I trust you will take up the case. "I re-visited the neighbourhood of dear old Regent's Park last week. I strolled through the Zoo to renew the acquaintance of all my friends there, deserted in the 'Out of Town' season, and longing in vain, alas! for their day in the country. It was early; the Park was deserted, except by the birds, and here and there laughing children with their nurses. Everything was pleasant, so fresh and green, and free and easy, unlike the West End 'lungs. ' "I sat myself down on a bench. Shut out from the madding crowd, one could breathe in comfort. I recalled Locker's lines in praise of Piccadilly--that crowded thoroughfare, dusty and noisy--and while trying to fit them in to suit the beautiful scene around me, I nodded, and fell asleep. * * * * * "Bang! I'm awake! What's that? A cannon-ball hit me in the back? I'm all of a heap on the grass, my hat one way, my umbrella another--and I nowhere! or, where am I? Dear me, am I dreaming? Have I been carried by a shot? (Volunteers do practise in the Park. ) Was it a suburban race-meeting? Yes, it must be, and one of a low order. And yet this is surely Regent's Park! [Illustration: REGENT'S PARK AS IT WAS. _From "Punch. "_ A ROUGH SKETCH ON WOOD. ] "'Thank you, sir!'--'Thank y-o-o-u!'--'Th-a-n-k y-o-o-o-u!'" I pick myself up. _Is_ it the monkeys' half-holiday? Yes! They are imitating boys playing cricket. Their cages are close at hand. "Bang! Another blow!! This time I receive the enemy's blow--as an Englishman should--in front. It brings me up standing--I see it all! The monkeys are boys; the cages are practising nets; and the balls come off the bats! A nurse in charge of five children is under fire--in terror that some of her little ones may be hit and killed--and it is a wonder they are not. I gallantly cover her retreat, for no park-keeper is to be seen. Then I turned my attention to what I thought--when half-dazed, but not altogether wrong--was a corner of a low race-meeting, or gipsy encampment. Here is a sketch, sir, made on the spot. It certainly was like both--dirty unfinished tents, casks, rubbish and rags, something boiling, and some people brawling, the grass all worn, and the walk cut up! An eyesore, a disgrace, sir! "A somewhat artistically-built kiosk stands a hundred yards or so away. If the mass of cricketers want another, by all means let them have it, and drive the unsightly tent-jobbers out of the Park. "If this sort of thing is allowed by officials in charge, then, sir, I venture to think the sketch heading this letter, 'What it will come to, ' will be an actual illustration of fact. "Yours truly, "STURMIE STUMPS. " Unfortunately my more recent attack on "Lord's, " and my letters andarticles on various other public matters, have not met with the samesuccess. Even domestic annoyances have been ventilated by me, and Ifondly hope have had some effect. _A propos_ of the foregoing, I may here make full confession of how I FOUND A SNAKE IN REGENT'S PARK. The following incident may prove interesting to the public in generaland naturalists in particular: While taking an early walk in Regent's Park on Saturday, June 12th, 1894, I captured, not the proverbial worm, but a specimen of a rarespecies of snake, which was indulging in a constitutional on one of thebroad paths. "What a gigantic worm!" was my first thought, but on myusing my stick to arrest its further progress it rose in the orthodoxsnake-like fashion at my cane, throwing itself into an attitude ofdefence and hissing with anger. The park-keeper, park-labourers who weremowing the grass close by, and divers members of the British public, from the piscatorial street arab with his minnow-ensnaring thread andbent pin to the portly merchant wending Citywards, were soon on thespot, and really that diminutive reptile caused more consternation thanwould have been the case had it been instead an Anarchist bomb. I sentover to the cricket pavilion for a tin canister wherein to cage _protem. _ the wily stranger, and excitement waxed high as preparations weremade to accomplish the fearsome feat. This was safely managed by the aidof a newspaper, which naturally enough, considering the events of theweek, proved to be of a sporting character, and the viper, probablyanxious as to the result of the Oaks, glided to the column containingthat news, whence it was expeditiously shaken into the canister, which Iperforated at the top, and walked off with my tinned snake to theZoological Gardens hard by, where its roaming propensities were kept incheck within the walls of the reptile house. I was somewhat startled to learn that my captive had not escaped fromthe Gardens, which did not contain one of its species, and Mr. Bartlettgave it as his opinion that there must have been a number more whereverthis one came from. This new danger further enhanced the charms ofRegent's Park, which on Saturdays is a perfect pandemonium, thepedestrian having to exert a great deal of agility to dodge the whizzingcricket balls and avoid being maimed for life. Now that we have hadsnakes in the grass we may expect vultures in the air, and who knowsthat in time to come we may not be shooting big game in the jungles ofthe north-west! The above is the substance of a letter I wrote to the _Times_, thepublication of which caused no little consternation in some papers andno little chaff, at my expense, in others. The London evening papersappeared with startling contents bills and sensational headings: "_LIKA-JOKO, THE SERPENT HUNTER. _" "SNAKES IN REGENTS PARK!" "THE TALE OF THE SERPENT, " "SNAKES ALIVE!" &c. The _Westminster Gazette_, "In the hope of gleaning some valuableinformation about this newly-discovered fearful reptile which lies inwait for wayfarers in the wilds of Northern London, " sent arepresentative post-haste to interview Mr. Bartlett, the superintendentof the Zoological Gardens. This report in the _Westminster_ is headed: "He thought he saw an elephant Upon the mantelpiece; He looked again, and found it was His sister's husband's niece, " and then proceeds to throw doubt upon my veracity. [Illustration: THE LATE MR. BARTLETT. ] "Mr. Harry Furniss has been suffering from a delusion very similar to that of the subject of Mr. Lewis Carroll's nonsense-verse. Mr. Bartlett is a man of few words, though what he does say is both interesting and humorous. Without replying"--(the _Westminster_ representative required him to tell him all he knew about my snake)--"he took up his pen and, on the back of a visiting-card which lay before him, he drew a circle as large as the card would hold, the ends of which did not quite meet. 'There, ' he said, 'that is about the actual size of Mr. Harry Furniss's snake. You see its size is not alarming, and its nature is not venomous. In fact, it is absolutely harmless. ' "'But it is of rare variety, is it not?' "'The variety is not common, certainly, though I have known it for the last eighteen or twenty years. It is known as the small crowned snake (_Coronella lævis_), and is occasionally found in Hampshire and in one or two other counties. The first specimen I had was brought to me from Hampshire by a friend of mine, a young officer. As he pulled it out of his hand-bag in this room I saw it biting at his fingers. I thought it was a viper; but, of course, on examining it I soon saw what it really was. It has no fangs, and it is, as I said, quite harmless. At its full size it may measure from fourteen to sixteen inches. As for its rarity, here is a fairly long list of the specimens we have had, and we have several at present. But come along to the reptile house and see it for yourself. ' "Arrived, at the reptile house, Mr. Bartlett called the keeper, and in solemn tones and with a grave countenance requested him to 'show this gentleman Mr. Harry Furniss's serpent. ' The man looked puzzled for a moment, and then gradually a broad grin spread over his face as he replied: 'Oh, yes, sir, if I can find it, but I am not sure about that, ' However, he removed the lid from a glass case containing several lively little creatures just about as large as a fresh-water eel at the age at which it is known to the small boy who tries to catch it in his hands as the 'darning needle. ' After groping about in the sand at the bottom of the case he found the specimen required and handed it over to Mr. Bartlett, who held it in his hand and allowed it to make savage darts at his fingers. 'You see, ' he said, it is a lively little thing--extremely spiteful, but quite powerless to hurt me. ' After it had been put back and carefully secured, lest it should make another descent upon London, Mr. Bartlett gave his theories as to how it might have got into Regent's Park. 'There are two ways in which it might have come here, ' he explained. 'I imagine it has been brought in some of the plants or shrubs which have been provided for the Park gardeners; or else somebody may have brought a female with young ones from the country and carelessly allowed this one to escape. But stray animals like this are almost sure to come to us sooner or later. Whenever people find anything unusual, they think it must be an escaped specimen and forward it here. Why, when the great explosion on the canal occurred in 1874, the glass in our aviaries was shattered. Of course a great number of our birds escaped, but it was in November, and most of them were glad enough to return to the warmth and to the food provided for them. But people were continually sending us birds for a long time, and, in fact, more birds were sent here than had actually escaped. ' "'Then, as a last question, Mr. Bartlett, what does the fuss which has been made about this snake mean?' "Mr. Bartlett looked more solemn than ever as he suggested: 'Well, Mr. Harry Furniss is fond of a joke--Lika-Joko is a capital name for him; he may have been serious, or he may not. " I was serious, and so was dear old Mr. Bartlett, whom it was myprivilege to know well, but he did not let the representative of the_Westminster_ see this. I replied to the above article: "On reading your descriptive interview with Mr. Bartlett _à propos_ of my finding a reptile in Regent's Park, I was, believe me, far more surprised than when I captured the primary cause of your representative's journey to the Zoological Gardens. You endeavour to sum up the incident and my veracity by quoting the following lines of Mr. Lewis Carroll's:-- "'He thought he saw an Elephant Upon the mantelpiece; He looked again, and found it was His sister's husband's niece, ' "Now it seems to me that another extract from the same work would have lent itself better to your requirements: "'He thought he saw a Rattlesnake That questioned him in Greek; He looked again, and found it was The Middle of Next Week. "The one thing I regret, " he said, "Is that I cannot speak!"'" I very much regret that it--the snake--cannot speak, for were it gifted with articulate power your representative could hold a _viva voce_ interview with his snakeship, and therefore become enlightened as to the real facts of the case. The reptile might also disclose the locality he hails from, as that important point is still shrouded in mystery. "As soon as I had read your article, which deals somewhat frivolously with a very serious subject, I went forth to the Zoo in quest of Mr. Bartlett, but that gentleman had left town. Perhaps the article in question had something to do with his departure. Why I sought to see him was to put to him the following questions to test the accuracy of your statements: "1. How comes it that you informed me on Saturday that the snake was a foreigner, while according to the _Westminster Gazette_ it is English? "2. Did you not give it to me as your opinion that it must have come in fruit? You are now made to say that it must have been brought in plants or shrubs, and if that is so, why did the Park gardeners declare that they had never seen anything like it before? "3. Did you not say it was only a week old, and also that where it came from there must be a number more? "4. Did you not emphatically declare that you had no specimen of the kind in the Gardens, and was it not for this reason I made you a present of this one? How do you reconcile that with the following passage in your interview with the representative of the _Westminster Gazette_: 'As for its rarity, here is a fairly long list of the specimens we have had, and we have several at present'? And did you not give as a reason the reptile could not have strayed from the Gardens the very cogent one that you had none of the kind in your collection? And may I ask whether you really have any or not? For if you have, and the one in question has escaped, what is to prevent rattlesnakes and cobras and other venomous specimens from escaping also? "5. If, as you say, you doubted my seriousness, why was the snake duly entered in the books of the Zoological Society, from whom I received a formal letter of thanks for the presentation? "6. Would you not rather handle a snake, however dangerous, than the special interviewer of a London evening paper?" This I followed with another letter, which explains the conflictinginformation received at the Zoo: "Since writing to you it has struck me that probably your representative saw Mr. Bartlett senior, whereas I deposited my snake into the care of, and received my information from, Mr. Bartlett junior (the present superintendent). This may account for your representative describing in his article Mr. Bartlett drawing a circle the size of my snake on a visiting-card, and that, too, without the two ends of the circle coming into conjunction. This is so utterly absurd that it is evident Mr. Bartlett could not have seen the reptile at the time. The exact measurement of my baby serpent is seven and a-half inches in length--nearly an inch longer than the word 'Westminster' at the top of your front page--and it is _still growing_!" [Illustration: SKETCH BY MR. F. C. GOULD. ] So did the story grow--in correspondence, in prose, in verse, and inpicture. Mr. F. C. Gould treated the subject in Japanese-Lika-Jokaspirit, and from quantities of verse I select the following from the_Sketch_ as the best: "PICKED UP NEAR THE ZOOLOGICAL GARDENS. "'I am the snake of Regent's Park; I lie in wait for men of mark. I'd gladly give my latest breath To fright a funny man to death. So when from ambush I espy A comic artist passing by, I think there is no joy like this-- To stand upon my tail and hiss. For it is quite a novel charm To see him start in wild alarm And haste to tell the awful crimes Of Horrid Serpents in the _Times_. It used to be a bitter pang That I was born without a fang, That Nature made me as a toy For any silly idle boy. But now the humble snake may pass For lurking cobra in the grass, While people think that Regent's Park Is Kipling Jungle after dark!'" Several letters appeared. One from a "Harrow School Boy, " in the_Times_, was generally accepted at the time as a solution of themystery: "SIR, --I keep snakes as pets, and allow them a wriggle on the grass every day. Early last week I missed one, a little black chap about 10 to 11 in. Long, and have not seen him since. Perhaps the one Mr. Harry Furniss found on Saturday is my lost pet, carried away, not by one of the expected vultures, but by a roving Regent's Park rook. " This soothed some nervous readers' fears; but not all. Anothercorrespondent wrote: "The tale of the Regent's Park serpent (_Likajokophis harryfurnissii_), discovered, patented, and greatly improved upon by the vivacious caricaturist, appears to be even now not told to its bitter sequel; for I am credibly informed at the Zoological Gardens that an official of a large hospital in the neighbourhood was sent there yesterday to enquire how soon it would be safe for the convalescent patients to resume their daily airing in the Park, as to the probabilities of further lethal reptilian monsters lurking within its fastnesses, etc. " The truth of the matter was, several snakes were at the same time foundin gardens of private houses close to the Zoological Menagerie. "Mr. A. B. Edwards" wrote, from an address close to the Zoo, to the _DailyTelegraph_, a few weeks after my finding the cause of all the snakesensation: "This afternoon we were taking tea in our garden when we saw a snake 2 ft. Long frisking on the lawn close to our feet. Fortunately one of our fowls had got loose from the cage, and came to pick up the crumbs. When it caught sight of the snake it pounced upon it, and a great battle was fought between fowl and serpent. After ten minutes' hard fighting, the snake lay dead. Your readers may be interested to hear of this, and, being forewarned, they will be forearmed against snakes in their gardens. " The _Westminster Gazette_, _à propos_ of this: "'Lika-Joko's' snake may now crawl away into its native insignificance when it reads of the exploits of its comrade, who preferred death to captivity. " But my snake did not crawl away; far from it. The man in the reptilehouse, who "looked puzzled" and grinned, and had to grope about the sandat the bottom of the case to find the snake for the edification of the_Westminster Gazette_ interviewer, did not grin to that purpose forlong. Never before in the history of the Zoo was the reptile house socrowded. Day after day people thronged to see the specimen of _Coronellalævis_ found on the path in Regent's Park. Not one looked at the twosplendid specimens of the largest and finest and fiercest snakes boughtthat very week by the Zoological Society, at a cost of three hundredpounds. My snake was valued at anything between sixpence andeighteenpence, but it brought more money to the turnstiles of the Zoothan all the other snakes put together in twenty years. From an address not half-a-mile from the gates of the Zoological Gardensa gentleman wrote to the _World_ about a snake he found in his garden. ALondon and North-Western guard found a boa-constrictor, 22 feet long, inhis van! "The son of a well-known Member of Parliament" found a hugesnake in one of the rooms of his father's London house. In fact, snake-finding became an epidemic, and if I had come across any more ofthe ophidian brood, I would have feared the consequences. Alas! theBritish public killed my snake--as it has killed many another celebrityof the hour--by too much attention and flattery. But how the cause ofall this excitement got on to the path in the centre of Regent's Parkremains a mystery. I feel certain myself it had escaped from theZoological Gardens through the drains, and the fact that others werediscovered in the vicinity of the Park at the same time explains theconfusion and mild chaff accepted by the _Westminster_ interviewer as acomplete explanation, forgetting that officialism when criticised ismuch the same all the world over. [Illustration: THE LADY AND HER SNAKES. ] "The Harrow School Boy" correspondent--probably a very old boy--is notalone in his strange choice of pets. A lady who had sent her pet snakesto the Zoological Gardens--not by "The Roving Rook Post, " but by theusual course of presentation--happened to visit the Gardens at the timethat other great attraction was drawing all London, the great Jumbocraze. When she arrived to see the elephant of the hour, the crowd wasso dense around his cage that there was no chance of getting a peep, soshe marched off to the reptile house and soon returned with one of herpets coiled round her neck. She took her stand close to the peopleengaged in struggling to pat the trunk of the Jumbo, feed it with themost expensive sweetmeats, decorate it with choice flowers, and weepbitter tears over its impending departure. (The public of the presentday can hardly realise the excitement over this favourite elephant. )Struggling at the same time to be prominent in this Jumbo worship, however, the head of a snake appearing suddenly over one's shoulder istoo much for some of us. One after another the visitors vanished as thesnake thrust its head near them, and soon the ingenious lady had theplace and Jumbo to herself. She was not a professional "snake-charmer, " but an eccentric lady ofprivate means; her pet was large, but harmless. Strange to say, aboutthe same time a company of Japanese "snake-charmers" were causing asensation at a show in the West End of London by their performance withsnakes of a well-known dangerous species. Some of the reptiles theyperformed with fell sick--languid and useless for sensational show-work. They were despatched to the "Zoo" by the manager to be lookedafter--possibly the climate affected them. They would not eat anything, and were gradually pining away, when it was discovered that theirpoison-fangs had been extracted, and their mouths were sewn up withsilk. Charming, certainly! Having lived close to the Zoological Gardens for over twenty years, andbeing a Fellow of the Society, I have spent a great deal of enjoyabletime rambling about its ever-interesting collection. The "Zoo" is verylike London itself--one never exhausts its interest. There is always asurprise in store for those even most intimately acquainted with it. Onesuddenly comes across an object of interest that has existed in theplace for years, but one has not happened to pass at the moment thatobject appears. How many visitors to the "Zoo, " for instance, have everseen the beavers at work? To see them, the most interesting animals inthe collection, one has to go very late or very early. Knowing old Mr. Bartlett as I did, I frequently saw interesting events, and heard fromhim interesting tales of the Gardens. Another letter of mine to the _Times_ took the form of a confession. Itwas what was described in the Press as "a humorous, yet withal patheticcomplaint" (December, 1895) respecting the irritating inconveniencecaused by so-called "modern conveniences, " which do not always actsatisfactorily. I had been driven to "let off steam" (which is betteraccomplished through a pen than with a pencil) by my experience in oneweek of the modern inventions which are designed to facilitate businessand to benefit the public generally, and I still seriously question ifthese wonderful inventions and the extra expense incurred by adoptingthem are not a mistake. The working of the telephone has become, of course, a farce, and thesooner the Government take it up the better. Several large businesshouses have given it up, and in the working of the telephone London, which ought to be the most favoured, is probably the most unfortunatecity of any in the world. I have tried half-a-dozen times in one day toring up different people on the telephone without succeeding in gettingthrough, and have had to send notes by hand. The electric light is another disappointing "improvement. " It has goneout four times in one week, and we had to use candles and lamps. Then the District Messengers' wire, which I had in communication with myhouse, would not act. I rang up for a cab; no response. I rang up again;nothing came. I sent out for a cab, and was late for dinner. The nextday a representative called casually to inform me that we could not usethe wire for two or three days, as something had gone wrong. I then tried the phonograph; but I had more correspondence about it thanI had through it. [Illustration: DO WOMEN FAIL IN ART? THE CHRYSALIS. ] A plague on these experiments in the advancement of science intended tofacilitate our work and add to our comfort! The electric light kills oursight; the telephone destroys our temper; the District Messenger callruins our dinner; and, conjointly, they waste our time and deplete ourpurses. When there was a controversy in the _Daily Graphic_ I wrote in theinterests of women to make one confession: Do women fail in art? Confession--Certainly not. In the opinion of many, women fail in nothing, but base man fails inappreciating women in art as in everything else where appreciation oftalent is due. The fashion-plate young lady, with her doll's face, herempty head, and her sawdust constitution, monopolises all the attentionthat selfish man can afford to give outside thoughts about his own sweetself. Every year we see some work in the Academy from the easel of a womanwhich is far better than many of the works exhibited by Academicians, and although when that selfish body was being formed there were notenough men to supply the number of figure-heads required, and two womenwere requisitioned to launch the ship, all the gratitude shown to thesex has been years of continued insult. Yet there are certainAcademicians who paint like women for women, and instead of leaving itto women receive all the honour and remuneration; and those having thisfeminine art and spirit behave the worst to those whom they copy. Thepretty-pretty pictures of conventional coquetries which we have servedup year after year by the chefs of this pastry of art might be concoctedby the dainty fingers of the lady artist just as well as, or even betterthan, by the effeminate man who takes her place and robs her of herhonours. But after all, are not the women themselves to blame? Art, Ihold, is nowadays purely a commercial affair. Burlington House is simplya huge shop, and it is all nonsense to talk for one instant about theencouragement it gives to art, or to take seriously the prosy platitudeswhich are poured forth year by year at that picture tradesmen'sdinner--the Royal Academy Banquet. Women are not invited--women, forsooth, whose works on the walls have done their share towardsbringing the shillings to the turnstiles of the Academy. But moreridiculous still is the omission of lady patrons of art, for it is wellknown that this feast is given with two objects--to advertise the comingshow, merely "chicken and champagne" in theatrical phraseology, and tofeast Mr. Cr[oe]sus, who buys the pictures of his host. Now, it is the influence of women that makes the majority of men buypictures. Few men buy pictures to please themselves; they buy them toplease their wives. Why women are not patronised in art is for thissimple reason, that women would rather patronise the work of a fool, ifthat fool be a man, than the work of a genius, if that genius happen tobe a woman. I agree with Mrs. Jopling, that "with men success is reachedwith a fair wind and every favour, while with women those only succeedwho have the power of weathering many storms. " Quite true. Grace Darlingwill row out to help some feeble man struggling in the billows ofincompetency, but she will sit on a rock and see a woman sink before shewill stretch out a helping hand. If women fail in art, it is becausewomen fail to help them, and I hold that but for women we might evento-day find the Royal Academy incapable of forming a quorum withoutcalling in lady artists, as they did before. I see that the two ladiesmost qualified to speak about this subject disagree on the mostessential point. Mrs. E. M. Ward gives it as her opinion that if womenstudied with the same quiet devotion as the male student they would bemore successful; but Mrs. Louise Jopling asserts that young girls showquite as much disposition for art as young men do. I have no hesitationin saying that the latter opinion is the correct one. The male artstudent vies with the medical student in playing the fool. A friend ofmine has recently been driven out of his studio, which was situated nextto an art school, by the asinine behaviour of these "quiet devotionalstudents. " But in any school I have been through I have noted withastonishment the painstaking sincerity of the lady students. [Illustration: THE BUTTERFLY. ] All that has been written on the subject from time to time seems to meto be quite devoid of common sense. We all know what a delightful poetMr. Sterry is, and how fondly he sings the praises of women. Probably hehas been so engrossed in describing the grace of the girl that he hasfailed to look for the natural elegance of the boy. Possibly no artistadmires the female form more than I do, but any artist will corroborateme when I say it is a matter of the greatest difficulty to find agraceful young female model, while you seldom find a youth who is reallyawkward. The playground of a girls' school is a conglomeration ofawkward figures, awkward running, awkward gesticulating, enough to makean artist shudder, while the cricket or football ground of a college isthe best study an artist can possibly have for the poetry of motion. Mr. Sterry cannot be in earnest when he says that girls think the study ofanatomy tiresome, drawing from the antique a bore, painting from thenude superfluous, and studies of the old masters uninteresting. Anafternoon round the art schools and art galleries will prove to him thevery reverse. But then the "lazy minstrel" cannot intend his readers totake him seriously, for he says that women have greater delicacy oftouch and facility of manipulation than men, and that their hands areless awkward and their fingers more lissom than those of the sternersex. In poetry, my minstrel, yes; in reality, bosh. Where are your womenconjurors? You say that their brain is not strong enough to second theirmanual advantage, but that they can "knock off" a pretty water-colour oroil study of flowers, or a graphic caricature! Caricature, indeed!Perhaps no one has seen more caricatures than I have, but I have neverseen a caricature by a woman. If women have a failing, it is lack ofhumour. We poor caricaturists know that; but we also know that whereaswomen can compete side by side with painters on the line of the RoyalAcademy, we are not honoured by even a failure in caricature. It is curious how clever lady artists become when they happen to be thewives of successful painters, but it is a significant fact that whileall writers seem to agree that marriage is the cause of obliteratingartistic ambition in women, it has in many cases been the birth ofgenius; and while domestic companionship with an artist will make awoman a painter, no caricaturist has ever succeeded in making his wifea humorist in art, and I shall ask Mr. Sterry what he means by placing"graphic caricature" on a par with "knocked-off" pretty water-coloursand the weak studies of flowers by lady amateurs. Mr. Sterry is anartist himself, and this disparagement of a most difficult and mostunique art fully qualifies him to be a member of the Royal Academy. [Illustration: EARLY VICTORIAN ART. ] At the beginning of the Victorian Era art was at its lowest ebb. Theyoung lady students of the period were copying those impossiblelithographed heads which formed the stock-in-trade of thedrawing-master, or those fashion-plate Venuses whose necks recalled theproportions of the giraffe, with the eyelashes of a wax doll, andfingers that tapered off like the point of a pencil. These sirens of thedrawing-board were invariably smelling a rose or kissing a canary, andalways had a weakness for pearls. They used to be drawn upon tintedpaper, and when the faces had been duly smeared over with the stump tosuggest shadow, and after the drawing-master had endowed the work withartistic merit by the application of white chalk to the high lights, thepearls, the canary's eyes, and the pathetic tear-drops upon the damsels'faces, the immortal productions were ready for framing. The giraffe orswan-necked angel was the keynote for all ideal work, and even therecognised artists of those days, with one or two brilliant exceptions, followed in her train. Now she rushes into a large oil picture--perhaps a portrait of herbrother in riding costume, _et hoc genus omne_. These are caricatures, but, like many of the pictures on the walls of the Royal Academy, theyare unconscious ones. As I am writing about the failure or success of women, I should like tointroduce a curious request once made to me. [Illustration: YOUNG LADY'S PORTRAIT OF HER BROTHER. ] It is a very common thing for me to receive all sorts and conditions ofcurious letters from all sorts of people. The following, sent to me fromthe Colonies, is worth reprinting: "DEAR SIR, --I have taken the liberty to address you upon a little matter, and earnestly hope you will exert and use your influence on my behalf to the utmost of your ability. I am a young man twenty-three years of age, of good family, handsome, worth in stock and cash about £18, 000. I intend coming to reside in dear Old England permanently (the land of my birth) as soon as I can dispose of my property and stock to an advantage here. I came out to Africa as a youngster, and have remained here ever since. I've not had an opportunity even of paying a visit to England. Will you be good enough to try and induce some young lady to correspond with me with a view to matrimony? I should like to get married upon my arrival, and live in joyful anticipation of meeting my love at the docks or station. I am well aware that I am transgressing the rules of good breeding and etiquette by my familiarity and audacity, but the fact is I am totally unacquainted in the city and know of no one else in whom I could put implicit faith and confidence with regard to so delicate a matter. Pardon me, therefore, dear sir, if I have been in any way intrusive or have unwillingly offended you. I have had scores of favourable opportunities to get married here, but, to tell the plain truth, I would sooner die than marry anybody not of my own nationality. She must have a lady's blood in her veins, and born and bred in the auld country, or I'll die a confirmed old bachelor. The society of these Cape girls is somewhat detestable to me, and their ways, looks, figure, dress, education, refinement, and accomplishments are not to be compared to Old England's. Hoping I've not occupied too much of your valuable time, and trusting to hear from you at your earliest convenience or opportunity, with kind regards, I beg to remain, "Yours truly, "----. " [Illustration: WAITING. ] I was puzzled to know what to do with this letter--I really felt for mycorrespondent. I therefore printed his request in a London letter I waswriting at the time and which appeared in the principal local papers inthe United Kingdom, and also in the papers of America and Australia, andadded a portrait of the lady I had selected, with the following note: "Unless the publication of this letter leads to some favourable offers I shall send my unknown, but hymeneally disposed, correspondent this sketch of a lady capable of looking after so young and venturesome a man, seated at the docks waiting his arrival, for unless he has a sketch or photograph how is he to identify his 'love' amidst the crowd which greets the homeward-bound steamer?" And I have preserved a few out of the scores of letters I received, tohand to this gentleman should I ever have the pleasure of meeting him. Judging from this, the manager of a matrimonial agency must indeed get acurious insight into the minds of the maids of Merry England. Thissingle experience has been quite enough for me. CHAPTER XIII. THE CONFESSIONS OF A DINER. My First City Dinner--A Minnow against the Stream--Those Table Plans--Chaos--The City Alderman, Past and Present--Whistler's Lollipops--Odd Volumes--Exchanging Names--Ye Red Lyon Clubbe--The Pointed Beards--Baltimore Oysters--The Sound Money Dinner--To Meet General Boulanger--A Lunch at Washington--No Speeches. THE THIRTEEN CLUB--What it was--How it was Boomed--Gruesome Details--Squint-Eyed Waiters--Superstitious Absentees--My Reasons for being Present--'Arry of _Punch_--The Lost "Vocal" Chords--The Undergraduate and the Undertaker--Model Speeches--Albert Smith An Atlantic Contradiction--The White Horse--The White Feather--Exit 13. [Illustration] Probably no meal varies so much in the time of its celebration as thatmost important one, dinner. Some people still exist who dine at oneo'clock; some also there are who daily observe that fearsome feastyclept "High Tea. " The majority of people dine at various times rangingbetween seven o'clock and half-past eight, but there is one individualalone who dines at six. It is the City Guilder. Time was when Cityprinces dwelt in City palaces, and rose at five, breakfasted at seven, lunched at twelve, dined at five and retired to rest at ten; butnowadays these magnates are lords of the City from ten till four, and ofthe West End and the suburbs for the remainder of the twenty-four hours, and they would in the ordinary course of things invite you to dinner ateight o'clock or so. What inscrutable law, then, compels them to holdtheir state dinners at the dread hour of six? For it is at this time, when the ebb-tide of humanity sets strongestfrom the City, that the honoured guest of a City Company may be seenfighting his way, like a minnow against stream, in a hansom to hisdinner at the hall of the Guild. Still, he goes "where glory waits him, "so what recks he that the hour is altogether uncongenial andinconvenient? Nevertheless, I know as a matter of fact that this earliness compelsmany invited guests to decline the honour and pleasure of dining with a"Gill" (as "Robert" would say), who would without doubt accept theinvitation were the hours of the Guild as reasonable as their cuisine isexcellent. Personally, however, it has often been a pleasure to me to leave myeasel at four o'clock and prepare to meet my practical City patrons "ontheir own midden" at "5. 30 for 6. " As an illustration I will record a reminiscence of a very pleasantevening I once spent in the City, when the festivities--save for myhaving to make a speech--went off with that success which is inseparablefrom City dinners. Imprimis, I arrive in daylight and evening dress. These two, likesomeone and holy water, don't agree, for not all the waters of Genevanor the arts of the queen of all _blanchisseuses_ can destroy the horridcontrast between a white tie and a white shirt; yet another goodargument in favour of a reasonable dinner hour. I hate being in a minority. More especially do I detest being in such adecidedly pronounced minority as one joins when one drives _into_ theCity about six o'clock in the evening against a vast current of toilersof commerce homeward bound. It may be weak, but I feel it all the same. I seem to divine the thoughts of the omnibus driver as he gazes downupon me from his exalted perch--he does not think my shirt is clean. Hissixteen "outsides" bestow upon me a supercilious look that conveys to methat they opine I am merely cabbing it to the station _en route_ for a"suburban hop. " But I bear up under it all, and think of the magnificentbanquet of which they, poor things, know nothing, and I am beginning tofeel quite proud when a brute of a fellow in charge of a van catches hiswheel in that of my cab and nearly pitches me out. I hurriedly decide todecline the next invitation I receive for a City dinner. [Illustration: MENU OF THE DINNER GIVEN TO ME BY THE LOTOS CLUB, NEWYORK. ] However, I live to reach Cannon Street and the mansion of the "Gill. " I am soon ushered into the Cedar Room, where I am received by the Masterand the Wardens in their robes. I mingle with the Guilders and their guests, and find the members of theWorshipful Company informing their friends that they are now in theCedar Room; then they sniff, and the guests sniff and say "Charming!"Then they remark, "What a lot of pencils it would make!" and laugh, andthe artists present agree that City folks are shoppy. On a side table the stranger sees a number of what appear to himdiagrams of City improvements, with mains and drains and all sorts ofthings, but on closer inspection they turn out to be the plans of thetable. You discover one bearing your name, and opposite it a red cross, or perhaps I ought to say an exaggerated asterisk. When you have taken your seat downstairs in the Banqueting Hall youinspect your plan, from which you find that you can tell who everybodyis. Capital idea! "Ah, seat Number 24, the great Professor Snuffers!" You direct your gaze across the table to seat No. 24, and lo! yourcherished preconception of the Professor vanishes instanter, for hisbearing is military, and his whole appearance seems to denote musclerather than mind. This plan opens up a mine of instruction and information. You referagain, and next to the Professor you find the "Master of the Scalpers'Company. " "Dear, me, what a clerical-looking old gentleman!" is your mentalcomment. Next you look for "The Rev. Canon Dormouse. " "Why, he's quite a youth! Can't be more than five-and-twenty, and wearsa medal and an eye-glass! How types have changed!" It occurs to you to open a conversation with your next neighbour, whichyou do by making a casual allusion to the Canon. "Yes, dear old gentleman; does a lot for the poor--life devoted tothem. " "Dear me, does he? Now to my mind, judging from appearances, the Masterof the Scalpers' Company seems more cut out for that kind of work. " "Ha! ha! _He's_ better at curing hams than souls. " "Well, I should not have thought so, merely judging character as anartist. Professor Snuffers seems to me also curiously unique. I know agood many Professors, but I never met one so anti-professional inappearance as that gentleman. " [Illustration: ALDERMAN. IDEAL. REAL. ] "Ah, Snuffers! Old friend of mine--where is he?" "There, " and you point to the name on the plan and nod over to the otherside of the table. "No, that's not Snuffers! I recollect now he told me he would not beable to come. That's Major Bangs, a guest asked to fill a vacant chair. " Similarly you find that the eye-glass youth is _not_ Canon Dormouse, theclerical-looking gentleman _not_ the Master of the Scalpers' Company, and so on. Oh, they are a capital idea, those plans! On the occasion in question I met one of the Sheriffs of the City, whois also an Alderman--not a fat, apoplectic, greasy, vulgar Cr[oe]sus, but a handsome, thoughtful-looking gentleman, decidedly under fifty, who might be anything but an Alderman. But indeed the long-accepted typeof an Alderman is exploded--such a type, bursting with good dinners, wealth and vulgarity, must explode--and the ph[oe]nix which has risenfrom his ashes would scarcely be recognised by the most liberal ofnaturalists as belonging to the same species. John Leech may have hadliving examples for his gross and repulsive monuments of gluttony; in myown experience, however, I find a gulf of great magnitude between theAlderman of caricature and the Alderman I have met in the flesh. Theformer has gone over to the majority of "four-bottle men" and otherbygone phenomena. Well, let us return to the dinner. The fare is excellent, the companydelightful, and I am just revelling in that beatific state of mind bornof a sufficiency of the good things of this earth, when nothing seems tome more pleasant than a City dinner, when I am tapped upon the shoulderby the Toastmaster, who bears a warrant to consign me to misery. I haveto make a speech. I have passed through the ordeal before, but I findthat familiarity, as far as speech-making is concerned, breeds nocontempt. Between the City and the art in which I am interested thereexists no affinity, and this perhaps is a blessing in disguise, as foronce in a way one is of necessity compelled to "sink the shop. " However, it is soon over. A plunge, a gasp or two, a few quick strokes, and I amthrough the breakers and on the shore--I mean on my seat. That was yearsago--I am an old hand now. I never could subscribe to that unwritten and unhonoured law whichprovides that an after-dinner speaker is entitled to five minutes inwhich to apologise for his incompetency in that capacity, and fifty-fiveminutes in which to speechify; and I have often wished that speechmakersone and all would recollect that a few words well-chosen and to thepoint, and a timely termination, are far more acceptable to the listenerthan all their maundering oratorical tours "from China to Peru, " fromthe Mansion House to the moon. When I am going to a City dinner my ownchildren show a lively interest to know the name of the Company, and ifI name the Skinners' Guild their interest culminates in uproariousdelight; but if I mention any other, most uncomplimentary groans greetthe announcement, for the guests of the Company to which I refer canchoose either to take or have sent to them a huge box of the choicestsweetmeats when the entertainment is over. [Illustration: J. WHISTLER, AFTER A CITY DINNER. (DRAWN WITH MY LEFTHAND. )] _A propos_ of this, I recollect an incident the mention of which will, Ifear, send a cold shudder through any worshipper of "Nubian" nocturnesand incomprehensible "arrangements. " On one occasion after leaving thebanquet of this Guild I beheld Whistler--"Jimmy" of the snowy tuft, themartyred butterfly of the "peacock room"--to whose impressionable soulthe very thought of a sugar-stick should be direst agony, actuallymaking his way homewards hugging a great box of lollipops! [Illustration: AN ODD VOLUME. ] I met a curious City man, not at a City dinner, but at "Ye Odd Volumes, "where we both happened to be guests. He was certainly an odd-lookingguest, a very old volume out-of-date--odd-fashioned overcoat with goldbuttons, an odd-fashioned "stock, " and an odd-looking shirt. Whilewaiting for dinner he looked at me oddly, and eventually addressed me inthis odd way: "Sir, may I have the pleasure of exchanging names with you?" "Why, certainly; my name is Harry Furniss. " "H'm, ha, eh, ha!" and he walked away. After dinner came the speeches. As each guest was called upon, my oddfriend was to his evident chagrin not named; I noticed from time to timethe old gentleman was elevated--sitting high. At last, after I hadreturned thanks for the visitors, he rose and asked to be allowed tospeak. He said something nice about me--the reason he explained to melater. The burthen of his speech was a protest that he had not seen oneodd volume that night. "If you've got 'em, produce 'em. Ah!" (snappinghis fingers at the company in general) "I don't think you know what anodd volume is!" And then turning round he placed on the table a hugevolume on which he had been sitting all through dinner. [Illustration: MY DESIGN FOR SETTE OF ODD VOLUMES. I WAS A GUEST. ] "There, " he said, "that's an odd volume if you like--that's somethingunique. It contains 9, 987 hotel bills--a chronicle (of my hotelexpenses) for two-thirds of the present century. " Later he came round to me. He assured me that he didn't catch my namewhen he asked for it, but when I was speaking he recognised me and wasglad to have the opportunity of making my acquaintance. It appeared hehad bought many hundreds of "Romps" books for children and given themto Children's Hospitals and other institutions. So he had besides anodd volume a good heart--and what is more surprising, a watch in everypocket! Watch-collecting was his hobby, and, like a conjuror, heproduced them from the most unexpected and mysterious places. Onebelonged to the Emperor Maximilian, and had in its case moving figuresto strike the time. I confess I wished he had exchanged watches with mein place of names. His name, by the way, was Holborn; he was awell-known City tea-merchant. [Illustration: MY DESIGN (REDUCED) FOR THE DINNER OF YE RED LYONCLUBBE. ] [Illustration: A DISTINGUISHED "LYON. "] When I visited Leeds for the British Association Meeting, I was made amember of Ye Red Lyon Clubbe, a dining club which I understand meetsonce a year as a relief to the daily monotony of the serious business ofthe Association--in fact, "for one night only" the British Ass. Assumesthe Lion's skin. To see learned Professors who have been dilating forhours and days on the most abstruse scientific subjects, with the mostsolemn faces, amidst the dullest surroundings, suddenly appear waggingtheir dress-coat tails to represent the tail of the hungry lion, andemitting the most extraordinary mournful, growling sounds, the nearestapproach at imitating the roar of the lion, and otherwise behaving likea lot of schoolboys on the night before the holidays, is certainly ascene not familiar to the thousands who belong to the BritishAssociation. Burlesque-scientific speeches are made after dinner, and although thereare generally some practical jokes in chemical illustrations, the merrywits do not tamper with the dinner itself further than preparing a mostexcellent burlesque menu, which I take the liberty of here introducing: JOURNAL OF SECTIONAL PROCEEDINGS. Issued Tuesday Evening, September 9th, 1890, at 5. 30 p. M. SECTION A. .. _Hors d'Oeuvres_--Kinetic Vacua. SECTION B. .. _Purée Pontoise_--Isomeric Naphthalene. _Consommé à la Princesse_--Hydracid Halogen. SECTION C. .. _Boiled Salmon_--Glacial Lepidodendron. _Fried Smelts_--Horned Dinosaur. SECTION D. .. _Kromesky à la Russe_--Androgynous Cones. _Poulet Sauté à la Chasseur_--Chytridian Woronina. SECTION E. .. _Braised Fillet of Beef_--Lobengula Lion. _Roast Saddle of Mutton_--Native Kalahari. SECTION F. .. _Grouse_--Statistics of Slaughter. _Partridge_--Progressive Decimation. SECTION G. .. [A]_Savarin à l'Abricot_--Diamagnetic amperes. _Sicilian Cream_--A New Lubricant. _Victoria Jelly_--High Carbon Slag. _Maids of Honour_--Kinetic Leverage. _Pastry_--Approaching the Elastic Limit. SECTION H. .. _Ice Pudding_--Prognathous Brachycephaloid. _Croûte d'Anchois_--Unidentified Origin. _Dessert_--Prehistoric Jourouks. H. B. ----, } Jackals. W. ----, } [Footnote A: Should the discussion of these Papers interfere with thetransactions of the other Sections, one or more will be taken aseaten. ] [Illustration: The Pointed Beards] Somebody has said that an Englishman will find any excuse to give adinner, but my experience has been that this is truer of Americans. Ihave been the guest of many extraordinary dining clubs, but as the mostunique I select the Pointed Beards of New York. To club and dinetogether because one has hair cut in a particular way is the _raisond'être_ of the club; there is nothing heroic, nothing artistic orparticularly intellectual. It is not even a club to discuss hirsuteadornments; such a club might be made as interesting as any other, provided the members were clever. That most delightful of _littérateurs_, Mr. James Payn, once interestedhimself, and with his pen his readers, in that charming way of his, onthe all-important question, "Where do shavers learn their business? Uponwhom do they practise?" After most careful investigation he answers thequestion, "The neophytes try their prentice hands upon their fellowbarbers. " That may be the rule, but every rule has an exception, and Ihappened once to be the unfortunate layman when a budding andinexperienced barber practised his art upon me. I sat in the chair of ahairdresser's not a hundred miles from Regent Street. I had selected ahighly respectable, thoroughly English establishment, as I was tired ofbeing held by the nose by foreigners' fingers saturated with thenicotine of bad cigarettes. I entered gaily, and to my delight afresh-looking British youth tied me up in the chair of torture, latheredmy chin, and began operations. I was not aware of the fact that I wasbeing made a chopping-block of until the youth, agitated and extremelynervous, produced a huge piece of lint and commenced dabbing patches ofit upon my countenance. Then I looked at myself in the glass. Goodheavens! Was I gazing upon myself, or was it some German student, lacerated and bleeding after a sanguinary duel? I stormed and raged, andcalled for the proprietor, who was gentle and sorry and apologetic, andexplained to me that the boy must begin upon somebody, and Iunfortunately was the first victim! I allow my beard to grow now. Otherwise I should not have been eligible for the New York PointedBeards, for no qualification is necessary except that one wear a beardcut to a point. The tables were ornamented with lamps having shades cut to representpointed beards. A toy goat, the emblem of the club, was the centredecoration. We had the "Head Barber, " and, of course, any amount of softsoap. A leading Republican was in the barber's chair, and during dinnersome sensation was caused by one of the guests being discovered wearinga false beard. He was immediately seized and ejected until after thedinner, when he returned with his music. It so happened we had present amember of the Italian Opera, with his beautiful pointed beard, and hehad also a beautiful voice. But New York could not supply an accompanistwith a pointed beard! So a false beard was preferred to false notes. Thespeeches were pointed, but not cut as short as the beard--rather toopointed and too long. It was just after the Bryan political crisis. Theleading politician in the chair and one of the guests, a politicalleader writer, who had not met--not even at their barber's--since theelection, had some electioneering dispute to settle. Americans, unlikeus, drag politics into everything. Take away this peculiarity and youtake away two-thirds of their excellent after-dinner speaking. ThePointed Beards may have something to do with the matter. The two losttheir temper, and the evening was all but ruined thereby, when a happythought struck me. Although as the guest of the evening I had spoken, Irose again to apologise for being an Englishman! I confessed that I hadlistened to the two speeches, but their brilliancy and wit wereentirely lost upon me; the subtle humour of the American passed anEnglishman's understanding. Their personalities and political passageswere no doubt ingenious "bluff, " but so cleverly serious and so wellacted that I had for four-fifths of the acrimonious speeches beenentirely taken in. At this all laughed loud at my stupidity, and theevening ended pleasantly. The secretary of this dinner, which was a most excellent one, was thecelebrated Delmonico, but it was not held at his famous restaurant. Tohave been complete it ought really to have been held in a barber's shop, for some of those establishments in America are palatial, and even minorbarbers' shops are utilised in a curious way. One Sunday afternoon as Iwas taking a walk I overheard some singing in a shop devoted to hairdressing, and looking in I saw an extraordinary sight. There were abouta dozen old ladies seated in the barbers' chairs, with their backs tothe looking-glasses and brushes, singing hymns. It was a meeting of thePlymouth Brethren, who hired the shop for their devotions! Of course at the Pointed Beards' dinner in New York we had oysters withbeards--but no American dinner is complete without their famous oysters. Unfortunately I have to make the extraordinary confession that I nevertasted an oyster in my life, and as I am touching upon gastronomy, I mayalso mention that I never touch cheese, or hare, or rabbit, or eel, andI would have to be in the last stage of starvation before I could eatcold lamb or cold veal; so it will be seen by these confessions that mycook's berth is not a sinecure, and that these complimentary dinners, asdinners, are to a great extent wasted upon me. I once, in fact, wasasked to a dinner at a club, and I could not touch one single dish! Butmy friends kindly provided some impromptu dishes without cheese oroysters and other, to me, objectionable things. I was not so lucky inBaltimore. We all know Baltimore is celebrated for its oysters, and thenight I arrived a dinner was given to me at the Baltimore Club, whichopened as usual with dishes of magnificent oysters. The head waiter, awell-known figure, an old "darkie" with grey hair, placed a dish ofoysters down before me with pride, and stood to watch my delight. Ibeckoned to him to take them away. He seized the dish and examined theoysters; got another dish, placed them before me. I again requested himto remove them. This happened a third time. I then told him plainly andemphatically that I did not eat oysters. By this time my host and hisguests were at their third course, and I and the head waiter were stilldiscussing oysters. My host did not notice this, as he was at the otherend of the table, and there were many floral decorations between us; butI made bold to inform him of the fact that the waiter had not only takenaway my plates but had removed my glasses, knives and forks, and left mewith a bare cloth and no dinner. My host had to call the waiter out ofthe room and remonstrate with him, but it required some time and a greatdeal of persuasion before I, the guest of the evening, was allowed tobegin my dinner when they were finishing theirs. It transpired that thehumorous paper of Baltimore had published the impressions I wouldreceive on visiting their great city, and prominently was a caricatureof myself swallowing my first Baltimore oyster. This so interested thewaiters of the club that they selected the largest for me, and were sodisappointed at my refusing them that they punished me in the same wayas Sancho Panza was punished before me. Perhaps the most extraordinary dinner I ever took part in was held inNew York on November 3rd, 1896, when twelve leading Democrats and twelveRepublicans sat down on the night of the most sensational election thathas ever taken place in the United States. English readers will hardlyrealise what such a combination meant. The only parallel in this countrywas probably caused by Mr. Gladstone's Home Rule Bill, when leadingLiberals and Conservatives stood on the same platform. But that was theresult of a purely political question; political questions of thatnational character do not interest the better-class American. Forinstance, on my first visit to America I sat next to a very influentialNew Yorker at dinner. At that time also elections were pending, and Icasually asked my acquaintance what he thought of the situation. Heraised his eyebrows with great surprise and said: "Pardon me, sir, we take no interest in politics here; we leave that toour valets. " I met that man the day of this dinner four years later. He waspositively ill with excitement; he could talk of nothing but politics. Party emblems decorated his coat; every pocket was full of pamphlets--hehad been working night and day to defeat Bryan. His valet, no doubt, wassleeping soundly the sleep of indifference--nothing to lose or nothingto gain should Bryan succeed. The silver scare of Bryan's touched thepockets, not the politics, of the prosperous; and that touch is the onetouch that makes the whole American world kin. [Illustration] It happened that I was dining at the house of the chairman of thisunique dinner ten days before the election, and he was telling us of thecoming election-night dinner as the most extraordinary in the history oftheir politics. To my surprise, days afterwards, I received aninvitation. They all had to be consulted, and agreed that I was the onlyoutsider they would allow to be present. The dinner was held in an hotel in the centre of New York, and specialpermission had been given to have the room next to the one in which wedined turned into a telegraph office, where all the messages going tothe central office were tapped, and we knew the result in the room assoon as it was known at the central office. Perhaps I was the only onepresent thoroughly indifferent, and certainly the only one who enjoyedhis dinner. Speeches were indulged in even earlier than usual, and oneof them had the portentous title of "England" coupled with my name! Irose and said that I felt exactly like a man who had been invited to acountry house, and on his arrival was met by his friend on the doorstepwith a long face and a cold, nervous hand. He was glad to see you, buthad sad news: his wife was lying between life and death, and the doctorswere round her bedside. Now, under such circumstances, one does notexactly feel one can make one's self at home. I assured my listenersthat at the moment the Republic was lying in a critical condition, doctors were at her bedside, and it would be settled before midnightwhether she was to live or die. If they would allow me I would riselater, and I trusted then my friends would be in a more genial and lessexcited mood. I had the pleasure of continuing my speech late thatnight, and congratulating them on the Republic having survived the Bryancrisis. To describe the scenes after dinner when the results were announced, ifI had a pen capable of so doing, would simply dub me in the minds ofmany readers as a second de Rougemont. Late that night I reached the waterside. The North River was ablaze withred and blue lights, and rockets shot into the darkness from eithershore. Every ferry-boat, tug-boat, scow, or barge in the harbour passedin an endless procession. The air quivered with the bellowings offog-horns, steam whistles, and sirens. It was indescribable; languagefails me. I can only quote the words of the New York paper with "thelargest circulation in the world": "The wind-whipped waters of river andharbour glowed last night with the reflection of a myriad lights setaflame for the glory of the new sound and golden dollar. East and west, north and south, dazzling streams of fire played in fantastic curvesacross the heavens, and beneath this canopy of streaming flame moved amammoth fleet of steam craft, great and small. " As I laid my aching head on my pillow I murmured: "Had I been anAmerican citizen, much as I believe in sound currency and an honestdollar, one more rocket, a few more fog-horns, and I should have cast myvote for Bryan and Free Silver!" [Illustration: A SKETCH OF BOULANGER. ] At this dinner I contrasted the look of anxiety with the callousindifference of a face I had watched under similar but still more uniquecircumstances a few years before: the face of the chief of French_poseurs_--General Boulanger--whom I was asked to meet at dinner inLondon. It happened to be the night the result of his defeat at thepolls was made known. He sat, the one man out of the score-and-fiveconcerned; but as telegrams were handed to him, of defeat, not success, he never showed any signs of interest. A few years afterwards, when on tour with my lecture-entertainments, I"put in" a week in the Channel Islands, under the management of agentleman who had been intimately acquainted with Boulanger when he wasa political recluse in Jersey; and one afternoon he drove me to thecharming villa the General had occupied, situated in an ideal spot onthe coast. The villa was most solidly built, and of picturesquearchitecture--the freak of a rich Parisian merchant, who had spared nopains or money over it. The work both inside and out was that of thebest artists Paris could supply. It was magnificently furnished--amuseum of beautiful objects, and curious ones, too. One bedroom was amodel of an officer's apartments on board a man-of-war, even to thewater (painted) splashing through a porthole. Another bedroom was areplica of an officer's tent. These were designed and furnished for thesons of the Parisian merchant, who for some domestic reason never wentnear his _petite_ palace. He lent it to Boulanger, and there he livedthe life of an exiled monarch. The place has never been touched since hewalked out of it. In the stateroom, in which he received politicaldeputations of his supporters from France, the chairs were arranged in asemi-circle round the table at which he sat when he received the lastone. On the blotter was his speech, and a sheet of paper on which waswritten the address of the retreat. This was given to me, and here Ireproduce it:-- [Illustration] We had coffee on the balcony, served out of china which had on it hismonogram, and silver spoons with his crest. I did not pocket thespoons, nor the powder-puff of Madame, and other relics lying about; therooms remained as they were left, even to gowns in the wardrobe. Thedelightful garden, cut out of the rocks, had run wild. The grapes hungin clusters, the flowers were one mass of colour, the paths were coveredwith grass. Below stood the summer-house where Madame drank her tea. Inone corner on a wall was a small target with revolver bullet marks allover it, the result of the General's practice, when possibly he used thesame revolver which he turned upon himself at the tomb of Madame deBonnemain, in the cemetery at Ixelles, Brussels. [Illustration: A NOTE ON MY MENU. ] It would be impossible for me in a short chapter to deal with all theinteresting dinners and other entertainments I have attended; but I mustconfess that I was immensely flattered by a lunch given to me inWashington by the Rev. Dr. Wesley R. Davis, the well-known Albanypreacher, who had retired from the pulpit and become an official of thePostal Department in Washington. The novelty of this lunch was the idea of the chairman to sandwich eachcourse with a story. We began with some very fine and large Lynhavenoysters. We English, with one exception, have no appreciation of thesize of these huge American oysters. That one exception was Thackeray. And I may safely say that I never sat down to a meal in America andexpressed my surprise at the size of the oysters (which I purposely did)but that someone told me what Thackeray said of them. On this occasion Iwas told the story by none other than General Horace Porter, one of thebest if not the greatest of all _raconteurs_ in the United States. Hereit is: "You know what Thackeray said when he first saw one of ouroysters, --that he felt in eating it he was swallowing a new-born baby. " [Illustration: REMARKABLE AND MUCH TALKED OF LUNCH TO ME AT WASHINGTON. THE AUTOGRAPHS ON BACK OF MENU. ] After the green turtle Mr. Willard, the well-known actor, was calledupon, and related a brace of capital theatrical stories. After Carolina shad and _pommes Parisienne_ I was called to my legs. Nowthere is nothing so depressing as telling stories or making speeches attwo o'clock in the afternoon. General Porter remarked that he couldnever tell a story till after eleven o'clock at night. He managed, however, to tell several of his best on this occasion. As the gallantGeneral will tell them again, and I trust many times, I shall notpublish them here. Mine are not worth repeating. As I said, I felt atthe moment something like a well-known literary celebrity distinguishedfor his capital Scotch tales and his conversational brevity. He wasinvited to meet the late James Payn, who had expressed such a strongdesire to make his acquaintance that he agreed to dine at the ReformClub (which he had not done for a considerable time), and this was onlyarranged by their giving him the same waiter and allowing him to sit atthe same table he was in the habit of having at lunch every day. Theothers were Sir Wemyss Reid and Sir John Robinson, of the _Daily News_. The four enjoyed a capital dinner. Payn, Sir Wemyss and Sir John were attheir best, but the guest never made a remark. However, towards the endof the dinner, he put his knife and fork down, looked round, and said, "This is the very first time in my life I have sat down with threeeditors. " This was all his conversation. I was referring to the fact that brevity is the soul of wit, and thatthe Scotch author's remark about the three editors expressed my fear inaddressing so many members of the Government as were present. Then came the pheasant, and before we had quite relished the excellenceof the celery salad that favourite American comedian, W. H. Crane, mixeda salad of stories which were highly relished. I shall pass over histheatrical stories and select two which followed, and which are sotypical of American humour, that I give them in full. A poor man on tramp in the country one fine July day staggered in anexhausted state into the garden of a rich old lady, and falling on hishands and knees on the grass plot at the feet of the lady, pulledhimself along biting at the grass like a half-starved animal. "My good man, " the lady said, "why do you eat the grass in that way? Areyou really so hungry?" "Madam, " cried the man, looking up, "I am starving!" "Poor man, poor man!" remarked the lady, with a look of pity. "My eyesfill with tears--my heart bleeds for you. Go round to the kitchen door, go round to the kitchen door, the grass is longer there!" The other referred to the darkie railway hand who had by degrees workedinto a position at the depot (pronounced day-po, de-pot or de-poo), where he strutted about in a costume embellished with gold lace. AnEnglish tourist (oh, those poor fools--English tourists!) was standingby the rails as an express train flew past at ninety miles anhour--s-c-h-w-r-r-r-r! and in a second was lost to sight. "Ah!" remarked the English tourist to the gentleman of colour. "The--ah, train--ah, didn't--ah, stop--ah, here--ah!" "No sir, nebber eben hesitated!" [Illustration] On May the 17th, 1888, I gave a dinner at the Garrick Club to myfellow-workers on _Punch_, and others, --a merry meeting of twenty-four. Mr. F. C. Burnand was at the other end of the table, and as the _souffléglacé aux fleurs d'oranges_ heralded the near approach of the end of thedinner I noticed a mischievous look in Burnand's eyes, and it struck mehe intended to make a speech! As there was no "object" in my giving thedinner except a purely social one, --in fact to reciprocate thehospitality of some present whom I could not ask to my house inconsequence of my wife's long illness, --I naturally felt extremelyanxious when I saw that Mr. Burnand intended introducing speeches. I hadsent a message to him that I wished for none. My evening would be spoiltby speeches, and even the witticisms of Burnand could not save it--yethe was incorrigible. I must pay him back! A happy thought struck me ashe was speaking. I sent for note-paper. I, unobserved, tore it intostrips and slipped the pieces into my breast-pocket. When I rose I actedbeing extremely nervous, assured my friends that I had implored the"Vice" not to introduce speeches, and with (true) feeling implored themnot to credit the "chicken and champagne" the "Vice" had more thanhinted at, and of course said I was unaccustomed to speaking, etc. Ithen fumbled about my pockets, and nervously produced my "notes, "carefully laying them out in a long column in front of me. My guestslooked with pity upon me, and their dismay was evident when I began asfollows: "I was born--I was born--in 1854. I--I----" (break down). NoteNo. 2. "I came to London--I came to London----" "Hear, hear, " murmured the sufferers. Another collapse, --I sought other "notes. " "Art--art--Greek art----" "Hear, hear, ha, ha!" (They were beginning to guy me!) "_Punch_----" (another painful pause). "Gentlemen, _Punch_----" "Yes, yes, we know all about that!" "Yes, " I said, "but, gentlemen, before that toast is honoured I beg topropose to you a toast. The toast, always the _premier_ toast in everygathering composed of English gentlemen. " The joke was then mine. In themost perfunctory and glib manner I gave the Royal Toast. After it wasduly honoured I gave the second Loyal Toast, "The House of Lords, " "TheHouses of Parliament, " "The Army, Navy and Reserve Forces, "--each timecalling upon some one or two to respond. The reply for "The Navy, " Irecollect, fell to Sir Spencer Wells, who was originally in the Navy. (The Army had a legitimate representative. ) We had Law, Art, Letters, Music, the Medical Profession, Commerce, the Colonies, America(responded to by E. A. Abbey)--in fact we had no fewer than twenty-fourtoasts; twenty-four or more replies. But this was only the first round!I was determined to keep the speeches going and not to let Burnand sayanother word. So I passed him over, and ignoring his appeals from thechair, I got through--or very nearly through--another score of speeches, reinforced by Toole and others coming in after the theatres, until theclosure was moved and the meeting adjourned. Burnand and I rode to Mill Hill and back the next morning, and he had toadmit I had utterly routed him. The victory was mine! To keep up the flow of oratory in the second series of speeches I had tocall upon my guests to speak to a different toast from the one theyreplied to earlier. This added to the fun. But the best-regulatedhumour, such as Burnand's introductory speech, often gives a falseimpression. For instance, I actually managed to get Charles Keene on tohis legs, --I think I am right in saying the only occasion on which heever spoke. I coupled his name with "Open Spaces" (Sir Robert Hunter, the champion of "open spaces, " had responded the first time). It struckme that I was paying Keene a compliment when I referred to hismarvellous talent in depicting commons and fields and vast spaces in hisunequalled drawings of landscapes. "Umph! Furniss, I see, chaffs me about leaving so much white in mywork--not filled up with little figures like his. " And I do not think he ever understood I intended to compliment him. Towards the end I received a memorandum in pencil on a soiled piece ofpaper: [Illustration] And he walked in--dear old Toole in an old coat. I have given many another sociable dinner, but none with greater successthan this at which I turned Burnand's accidentally unhappy speech into aHappy Thought. When I was offered the chairmanship of the dinner of the London ThirteenClub, it was with a light heart that I accepted. I was under theimpression that the dinner was to be a private kind of affair--a smallknot of men endowed with common sense meeting to express their contemptfor ignorant and harmful superstition. I had already had the honour ofbeing elected an honorary member of the Club, but somehow or other I hadnever attended any of its gatherings, nor had I met with one of itsmembers. [Illustration: THIRTEEN CLUB BANQUET. THE TABLE DECORATIONS. ] When the time came, it was with a heavy heart that I fulfilled mypromise. This Thirteen Club idea, which hails from America, had in themeantime been "boomed, " as our cousins across the Herring Pond would putit, into an affair of great magnitude. It was taken up by the Press, andparagraphs, leaderettes and leaders appeared in nearly every journal allover the country. This is the style of paragraph I received through aPress cutting agency from numberless papers:-- "Mr. W. H. Blanch, who has been elected President of the London ThirteenClub for the year 1894, is the promoter of an organised protest againstthe popular superstition which led to the formation of the Thirteen Clubfour years ago. In his new position as President, Mr. Blanch hasevidently resolved upon a more vigorous and aggressive campaign thanthat which has hitherto characterised the operations of the Club, forthe New Year's dinner which is announced to take place on Saturday, the13th of January, promises to be something altogether unique as a socialgathering. Mr. Harry Furniss, one of the hon. Members of the Club, willpreside at this dinner, which is announced to take place at the HolbornRestaurant, and in room No. 13. The members and their friends willoccupy 13 tables, with of course 13 at each table, and perhaps needlessto say peacock feathers will abound, whilst the knives and forks will becrossed, and any quantity of salt will be split. During the evening thetoastmaster on this somewhat memorable occasion, instead of informingthe assembled company that the Chairman will be happy to take wine withthem, will vary this stereotyped declaration by announcing that theChairman will be happy to spill salt with them. The Club salt-cellars, it is stated, are coffin-shaped, whilst the best 'dim religious light'obtainable from skull-shaped lamps will light up the banqueting-hall, before entering which the company will pass under the Club ladder. Otherdetails too gruesome to mention will perhaps only be revealed to thecompany who will sit down to this weird feast, which promises to make arecord, nothing of the kind having yet been attempted in London. " [Illustration: MR. W. H. BLANCH. ] These paragraphs rather frightened me. What had I let myself in for?Where would it all end? Then other notices, inspired no doubt by the President, made theirappearance from time to time, and heaped upon my devoted head all mannerof responsibilities. Waiters suffering from obliquity of vision were tobe sought out and fastened on to me: "The Secretary of the London Thirteen Club has requested the manager ofthe Holborn Restaurant to provide, if possible, cross-eyed waiters onthe occasion of the New Year's dinner of the Club over which Mr. HarryFurniss is announced to preside on the 13th inst. Mr. Hamp, the manager, while undertaking that the Chairman's table shall be waitered asrequested, has grave doubts whether the supply of waiters blessed in theway described will be equal to the large demand so suddenly sprung uponhim. " [Illustration: THE BROKEN LOOKING-GLASS. ] [Illustration: THE BADGE. ] Other dreadful proposals there were, too, "too gruesome to mention. " Imay at once frankly admit that I do not like the introduction of the"gruesome" graveyard element. The ladder we all had to walk under, thepeacock's feathers, the black cat, the spilling of salt, breaking ofmirrors, presenting of knives, wearing of green ties (not that I woreone--the colour doesn't suit my complexion) or opal rings, are fair fun, and I think that in future it would be as well to limit the satire tothese ceremonies, to the exclusion of the funereal part of the business. For badges each wore in his button-hole a small coffin to which dangleda skeleton, and peacock's feathers. In my opinion the peacock's featherswould have been sufficient for the purpose of the Club: the only objectI had in going to the dinner was to help to prove that these stupidsuperstitions should be killed by ridicule. I detest Humbug, andSuperstition is but another name for Humbug. I am a believer incremation, but that is no reason why I should hold up to ridicule theclumsier and more unhealthy churchyard burials about which so muchsentiment exists. It was amusing to note my absent superstitious friends' excuses fortheir non-appearance. One declined because he had an importantengagement that he could not possibly put off on any account. Late onthe evening of the dinner I heard this same gentleman grumbling becauseno one had turned up at his club to play a game of billiards with him!Another had fallen asleep and did not wake in time, and a third had beenunlucky with his speculations of late, which he attributed to havingseen the new moon through glass, and therefore he declined to tempt thefates further. Mr. George R. Sims, the well-known "Dagonet, " betrayedsheer fright, as the following letter will testify: "MY DEAR SIR, --At the last moment my courage fails me, and I return the dinner ticket you have so kindly sent me. "If I had only myself to think of, I would gladly come and defy the fates, and do all that the members are pleased to do except wear the green necktie suggested by my friend Mr. Sala (that would not suit my complexion). But I have others to think of--dogs and cats and horses--who if anything happened to me would be alone in the world. "For their sakes I must not run the risks that a faithful carrying out of your programme implies. "Trusting that nothing very terrible will happen to any of you in after life, "Believe me, "Sincerely yours, "(Signed) GEO. R. SIMS. " I confess my real and only reason was to protest. In Englandsuperstition is harmlessly idiotic, but elsewhere it is cruel andbrutal, and a committee should be formed to try the lunatics--everydaymen of the world--who suffer from it, for there is no doubt that theyand their families are made miserable through superstitious belief. Nothing kills like ridicule, and it is the Club's object by this meansto kill superstition. Some, like Mr. Andrew Lang, may think it a pityto interfere with this humbug, but I venture to think it is a charitywhen one considers the absurdity of educated men of the present daymaking themselves unhappy through the stupid nonsense of the dark ages. For instance, take two of my most intimate friends. One in particularsuffered in mind and body through having a supposed fatal number. Thisnumber was 56, and as he approached that age he felt that that yearwould be his last. Fancy that for a man of the world, who is also apublic man, and a member of the Government at the time of the dinner! Hewas also a charming companion and a delightful friend, and no man I knewhad a wider circle of acquaintance. I happened to accompany him in a sixweeks' tour on the Continent during the year he believed fatal to him, or perhaps it may have been the year previous; anyway, he was sufferingfrom that horrible complaint, superstition. He first made me aware of itthe night we arrived in Paris by thumping at my door in a terrible stateto implore me to change rooms with him--his number was 56, and itterrified him! Next day we travelled in a carriage numbered 56, and myfriend was miserable. At the theatre his seat was 56, the ticket for hiscoat was 56, 56 was the number of the first shop he entered to buy sometrifle I suggested to him. Indeed, I may at once confess that I tookcare that 56 should crop up as often as possible, as I thought that thatwould be the best way to cure the patient. Not a bit of it; he gotworse, and was really ill until his 56th birthday was passed. [Illustration: SQUINT-EYED WAITER. ] To take the chair at this "most unique" banquet, as the papers styledit, was no easy task, and to be waited upon by cross-eyed menials wasquite enough to make a sensitive, imitative being like myself verynervous. Some of this band of gentlemen who had neglected to go to theOphthalmic Hospital seemed to consider that their being bought up forthe occasion was a great honour, and one youth in particular, with blackhair, a large sharp nose--and oh! such a squint!--whose duty it was toopen the door of the reception-room, at which I stood to receive theguests as they arrived, was positively proud of his unfortunatedisfigurement, and every time he opened the door he flashed his weirdlyset eyes upon me to such an extent that I felt myself unintentionallysquinting at every guest I shook hands with. When dinner was served a huge looking-glass was flung at my feet, whereit shattered into a thousand fragments with a tremendous crash, givingone a shock so far removed from any superstitious feeling as to act onone as an appetiser before dinner. Then whilst everybody else is enjoying his dinner without let orhindrance, the poor Chairman has to hold himself prepared for varioussurprises. Telegrams of all sorts and descriptions were handed to me. But perhaps the most interesting of all the postal and telegraphdeliveries brought me during the dinner was a letter from my old andvalued friend "'Arry" of _Punch_, who had accepted an invitation, andwas to have proposed the health of the Chairman, but unfortunately waslaid up with a sore throat: "Try and make my kind and would-be hosts understand that as 'Arry would say, there is 'no kid about this. ' I enclose a few doggerel verses penned painfully on a pad perched on a pillow, which--if you can read 'em--you are welcome to do so. "My elbow's sore And so no more At present, from yore Old friend (and bore) "E. J. MILLIKEN. " Here is the "painfully-penned" doggerel:-- "13 _Jany. _, 1894. "THE LOST (VOCAL) CHORDS. "Lying to-day on my pillow, I am weary and ill at ease, And the Gargles fail to soothe me, And the Inhalations tease. I know not what is the matter; To swallow is perfect pain, And my Vocal Chords seem palsied!-- Shall I ever use them again? "So I _can't_ propose your health, friend, Or drink to the 'Thirteen's' luck. _I_ must dine on--Eucalyptus, And Sulphur, or some such muck. _I_ have no Salt to be spilling; _My_ only knife is a spoon; And I have not the smallest notion If there is, or isn't, a Moon! "But I picture you on your legs, there, And the 'Thirteens' ranged around; And I feel I _could_ sound your praises, If these Vocal Chords _would_ sound. But I know that in guttural gurgling The point of my jokes you would miss; If I tried to lead the cheers, friend, _My_ 'hooray' you'd take for a hiss. "So 'tis just as well as it is, friend, And doubtless 'the other chap' Will do you the fullest justice; So I'll turn and try for a nap. But before I resume my gargle, And my throttle with unguents rub, I'll drink--in a glass of Thirteen port-- To the health of the 'Thirteen Club. ' "It may be that some bright Thirteenth They may ask me to Dinner again; It may be I then shall be able To speak without perfect pain. It may be my unstrung larynx May speak once again _with words_: For the present, excuse me--along of My poor Lost (Vocal) Chords!!!" I was relieved and amused to find one present even a little moreembarrassed than myself. He was a rotund, happy-looking man of theworld, and he had to sit isolated during part of the dinner, as hisguests were afraid to attend the uncanny banquet. However, theSecretary, being a man of resource, ordered two of the cross-eyedattendants to fill the vacant places. I shall never forget the face ofthe poor man sandwiched between them. During the course of the dinnerthe black-edged business card of an "Undertaker and Funeral Furnisher, "of Theobald's Road, Bloomsbury, was brought to me. Under the impressionthat he had supplied the coffin-shaped salt-cellars, and wished to bepaid for them, I sent to enquire his business, whereupon the undertakersent me in the following telegram he had just received from Cambridge: "Call upon Harry Furniss this evening Holborn Restaurant Thirteen Club Dinner for orders _re_ funeral arrangements. " [Illustration: COFFINS, SIR!] The receiver of the telegram, I learnt from his card, had been inbusiness fifty-four years, but evidently this was the first time he hadbeen the victim of this Theodore Hookish joke. I called the funeralfurnisher in. Unobserved by the green-tied guests and the cross-eyedwaiters, he walked through the banqueting hall, and as soon as hearrived at the chair, black-gloved, hat in hand, with the ominous footrule projecting from the pocket of his funereal overcoat, I stood up andintroduced him to the company, read the telegram, and invited him to goround the tables and take the orders. Whether it was that the man ofcoffins met the gaze of any particularly cross-eyed waiter, or wasovercome by the laughter called forth by my solemn request--an outbreakforeign to the ears of a gentleman of his calling--I know not, but hepromptly vanished. Later in the evening a request came from him for apresent of one of the coffin-shaped salt-cellars, and no doubt the one Isent him will adorn his window for another fifty-four years, to thedelight of the Cambridge undergraduates whose little joke was sosuccessful. [Illustration: THE CHAIRMAN WILL BE PLEASED TO SPILL SALT WITH YOU. _From the "St. James's Budget. "_] In place of the old-fashioned formula, "The Chairman will be pleased todrink wine with the gentlemen on his right, " and then on his left, theToastmaster had to announce that the Chairman would be pleased to "spillsalt" with those on his right, etc. ; but force of habit was too strong, and "drink wine" came out, and although this was corrected, it wasstrange that in some cases the guests held up their glasses and did notspill salt. Of course, throwing salt over the shoulder was prohibited;that superstitious operation would have been sufficient to disqualifyany member. Beside each member was placed a looking-glass, and in the course of theevening it went forth that "The Chairman will be pleased to shiverlooking-glasses with the members, " and smash! smash! went themercury-coated glass all over the tables. It then fell to me to present each of the thirteen chairmen with apen-knife, refusing of course the customary coin in return. I waspresented with a ferocious-looking knife, with a multiplicity of bladesand other adjuncts, which I treasure as a memento of the dinner. [Illustration: A KNIFE I WAS PRESENTED WITH. ] These are a few trifles I had to deal with in addition to the usualtoasts, and I fervently trust it may never again be my lot to be calledupon to take the chair at a "unique banquet" entailing such surprisesand shocks and so many speeches: I proposed the loyal toast as follows:-- The Queen Prince and Princess of Wales and rest of the Royal Family 13 I had a point to make, but forgot it (oh, those squinting waiters!), showing that 1894 was a very unlucky year. However, any mathematiciancould prove that '94 = 9 + 4 = 13. _Q. E. D. _ I might also have reallyutilised only thirteen words in giving the toast of the evening, asfollows: Enemies of Superstition Ignorance and Humbug drink success to The London Thirteen Club ------- 13 ------- ------- On my way to the Thirteen Club Dinner I met a well-known _Punch_ artist, also a keen man of the world. I invited him. He started with horror. "Not for worlds! I _am_ superstitious--never more so than at thismoment. Why, do you know that this has been a most unlucky month withme? Everything has gone wrong, and I'll tell you why. The other night Iwoke up and went to my bedroom window to see what kind of a night itwas--rash, stupid fool that I was! What do you think I saw?" "Aburglar?" "Not a bit of it--I wouldn't have cared a pin for a brace of'em. I saw the new moon through glass! That's why everything's gonewrong with me. What a fool I was!" "What a fool you _are_!" Iejaculated, as I jumped into a hansom for room 13, recalling to mindthat my fellow-worker was not the only humorist who has beensuperstitious. Albert Smith, the well-known author and entertainer, was verysuperstitious, and a curious incident has been related me by a friendwho was present one night when Smith startled his friends by a mostextraordinary instance of his fear of the supernatural. It was in thesmoking-room of the old Fielding Club, on New Year's Eve, 1854. Thebells were just ringing in the New Year when Smith suddenly started upand cried, "We are thirteen! Ring, ring for a waiter, or some of us willdie before the year is out!" Before the attendant arrived the fatal NewYear came in, and Smith's cup of bitterness was full to overflowing. Outof curiosity my friend wrote the names of all those present in hispocket-book. Half of them were ordered to the Crimean War, and foughtthroughout the campaign. No doubt Smith eagerly scanned the lists ofkilled and wounded in the papers, for as the waiter did not arrive intime to break the unlucky number, one of them was sure to meet hisdeath. However, all the officers returned safe and sound, and most ofthem are alive now. The first man to depart this life was Albert Smithhimself, and this did not happen until six and a half years afterwards. Correspondence from the superstitious and anti-superstitious poured inupon me. But I select a note received by the President some time beforethe dinner as the most interesting: "CHRISTIANIA, NORWAY. "SIR, --I see you are going to have an anniversary dinner on the 13th of this month, and I take the liberty to send you the following: "In 1873, March 20th, I left Liverpool in the steamship _Atlantic_, then bound for New York. On the 13th day, the 1st of April, we went on the rocks near Halifax, Nova Scotia. Out of nearly 1, 000 human beings, 580 were frozen to death or drowned. "The first day out from Liverpool some ladies at my table discovered that we were thirteen, and in their consternation requested their gentleman-companion to move to another table. Out of the entire thirteen, I was the only one that was saved. I was asked at the time if I did not believe in the unlucky number thirteen. I told them I did not. In this case the believers were all lost and the unbeliever saved. "Out of the first-cabin passengers saved, I was one of the thirteen saved. "At the North-Western Hotel, in Liverpool, there can be found thirteen names in the book of passengers that left in the _Atlantic_ on the 20th of March, 1873, for New York; amongst them my own. Every one of those passengers except myself were lost. "Now, if these memorandums about the number thirteen--by one that does not believe in it--is of any interest to you, it will please me very much. "I am, yours very truly, "N. BRANDT. "9, KONGENS GADE. " It is absurd to say that I have been unlucky since presiding at thatdinner. On the contrary, I have been most lucky--I have never presidedat another! [Illustration] CHAPTER XIV. THE CONFESSIONS OF AN EDITOR. Editors--Publishers--An Offer--Why I Refused it--The _Pall Mall Budget_--_Lika Joko_--The _New Budget_--The Truth about my Enterprises--_Au Revoir_! Only the fortunate--or should we not rather say the unfortunate?--manwho has made up his mind to produce a journal of his own can have thevery faintest conception of the work and worry, the pains and penalties, the hopes and fears, the anxiety and exasperation, involved in theprocess. I have gone through it all, and perhaps something more than allby comparison with other people in the same peculiar predicament. Forweeks before the promised periodical sees the light the unfortunateproprietor feels himself to be a very Atlas supporting Heaven knows howmany cosmic schemes. The first editor of my acquaintance was a little boy in knickerbockers, with a lavish profusion of auburn locks, an old-fashioned physiognomy, awiry if diminutive frame, and a quick, nervous temperament, whoseyouthful eyes had beheld the suns of fourteen summers. My last editor is one whose physique would be commonly qualified by theadjective _podgy_, of a full face, but with head somewhat depleted ofits capillary adornments, for which deprivation it has to thank thesnows of six-and-forty winters. Our intimacy has been of long standing, for my first and last editor isone and the same being--the present writer. From the day that I, as a little schoolboy, seated on the uncompromisingschool-form looked upon as a necessary adjunct to the inception ofknowledge, produced in MS. And for private circulation only my firstjournalistic attempt, up to the present moment, I can confidently assertthat during my varied experience I never was brought into contact witha more interesting set of men than those I have seen stretched upon theeditorial rack. The primary requirements which tend to make up the composition of aneditor are good health, an impenetrably thick skin, and the best ofhumour. Secondly, he must be able to command experience, a thirst forwork, and the power of application; and, thirdly, he must possess tactand discretion. A universal and comprehensive knowledge of human naturemust also be his, for not only has he to be capable of judging andhumouring the overstrung men and women of talent with whom hedeals--those fragile, sensitive flowers from whom he extracts the honeywherewith to gratify the palate of a journalistically epicureanpublic--but he must also have a thorough knowledge of that public toenable him to direct those who work for him, for they, shut up in theirstudies and studios, may not realise that the man at the look-out has toweather the storms of public opinion, of which they reck little if it bethat what they work at may be to their own liking, albeit unpalatable tothose whom they seek to feed. Like poets, editors are born, not made. An editor may make a paper, buta paper never made an editor. But as to the commercial success orfailure of a periodical, the editor is absolutely a nonentity. There aretwo sides to the production of a periodical: one is the business side, the other the editorial. The success or failure of a periodical dependsalmost entirely upon the business manager. One of the youngest and most successful newspaper proprietors oncecalled me a fool. I wrote and asked him why. We had an interview. Hesaid frankly: "You are a fool, in my opinion, for producing too good anarticle for the money. The public does not appreciate good work, and youwill never make a commercial success of your paper. Your staff is toogood; your printing is too good; your paper is too good. I am a successbecause I know where to buy paper cheap and sell it for a profit. I havethirty publications, but their names, their contents, writing, or art Inever think about, nor does the public either. We ink something on thepaper, and sell it at so much a pound profit. " But I had nothing whatever to do with the commercial side of thearrangements connected with ventures associated with my name. Ah! howlittle the public know what goes on behind the scenes in the newspaperworld! If you stop a publication with which your name is associated, everyone at once, very properly, dubs you a failure. As what? An editor, of course. That is the mistake, the injustice. How many periodicals havethe most talked of publishers started and stopped? Scores of them. Yetare they therefore failures? No, no more than the manager of a theatreis who produces a piece which runs a night or two and comes off. Hestill has his theatre, and other plays. So is it in the publishingworld. It is the isolated editor, without the machinery of a big office, or thehead of the man of commerce, --if he stops, from whatever cause, his oneeffort is the failure! The "successful publisher" stops a dozen newventures in the same time, and he is still considered successful. Apublisher is very much like a conjuror: he must start two or threetricks, so that if one is likely to go wrong he can draw the attentionof the public off it by another, and the first is quickly dropped orreintroduced under another name. My one mistake in publishing was thathaving started a success, _Lika Joko_, I let it drop to take up another. But let my confessions on this subject be brief and in order. Before I had any notion of leaving _Punch_ I had conceived an idea for amonthly magazine to be called _Lika Joko; Harry Furniss's Monthly_, andhad already had a number of drawings engraved, specimen copies printed, and had gone to great expense in the preliminary work. Of course, the_Punch_ men were to be the chief contributors, and Mr. E. J. Milliken waswriting a great deal, and Mr. Bernard Partridge was illustrating for me. Shortly afterwards I retired from the staff of _Punch_. I was thenapproached by the proprietors of an influential daily and weekly paperto edit a sixpenny high-class weekly, and they offered to put down£50, 000 at once. This I would have willingly accepted, but it sohappened that just at that time Mr. Astor reconstructed the _Pall MallBudget_, regardless of expense--an extravagance with which no otherpaper could compete. In these circumstances I declined the offer. I soonfound many friends to support me if I would start a paper connectedsolely with my name, but wishing to have the largest risk myself I tookthe largest share (over £5, 000 in cash), and allowed a few to join me. It was decided to drop the idea of a monthly and make it a humorousweekly. LIKA JOKO. That name was originated some years before by Mr. Burnand and myselfjointly in a chaffing conversation. It was universally connected withme, but as it has been said that I had no right to use it, I herereproduce a document that settles any doubt on that point: "This is to certify that Harry Furniss has the sole right to use the name of 'Lika Joko. ' That he is at liberty to use it in any way he wishes, and no one else can adopt or utilise the name without his permission. "(Signed) F. C. BURNAND, Editor of _Punch_. "PHILIP LESLIE AGNEW, "For the Proprietors. " Wishing to be certain that the name "Lika Joko" was a wise one, I wasadvised to consult the leading editor of our largest publishing house. Strange to say, when I called he had on his wall rows of titles ofpublications under consideration. He looked at mine, and thought thematter over, then shook hands and told me there was a fortune in thetitle alone. A few years afterwards I heard to my dismay that the same great mandeclared the title I had selected was a fatal mistake! The first friend I consulted about capital suggested £20, 000. He wasvery rich, but said that he would only put cash in equal to what Imyself would. I put down £5, 000, and he followed suit. I subsequentlyadded more. The rest of the capital was found by various friends. My friends subsequently said that as I supplied the editorial brains Iought not to have supplied the largest share of the capital! I was requested by my friends to introduce a business man, accustomed topublishing, and leave all business arrangements to him. My friendsbrought in two. Yet I am held responsible for the business arrangementsmade! Few new periodicals have caused more interest. The scene at the railwaystations and book-stalls was unparalleled. We could not print quickenough to supply the demand. 140, 000 copies went off in a fewdays--which, for a threepenny humorous journal, is a record. It is said I wrote the journal myself. I never wrote one line in it fromthe first number to the last. I had the best writers money couldprocure, and I venture to say it was the best-written paper of its classever produced in England. It is said I illustrated it all myself! I had in the _first number_ alone George du Maurier, Bernard Partridge, Fred Barnard, A. C. Corbould, W. Ralston, J. F. Sullivan, G. Ashton, W. D. Almond, J. B. Yeats, and myself. Ten artists!--eight of whom havecontributed to _Punch_. In subsequent numbers I added work by Sir FrankLockwood, Arthur Hopkins, Gordon Browne, W. Maud, W. F. Thomas, C. Richardson, Louis Wain, G. Montbard, James Greig, "Rab, " Max Cowper, J. H. Roberts, René Bull, S. Adamson, J. E. Donnison, W. H. Overend, Charles Burton Barber, A. T. Elwes, Hal Hurst, F. Miller, E. F. Skinner, George Morrow, J. Jellicoe, A. Greenbank, and others--in all nearlyforty artists, and this in six months! I have another inaccuracy to nail to the counter of Dame False Rumour'sshop. That I stopped _Lika Joko_ because it was a failure. The facts about this incident are brief and instructive. Mr. Astor stopped his artistic weekly, the _Pall Mall Budget_, suddenly. It so happened it was printed in the same office as _Lika Joko_. Thisvery paper, which had prevented me accepting the editorship of theproposed new sixpenny weekly paper, and had driven me into publishing athreepenny weekly, was "put to bed" (to use a printer's phrase) weekafter week side by side with mine. I was sent for one Saturday morning. The expensive sixpenny child was to die that day. Could I not adopt it?There was a chance--splendid circulation, splendid returns foradvertisements. Why then does Mr. Astor discontinue it? Because, I was told, Mrs. Astor had just died, --it was so dear to herthat Mr. Astor felt he could not continue it, for purely sentimentalreasons. This was pathetically explained to me. It was so natural. Yet why shouldsuch a splendid paper cease when I had a large proprietor with capitalwaiting to start one? I was the man. So I was told, and so I believed, and so I proved to be. Not a moment was to be lost. I was with SirGeorge Lewis. Has Mr. Astor any objection? He thought certainly not. I therefore engaged the same staff, the same printers, the same paperand machines were used. The paper, with the exception that the title waschanged from the _Pall Mall_ to the _New Budget_, came out in fourdays--the following Wednesday morning. Sir William Ingram was the firstto purchase a copy. The whole edition was sold out before sunset. I havebeen assured that this was the smartest journalistic feat on record. I then sought the people whom I had advised not to oppose this verypaper, but they were on the Continent. I would bring it out and awaittheir return. They did return. But it unfortunately happened that in themeantime they had speculated in one of those American imported "booms"of illustrated literature and lost! _Lika Joko_ came out too, and I immediately met all the members of mycompany and placed both papers before them, my _New Budget_ and ourjoint property _Lika Joko_. The result was the following announcement inthe next week's issue of the latter: "A FAREWELL FABLE. "Once upon a time there was a wealthy shipowner who possessed one of thebest vessels on the seas. Her name was the _Pall Mall Budget_. Weekafter week she left port, well manned, well rigged, laden withpassengers, and made a prosperous voyage. No vessel in her own line wasbetter built and appointed, and gradually she drew away those people whoonce had travelled by her rivals, and carried them herself. "And then, one day, without assigning any reason, the shipowner forbadeher ever again to leave port, and nothing could shake his resolve. "Now, there was at this time also afloat a merry little passenger boatwhich made a weekly cruise in waters only occasionally entered by thelarger vessel, and her name was _Lika Joko_. No sooner did the news ofthe great shipowner's decision reach the ears of the captain of the_Lika Joko_ than he made all sail for port, drew up alongside of the_Pall Mall Budget_, and boarded her. "Then he asked her captain and crew, who were all regretful at the lossof their vessel, if they would put to sea again in a vessel built byhimself, as like the _Pall Mall Budget_ as might be, but, if anything, swifter, more trim, with later improvements to make the passage easierand more entertaining to all on board. And they agreed. "Forthwith he set about giving his orders, and so heartily did everyonework that a week later, in fair weather, and to the surprise of allspectators, this vessel, which was christened the _New Budget_, crossedthe harbour bar and made one of the best passages on record, leaving thecompeting craft far behind, and carrying on board not only the oldpassengers of the _Pall Mall Budget_, but those of the _Lika Joko_ aswell, and many new ones. 'Henceforth, ' said the captain of the _LikaJoko_, who had now become the captain of the _New Budget_, 'we will setour sails every Thursday morning. '" Little did I think the change was a fable. I had not long to wait tofind I had been utterly deceived. According to Mr. Astor, his reason forhis stopping his expensive paper was not as stated! As soon as Idiscovered this I called together my friends, and as they would have tosupply a huge capital to carry on the _Budget_, and as I had beendeceived, it was arranged that they should retire with their unusedcapital, and I carried on the _New Budget_ with my own capital of£6, 000. The paper cost me £100 a day--£700 each number. I had the bestartists, the best writers, the best printers--the same as Mr. Astor--buthere comes in my difficulty. As I had amalgamated _Lika Joko_ with the_New Budget_, I was legally bound to the contract made with theadvertising manager. That contract worked out in nearly every case at 40per cent. Commission for advertisement. That finished me. Was thateditorial or business? I think the latter. Was I to blame? I think not. As the American millionaire had discovered before me that it wasimpossible to give a shillingsworth for sixpence (although I ran it fora longer period than he did), I ceased its publication. Few papers, ithas been said, were more admired than this artistic and refined _NewBudget_, and I take this opportunity of denying that it was in any way afailure compared with papers in existence for years still losing money, and I am sincerely proud of my contribution to the publishing ofperiodicals. But had I not been deceived, and dropped _Lika Joko_, thatpaper would now have been a splendid property. I confess that the financial loss, severe to a professional man who hasmade it all by his own hand, was not what upset me. I am not agambler--I never bet a shilling in my life--but I thought better of myfellow-men than they deserve. What did trouble me was that I never wasgiven credit for my pluck. I was, and I am still, grossly misrepresentedby a certain section of journalists. When the _Pall Mall Budget_ wasdiscontinued, was it written down a failure? No, certainly not. Apathetic excuse was manufactured. That excuse was as clever as it wasuntrue, as I discovered to my cost. I think the man who stepped in single-handed, saved the _Pall MallBudget_ as I did to the benefit of contributors, printers, andpaper-makers, who then strangled his own child-paper and gave all themoney at his disposal to keep the _Budget_ going, who was deserted byhis Company in consequence--they taking with them their remainingcapital--who fought on, and lost thousands and thousands of pounds moreof his own money, who worked night and day for months without anyencouragement, any return, who discovered he had been deceived allround, and then, finding this, paid everyone every penny and saidnothing, but turned round and went on with his own professional work, issurely a man at least to be respected; certainly not the man to bebelittled, misrepresented, and maligned by brother workers. I have other matters to confess regarding my experiences ofpublishing--but they will keep. I am anxious, however, that the factsrecorded in this chapter should be known, as a warning to others wholike myself, being a successful editor, imagine that editing can make acommercial success without a commercial pilot. I paid for myexperience--I do not regret it. [Illustration] * * * * * BRADBURY, AGNEW, & CO. LD. , PRINTERS, LONDON AND TONBRIDGE.