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 a

lecture entitled "Portraiture Past and Present." I found the subject so

large, so complicated, I may say so octopus-like, embracing such varied

periods and phases, and throwing forth its arms or ramifications in so

many directions, that I soon discovered I was struggling with a monster

subject, with which it was impossible to grapple completely in the

limited time allowed for the performance. Still I managed in a light way

to review the history of portraiture from Dibutades to Millais, and

from its display in the Temples to its discouragement at the National

Portrait Gallery, taking as my text Carlyle's dictum that "Human

Portraits faithfully drawn are of all pictures the welcomest on Human

Walls," a sentiment that appeals to all, for there is no doubt human

beings interest us more than anything else. The Pyramids of Egypt awe,

but our interest is in those who raised them; Ancient Rome enchants in

exact proportion to our interest in the Ancient Romans; the Forum is but

a frame which the imagination instinctively fills with the forms of the

mighty men who moved there; the Amphitheatre would have little interest

but for those who made its dust; and when we wander through our

Parliament at Westminster it is not so much the place that interests us

as the senators associated with its name. I confess that when I travel

on the Continent I cut cathedrals and study the people, in the

boulevards, in the streets, in the market-place. When I have spare time

in London I do the same, and at one time made a point of spending a day

now and then wandering about the East End of London for the purpose of

studying character; and it was while so occupied that I happened to

stray into our National Portrait Gallery. I was astonished and disgusted

at such a collection having such a name, and there and then decided that

I would make this the subject of my lecture, and the following is

briefly my indictment as I then laid it before the Grand Jury, composed

of the Press and the Public:

"Of all places, a Portrait Gallery should appeal to you most, and the

National 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 a

library and bury thyself in books of biography, for portrait painters

were deceivers ever, historical portrait painters in particular.

"The National Portrait Gallery was founded about thirty years ago, and

the founder, Lord Stanhope, had the audacity to ask for a yearly grant

of L500 for the purpose of supplying the nation with a representative

collection of national portraits. The first purchase made by the

trustees was a portrait of Sir Walter Raleigh (rather suggestive of the

undertaking ending in smoke). However, it has struggled on, such as it

is.

"Truly it is in no sense a National Portrait Gallery, and although the

richest and most civilised nation in the world now generally grants

L1,000 a year to supply itself with representative portraits of its

great men and women, being I may say about the price of one portrait by

a successful painter, the portraits of our great lights do not swell the

number 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 the

stately homes of England.

"Of late years Charles Surface, Earl of Spendthrift, knocks his

ancestors down to the highest chance bidder, but the National Portrait

Gallery knows them not.

"The reason of this is not far to seek.

"Taking up at random an annual report of the trustees, I read: 'The

salaries of officials amount to L1,176, other expenses L591, the police

L635, total L2,402.' And now we come to the interesting item: 'The money

spent on the purchase of portraits L255'! But the particular section of

the report dealing with this item says seven works have been purchased

for L143 18_s._--that is, L20 11_s._ 1_d._ each.

"Small wonder then that many works in the National Portrait Gallery of

England--England where portraiture flourishes--are unworthy of the

attendance of even L35 worth of policemen. Can we wonder when L635 is

paid to the police to gaze at L143 18_s._ worth of portraits, the

purchase of the year?" and so on.

The result of this "ridiculing the State," as the _Times_, in its

leader, expressed it, for the penurious pittance it doles out of the

revenues of the richest country in the world towards the maintenance of

a National Portrait Gallery, was that I was the cause of arousing the

Press of Great Britain to the miserable condition of the National

Portrait Gallery, which ended in our having one in its place more worthy

of the country.

Besides drawing public attention to the National Portrait Gallery, in

the same lecture I put in a word for the struggling unknown portrait

painters. Speaking of payment reminded me of the story told of

Bularchus, a successful painter 716 B.C. Candaules, King of Lydia, paid

him with as much gold as would cover the surface of the work. I told my

audience that I doubted whether, if that system existed now, the

portrait painters would leave any room at all on the Academy walls for

subject pictures.

Would Meissonier or Alma Tadema, say, paint your portrait for three

napoleons, and would you pay Slapdash, R.A., fifteen thousand for a

larger one? I then made the assertion, "It is not too much to say that a

fashionable portrait painter often receives L900 for his name, and L100

for the value of the picture to the sitter as a portrait. It is the

artist's autograph with a dash of something attached." I asked, "Why

should snobbery tempt those away from an honest, well-painted portrait

by a less-known man, to accept a failure with a Society signature?" a

query that was replied to by my receiving any number of letters from all

over the country asking me to recommend artists; in fact, at the time I

might have started an agency for portrait painters. One of the artists I

suggested had already had a very striking portrait of the Chinese

Ambassador, Marquis Tseng, hung in the Academy, and over that painting

he 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 high

official in his own country, and naturally anxious not to be mistaken

for the Dirty Boy. Again he got into a frightful state at the glazy

appearance of his skin--it was an oil painting.

"Only opium-eaters have shiny skins, and I am free from that vice. This

is 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 on

the top of his hat, the feather down the back, the orders in front, and

was disappointed that his different coats and sashes, three and four

deep, could not all be shown at once.

Another illustration of the difficulties of portrait painters I gave in

the same lecture has since been so frequently repeated in the Press that

I fear it will be stale to most of my readers--the story of the man who

called 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 paint

the portrait of a man who died thousands of years ago, you can more

easily paint my father, who has only been dead ten years!"

Seeing the sort of man with whom he had to deal, the young artist agreed

to paint the defunct gentleman, and the picture in due time was sent

home. It was carefully hung on the drawing-room wall, and the

newly-blossomed art patron was called in to see it. He gazed at it for

some time in silence, his eyes filled with tears, and then, slowly

nodding 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 Six

Toes Trial." I must start at the beginning of its strange, eventful

history, the same way as, in my lecture, I began with the origin of

portraiture.

Now the late George Augustus Sala, in his leader in the _Daily

Telegraph_ on this lecture, accused me of not giving the origin of

portraiture. "Mr. Harry Furniss was bold enough to maintain that,

although Greek art remained the model art of the world, portraiture had

very little to do with it. Mr. Furniss should not tell this story to the

prehistoric toad, for that reptile's presumably long memory might enable

it to remind the graphic artist that thousands of years ago the art of

portraiture was invented by a sentimental young Greek girl, the daughter

of a potter of Corinth, Dibutades." In the same article he sneered at

"a whimsical caricaturist lecturing his contemporaries," and in his

references 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 the

leader, on the margin of which was written with the familiar purple ink,

in Lewis Wingfield's handwriting, "G.A.S. on Hy. F." Wingfield was

Sala's neighbour and friend, so this settled any doubt I had about the

authorship of the article I have just referred to. When I showed it to

du 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 he

was an art student, he tried to get into the Art Schools of the Royal

Academy, and for that purpose had to draw the usual head, hand, and

foot. 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 other

journalists had quoted Sala against me, and a Nottingham paper attacked

me in a long and rather vulgar and offensive leader, I, finding myself

shortly afterwards the guest of the Literary Club in Nottingham, seized

the opportunity to reply. I regretted--though I supposed it was

flattering to me--to find that quite recently, although I had been

treated for many years with the greatest kindness in the Press, I had

been rather attacked. "I was proud," I said, "to find that the first

person to attack me in the Press was the greatest journalist the Press

possessed--Mr. George Augustus Sala." What I really said after this I

print 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 shorthand

notes--thus the blunder. I pointed it out, and at once corrected it in a

letter printed in the same paper a day or so afterwards. My object in

all 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 accurate

parallel illustration of Thackeray was unfortunately, by the reporter's

carelessness, attributed to Sala!

This correction was entirely lost sight of by the Press, and I was

accused by papers all over the country of having falsely accused him of

offering to illustrate Dickens. Papers printed apologies to Sala, and in

some cases paid Sala's solicitor money to avoid actions-at-law. I then

heard that he was going for me. I found a letter from Burnand to that

effect 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 at

the 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 at

least understood the meaning. He ignored this altogether, and I now

merely mention the incident to show that he was vindictive from the very

first. He would not listen to reason. Sir George Lewis, Mr. Labouchere,

Mr. Burnand, and other mutual friends failed: Sala remained obdurate. It

was freely reported after the verdict was given that the plaintiff

never had any desire to make money out of me, and had specially

instructed his counsel not to ask for damages! As a matter of fact, when

our mutual friends implored Sala not to proceed with such a trivial and

ridiculous action, he admitted that he wanted money, and in conversation

with Sir George Lewis--who all through acted as my good friend, and

Sala's too, doing all in his power (which is great) to induce Sala to

accept my necessary _amende_,--Sala declined. He had already pocketed

several amounts from papers publishing the Nottingham paper's fanciful

report, and said to Sir George: "When Friswell libelled me, I got L500

damages; and why should I not be equally successful against Furniss?"

"Yes," said the astute Sir George, "but you must remember that I got you

that L500, and now I am on the other side."

[Illustration]

What I really said, and what I was reported to have said, here I plainly

show are two very different things. Still, in the words "and now he is

Art Critic of the _Daily Telegraph_" there was a germ of libel--slander

one must call it, as the words were spoken--so I was advised to

withdraw. Sala, however, made this an impossibility, and the silly

action, fanned into "almost European importance," to quote Lockwood, was

to 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 this

ridiculous blunder on the part of the reporters, pointing out that what

I did say was that Mr. Sala was not the only literary man who began life

as an artist; and that I had quoted casually as an instance that

_Thackeray_ in early life went to Dickens, my correction--though well

known to Sala--was, to my surprise, ignored, and the words _I had never

used_ were made the point of the whole action!

[Illustration: COUNSEL FOR THE PLAINTIFF.]

Mr. Kemp, counsel for Sala, rolled them out with unctuousness then

paused 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! and

furthermore 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 of

Thackeray and Dickens--as to my right as a critic--but never denied that

these words attributed to me were absolutely a false report! The next

point Sala made was that an "offensive caricature" (reproduced by

permission on this page) was by me! It was Mr. F. C. Gould's. Sala knew

this; so did Lockwood, but he did not deny it: in fact, when the jury

considered 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 most

offensive) caricature of himself and me.

[Illustration: MR. F. C. GOULD'S SKETCH IN THE _WESTMINSTER_, WHICH SALA

MAINTAINED WAS MINE.]

I prompted Lockwood in Court, but he told me that he would not bother

about facts, or call me, or deny anything--he took the line that the

whole 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 in

cross-examination, and got from him an explosive declaration that Mr.

Furniss's statements represented him as an ignorant and impudent

pretender. 'Don't be angry with me, Mr. Sala.'"

But the Judge was angry with dear, good, kind Frank Lockwood, and

scotched his humour, and refused to allow him to "laugh it out of

Court." It annoyed him, and he summed up dead against me. Lockwood could

only 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 an

engraving of the funeral of the Duke of Wellington. It was from my

original drawings. I engraved it on a steel plate, and it contained many

thousand 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 by

accepting a commission to report and illustrate my own trial for the

_Daily Graphic_, and the following--the only authentic account of the

Great Six Toes Trial--appeared the following morning:

"It was unfortunate that the Royal Academicians were all busy varnishing

their pictures for the forthcoming exhibition at Burlington House when

the Great Sala-Furniss Libel Case was heard on Friday last, and that in

their absence you have had to apply to me (the defendant) for sketches

of the scene in Court. What a chance Mr. Calderon has missed for a

companion picture to the one he is painting of another great legal

battle--the Parnell Commission! A picture in next year's Royal Academy

of the trial between two art critics is surely worthy to be handed down

to posterity, say, in the Council Room of the Royal Academy.

"That the subject is not a picturesque one, I admit, but I can offer the

painter an historical incident connected with it that should recommend

itself. We all know that Sir Francis Drake playing at bowls when the

Spanish Armada was sighted is a favourite theme with artists. In this

case, although there is nothing Spanish about it, there is a parallel

incident. I was, like Drake, by the sad sea waves, not playing at bowls,

but sketching a common, or garden, donkey, when a telegram arrived from

London to say that the great trial was in sight, and my presence was

demanded at the Royal Courts of Justice (Court 3) at eleven o'clock the

following morning. Let it be recorded that my nerve was equal to the

great Admiral's--I finished the drawing of that donkey.

[Illustration: DEFENDANT.]

"The morning was a gloomy one, and no doubt the weather had something to

do with the solemn tone of the proceedings. A collection of briefless

barristers, irritated jurymen, and wet umbrellas in dark corridors is

not enlivening; and when you arrive, to find the Court crowded, and you

happen to be, like me, considerably under the medium height, and rather

broad in proportion, it is difficult to come up at all, much less

smiling, 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 I

managed to squeeze myself through. I stuck to my hat, and my hat pulled

me through (alas, a new one!). The hat was more rubbed the wrong way by

the trial than was its wearer; but it is an item in the expense of legal

warfare that ought not to be forgotten by the taxing master. However, I

found myself sitting next my consulter and friend, the 'sage of Ely

Place,' in good time. Although a case is down to be tried in a

particular Court, it may be transferred to another Court at a moment's

notice. This is bewildering to the parties interested and, from what I

saw, irritating to the legal fraternity. Tomkins _v._ Snooks is down for

trial, Court 2. The legal call-boys bustle in the counsel and others

engaged. Mr. Buzfuz, Q.C., pushes his way into Court, surrounds himself

with briefs and other documents, when some mysterious harlequin of the

Law Courts changes Tomkins _v._ Snooks to Court 4, and calls upon Brown

_v._ Jones, who are packed away in Court 3, waiting their turn. Buzfuz

gets very angry, and bustles off to Court 4. In fact, getting your case

into Court reminded me forcibly of that amusing toy, so popular then,

called 'Pigs in Clover'--wigs in clover, I was nearly writing. I

apologise at once for the mere thought. We were transferred from one

Court to another, and our friends sat out a case in the Court advertised

to try ours, wondering what on earth 'The Prince of Journalists' and I

had to do with 'chops and tomato sauce.' What followed has been pretty

fully reported, so I need not dwell upon it. Indeed, I could not live in

the frightful atmosphere of those Courts, and would gladly pay twice

five pounds to be allowed to sit on the roof if ever I find myself a

defendant 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, and

the defendant by the editor of _Punch_.' The solemn occasion demanded a

certain amount of gravity, which was particularly difficult for me to

retain, as my 'supporter,' although fully alive to the tremendous

bearings of the case and the importance of the issues, failed to hide in

his expression those 'happy thoughts' that flow ceaselessly through his

fertile brain. The outward effect was a see-saw antic with his imposing

eyebrows--a proof to me that his sense of the ridiculous had got the

better of his gravity. 'Put on your gloves at once,' he whispered

impressively to me. 'Why?' I asked. 'Because you may then leave the

court with clean hands!' (The 'putting on the gloves' must not be taken

in a double sense.) But this is a digression. You merely ask for

sketches 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, and

pointing to the defendant, 'That miscreant! (note the effect upon me),

and the Judge very serious with everybody. As an antidote, I was

spoiling a beautiful sheet of white blotting-paper by drawing

recollections of the donkey I was studying in the country when I was

summoned to town to take my trial. I am anxious to make this public, as

I now remember that I left that sheet of sketches in the court; and who

can tell? Some one may yet 'invest those sketches with an almost

European importance,' and the number of five pounds I shall be called

upon 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 its

leader upon it, that 'future treatises on the law of libel will, if

properly and picturesquely indexed, be enriched with this entry, "Art

critic, statement held to be a libel upon, see Toes." Indeed, the antics

of 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. I

will supply a footnote."

Over this _jeu d'esprit_ on my part Sala waxed very wroth, for besides

having to pay L80 costs of his own, he brought upon himself columns of

chaff, of which the following is a fair specimen. "The Prince of

Journalists," wrote a wag of journalists, "is lamenting that he has

jumped out of the Furniss into the fire, for of a surety five pounds

will hardly repay Mr. Sala for the roasting he will receive from his

good-natured friends." Skits showing six toes were plentiful, jokes in

burlesque and on the music-hall stage were introduced as a matter of

course, and private chaff in letters was kept up for some time. One

private letter I wrote du Maurier, "Sala has no sole for humour--you

have made me put my foot in it," and added the Six Toes signature

sketch. 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 to

that filched and fatal joke. He said that I told that joke because he

had been invited to distribute the prizes at the Art School at

Nottingham shortly before, and that I had run down and, like the

miscreant who sowed tares in his neighbour's wheat, deliberately made

him look ridiculous. As a matter of fact, I neither knew that Sala had

distributed the prizes, nor that he had ever put in an appearance at

Nottingham. Sala in his evidence said, "I have always been well received

there (Nottingham). The people have always been very kind to me, and

they expressed surprise at the libel." Nottingham people reading this,

assured me it was the very reverse of the facts, that Sala was socially

anything but friendly and most objectionable in his behaviour when

there; 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 of

my fellow artists is that my object in attacking the Royal Academy

("Royal Academy Antics," 1890), was a thoroughly unselfish one. "It was

published for the sake of those who, for one reason or another, are not

within the inner circle. I was prompted to call the discriminating

attention of the public to the evil the Academy works and permits to

exist," by appeals from artists outside--heartbroken men and women

smarting under unfair treatment; I received letters recording cases of

gross injustice, followed by ruin and poverty--which made my blood boil.

The shortcomings of the Academicians had been the subject of criticism

for many years, yet no improvement resulted. As the _Times_ pathetically

observed: "At least it should not be taken for granted that improvement

is impossible till improvement has been attempted. This much has been

forced upon us by the painful knowledge of the many bitter, often

heartbreaking, disappointments which cloud the opening of the Royal

Academy Exhibition, when London looks bright and blooming, and everyone

and everything around seems so full of life, and so eager and capable of

enjoyment. It is impossible for those whose office carries them behind

the scenes, in the midst of the festive and fashionable crowd which

throngs the stately rooms of the Academy, not to think of the poor

lodging and the shabby studio, and the easel, the rejected picture, the

subject of so much labour, the spring of so many hopes, which was

expected to win bread, if not fame, for the painter." Perfectly true,

but oh, how pathetic! to those, like myself, "whose office carries them

behind the scenes." It is pleasant to keep friendly with those Royal

Academicians and their friends and worshippers--that "festive and

fashionable crowd"--and to be on good terms with the givers of banquets

and the pets of Society; but I care little for such, for I am neither a

logrolling journalist nor a Society-seeking artist, and at the risk of

having my independence mistaken for egotism, I have always expressed my

opinions openly and freely, quite regardless of, and not caring one jot

for, those whose friendship I lost in consequence--no, not even as in

this case, where the very artists who confessed to me, and who appealed

to me to attack the Academy, subsequently avoided me, as "it wouldn't

do, don't you know, to be seen with Furniss, as I am in the running for

the Academy." This was my dedication.

[Illustration: THE SEE-SAW ANTIC.]

The one object in view was to disabuse the public mind of the erroneous

impression that the Royal Academy is an unprejudiced official public

body, that they elect only the best artists, and reject only the

unworthy--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 of

artists. "Most of those artists who write and talk of art may be

considered prejudiced--no one can well say that you are. What is the

Royal Academy to you?" was said to me. I was even encouraged by some of

the Academicians themselves, who had from time to time fruitlessly

attempted to introduce reforms; but notwithstanding the efforts of the

right-minded members of their body, the majority adopt the Fabian policy

of sitting down and doing nothing, or bury their heads, ostrich-like,

till the storm of indignation raised by their unworthy selfishness and

indolence has blown over.

I went thoroughly into the subject. I read Blue-books, criticisms,

sober, solid reviews, Royal Academicians' confessions and defence. I

read everything connected with the history of the Royal Academy from

beginning to end. Then I appeared on the platform and gave lectures on

Art and Artists and the Royal Academy, which drew forth leading articles

from the _Times_ and nearly every paper in the land.

In my researches I found that the Royal Academy has been a narrow-minded

clique from its very initiation. It was procured by the trickery of an

American (its first President), West, from that "dull lad brought up by

narrow-minded people," George the Third, described by Thackeray: "Like

all dull men, the King was all his life suspicious of superior people.

He did not like ... Reynolds.... He loved mediocrities--Benjamin West

was 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-interested

sycophancy, involving practically the ruin of all that the best spirits

in the art world had laboured for since the commencement of the century.

A society of unmitigated selfishness was thus started, and still

continues. When everything else around has been reformed, as the country

has advanced and increased, the Royal Academy remains exactly as it was

when so hurriedly formed one hundred and thirty years ago.

To all this I received endless confirmation, but, alas! the writers did

not give me permission to publish their names. I have on my desk before

me as I write this page a letter from the editor of our most artistic

illustrated weekly: "Allow me to congratulate you; keep pegging away.

The Royal Academy of Arts (plural) is nonsense; it is, as you say, a

Royal Academy of oil. If the R.A. had done their duty years ago, we

would not see such farcical statues in the streets, nor should I (as at

present moment employed) be writing to Berlin and Vienna for assistance

in matters where skill and taste are required by art workmen." The

President 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 that

many of the antiquated mistakes made by the parent Academy have been

carefully avoided by our governing body."

[Illustration: THE FIRST P.R.A.]

From all sorts and conditions of artists and art employers I received

congratulations. Those from the poor struggling outsiders alone repaid

me for the trouble I had taken. At that time, only eleven years ago, the

Royal Academy and other picture shows were in a very different position

from what they are now. Art is no longer a fashion; proportionately the

Royal Academy is going down. The glory of Lord Leighton, one of the

brightest of Society's stars, attracted hosts of fashionable people to

the gatherings of the Academy, and Sir John Millais, too, was much run

after by the fashionable crowd. Now that these are gone, the Academy has

lost all interest in smart Society. "Academy Antics up to Date" would

not have any sale, "An Artistic Joke" in Bond Street would not have any

visitors. 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," wrote

the editor of the _Magazine of Art_, "during the last hundred

years--attacks which, directed against unjust or antiquated rules, have

usually been well founded. But never, perhaps, has so effective a charge

been made as that which Mr. Furniss brings in his entertaining volume;

and if it be true that ridicule will pierce there whence the shafts of

indignation will rebound, no little good may be looked for from the

publication."

[Illustration: NO WATER-COLOUR OR BLACK-AND-WHITE NEED APPLY.]

Precisely so. Others, serious and influential, had exposed the R.A.; I

tried 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 buy

books on art, but is content with a _rechauffe_, my object to a certain

extent was defeated.

My Lady Oil of Burlington House is a very selfish creature; she

persistently refuses to recognise her twin-sister Water Colour, giving

her but one miserable room in her mansion, and no share whatever in her

honours. My Lady Oil is selfish; My Lady Oil is unjust to favour

engravers and architects, and to ignore painters in water-colours and

artists in black-and-white. She showers honours on her adopted sisters,

Engraving and Architecture, because the former mechanically reproduces

her work, and the latter builds her pretty toy-houses for her children

to live in.

This is really altogether absurd when you reflect that it is in

water-colour that English art excels, and that the copyist, the

engraver's occupation will soon be gone, beaten away by slightly more

mechanical, but more effective, modes of reproduction.

Sooner or later John Bull will open his inartistic eyes, and see that

mediocrity in oil is not equal to excellence in water, and that those

who originate with the pencil are far before copyists with the graver

and drawers of plans.

I then advocated a National Academy, a Commonwealth of Art, presided

over by a State Minister of Fine Art, in which mediocrity will find no

space 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 where

there will be no such mockery of good work as "rejection for want of

space."

Where all the fine arts, and especially the national fine art

(water-colour paintings), shall be recognised as arts, and the best of

the professors of them shall at least be eligible for election.

Where the committee of selection and hanging shall be--as in the

Salon--elected by the body of exhibitors.

Where reasonable time shall be given to the proper consideration of

every work sent in.

Where the women, in the rare event of their being equal to their brother

brushes, shall be elected into the magic circle.

Very few of the great public who find the splendid Tate Gallery "a thing

of beauty and a joy for ever," recollect the disgraceful treatment the

donor of it received at the hands of the Government and others. The way

in which Mr.--afterwards Sir--Henry Tate was "held up to derision and

contempt by a handful of irresponsible cranks" was a public scandal. Mr.

Tate, in consequence, temporarily withdrew his princely offer of

L150,000 to the nation. All his friends, and they were legion, deeply

sympathised with him. I, being one of the few who were asked by Mr. Tate

to 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 to

the _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 L80,000 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, though

gravely," suggesting such a thing. My object in making the proposal was

misunderstood. I was accused of putting the crowning absurdity on the

whole thing, of making a cheaply canonised martyr of Mr. Tate, and some

ungenerously hinted I was following up my joke of my "offer to the

nation" by another. In fact, for the first time in the history of

England, a public man was not to have a public dinner when there

happened 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 my

warm hearted letter in the _Times_, but begged of me not to press my

proposal in his honour. "As you say, I am a modest man, and it would be

more than I could stand. What I _should like_ would be to see the

artists calling a public meeting and protesting against the way in which

British art has been shelved." In the same letter he assured me "that

too much could not be said in condemnation of Sir Frederick Leighton's

and the Academicians' supineness." In writing to thank me for dropping

the proposed banquet, he again referred to his great surprise and

disappointment that neither Sir Frederick Leighton nor any one of the

Academicians had given his scheme any support, and complained that the

President of the Royal Academy had been much more loyal to his friend

Lord Carlisle "than to the cause of British art."

THE OLD BAILEY.

In the winter of 1885 the following paragraph ran through the Press:--"A

statement has been circulated from a quarter that may be taken as well

informed, that the City Lands Committee of the Corporation of London

have perfected plans for the improvement of the Central Criminal Court.

It is not improbable that the process of reform has been accelerated by

a recent letter to the public Press of Mr. Harry Furniss, the well-known

comic artist, who, having been summoned as a juryman, suffered many woes

while waiting to be called into the box." As the _Saturday Review_

remarked, the bitter cry of the outcast juror which I uttered is

familiar enough to the public ear, but I had given it a more penetrating

note than usual; but it did not hesitate to say that it would not

produce any more effect upon those whom I sought to influence "than the

less articulate, or even than the absolutely inarticulate, protests of

many generations of his fellow-sufferers." And the _Saturday Review_ was

right, 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," "The

Old Bailey Scandal," and other startling headlines failed to move

Bumbledom. The most celebrated Criminal Court in the world, situated in

the richest city, to this day remains a public scandal and a purgatory

to unfortunate jurymen. My suggestion in this "amusing jeremiad," as it

was called by one paper, contained one serious proposal; but my protest

against the only form of conscription known to our laws, and my

suggestion that the jury should be paid junior barristers, was, I

confess, the only humorous idea I had in writing the letter! The major

portion was serious--so again I have been a victim to the want of humour

on 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 of

verses, 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 and

articles on various other public matters, have not met with the same

success. Even domestic annoyances have been ventilated by me, and I

fondly 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 general

and 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 rare

species of snake, which was indulging in a constitutional on one of the

broad paths. "What a gigantic worm!" was my first thought, but on my

using my stick to arrest its further progress it rose in the orthodox

snake-like fashion at my cane, throwing itself into an attitude of

defence and hissing with anger. The park-keeper, park-labourers who were

mowing the grass close by, and divers members of the British public,

from the piscatorial street arab with his minnow-ensnaring thread and

bent pin to the portly merchant wending Citywards, were soon on the

spot, and really that diminutive reptile caused more consternation than

would have been the case had it been instead an Anarchist bomb. I sent

over to the cricket pavilion for a tin canister wherein to cage _pro

tem._ the wily stranger, and excitement waxed high as preparations were

made to accomplish the fearsome feat. This was safely managed by the aid

of a newspaper, which naturally enough, considering the events of the

week, proved to be of a sporting character, and the viper, probably

anxious as to the result of the Oaks, glided to the column containing

that news, whence it was expeditiously shaken into the canister, which I

perforated at the top, and walked off with my tinned snake to the

Zoological Gardens hard by, where its roaming propensities were kept in

check within the walls of the reptile house.

I was somewhat startled to learn that my captive had not escaped from

the Gardens, which did not contain one of its species, and Mr. Bartlett

gave it as his opinion that there must have been a number more wherever

this one came from. This new danger further enhanced the charms of

Regent's Park, which on Saturdays is a perfect pandemonium, the

pedestrian having to exert a great deal of agility to dodge the whizzing

cricket balls and avoid being maimed for life. Now that we have had

snakes in the grass we may expect vultures in the air, and who knows

that in time to come we may not be shooting big game in the jungles of

the north-west!

The above is the substance of a letter I wrote to the _Times_, the

publication of which caused no little consternation in some papers and

no little chaff, at my expense, in others. The London evening papers

appeared 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 valuable

information about this newly-discovered fearful reptile which lies in

wait for wayfarers in the wilds of Northern London," sent a

representative post-haste to interview Mr. Bartlett, the superintendent

of 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 laevis_), 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 my

privilege 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 _a 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 conflicting

information 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 in

picture. Mr. F. C. Gould treated the subject in Japanese-Lika-Joka

spirit, 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 the

mystery:

"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. Another

correspondent 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 found

in gardens of private houses close to the Zoological Menagerie. "Mr. A.

B. Edwards" wrote, from an address close to the Zoo, to the _Daily

Telegraph_, a few weeks after my finding the cause of all the snake

sensation:

"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_, _a 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 reptile

house, who "looked puzzled" and grinned, and had to grope about the sand

at the bottom of the case to find the snake for the edification of the

_Westminster Gazette_ interviewer, did not grin to that purpose for

long. Never before in the history of the Zoo was the reptile house so

crowded. Day after day people thronged to see the specimen of _Coronella

laevis_ found on the path in Regent's Park. Not one looked at the two

splendid specimens of the largest and finest and fiercest snakes bought

that very week by the Zoological Society, at a cost of three hundred

pounds. My snake was valued at anything between sixpence and

eighteenpence, but it brought more money to the turnstiles of the Zoo

than all the other snakes put together in twenty years.

From an address not half-a-mile from the gates of the Zoological Gardens

a gentleman wrote to the _World_ about a snake he found in his garden. A

London and North-Western guard found a boa-constrictor, 22 feet long, in

his van! "The son of a well-known Member of Parliament" found a huge

snake 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 of

the ophidian brood, I would have feared the consequences. Alas! the

British public killed my snake--as it has killed many another celebrity

of the hour--by too much attention and flattery. But how the cause of

all this excitement got on to the path in the centre of Regent's Park

remains a mystery. I feel certain myself it had escaped from the

Zoological Gardens through the drains, and the fact that others were

discovered in the vicinity of the Park at the same time explains the

confusion and mild chaff accepted by the _Westminster_ interviewer as a

complete explanation, forgetting that officialism when criticised is

much the same all the world over.

[Illustration: THE LADY AND HER SNAKES.]

"The Harrow School Boy" correspondent--probably a very old boy--is not

alone in his strange choice of pets. A lady who had sent her pet snakes

to the Zoological Gardens--not by "The Roving Rook Post," but by the

usual course of presentation--happened to visit the Gardens at the time

that other great attraction was drawing all London, the great Jumbo

craze. When she arrived to see the elephant of the hour, the crowd was

so dense around his cage that there was no chance of getting a peep, so

she marched off to the reptile house and soon returned with one of her

pets coiled round her neck. She took her stand close to the people

engaged in struggling to pat the trunk of the Jumbo, feed it with the

most expensive sweetmeats, decorate it with choice flowers, and weep

bitter tears over its impending departure. (The public of the present

day 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 is

too much for some of us. One after another the visitors vanished as the

snake thrust its head near them, and soon the ingenious lady had the

place and Jumbo to herself.

She was not a professional "snake-charmer," but an eccentric lady of

private means; her pet was large, but harmless. Strange to say, about

the same time a company of Japanese "snake-charmers" were causing a

sensation at a show in the West End of London by their performance with

snakes of a well-known dangerous species. Some of the reptiles they

performed with fell sick--languid and useless for sensational show-work.

They were despatched to the "Zoo" by the manager to be looked

after--possibly the climate affected them. They would not eat anything,

and were gradually pining away, when it was discovered that their

poison-fangs had been extracted, and their mouths were sewn up with

silk. Charming, certainly!

Having lived close to the Zoological Gardens for over twenty years, and

being a Fellow of the Society, I have spent a great deal of enjoyable

time rambling about its ever-interesting collection. The "Zoo" is very

like London itself--one never exhausts its interest. There is always a

surprise in store for those even most intimately acquainted with it. One

suddenly comes across an object of interest that has existed in the

place for years, but one has not happened to pass at the moment that

object appears. How many visitors to the "Zoo," for instance, have ever

seen the beavers at work? To see them, the most interesting animals in

the collection, one has to go very late or very early. Knowing old Mr.

Bartlett as I did, I frequently saw interesting events, and heard from

him interesting tales of the Gardens.

Another letter of mine to the _Times_ took the form of a confession. It

was what was described in the Press as "a humorous, yet withal pathetic

complaint" (December, 1895) respecting the irritating inconvenience

caused by so-called "modern conveniences," which do not always act

satisfactorily. I had been driven to "let off steam" (which is better

accomplished through a pen than with a pencil) by my experience in one

week of the modern inventions which are designed to facilitate business

and to benefit the public generally, and I still seriously question if

these wonderful inventions and the extra expense incurred by adopting

them are not a mistake.

The working of the telephone has become, of course, a farce, and the

sooner the Government take it up the better. Several large business

houses have given it up, and in the working of the telephone London,

which ought to be the most favoured, is probably the most unfortunate

city of any in the world. I have tried half-a-dozen times in one day to

ring up different people on the telephone without succeeding in getting

through, and have had to send notes by hand.

The electric light is another disappointing "improvement." It has gone

out four times in one week, and we had to use candles and lamps.

Then the District Messengers' wire, which I had in communication with my

house, 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 next

day a representative called casually to inform me that we could not use

the wire for two or three days, as something had gone wrong.

I then tried the phonograph; but I had more correspondence about it than

I had through it.

[Illustration: DO WOMEN FAIL IN ART? THE CHRYSALIS.]

A plague on these experiments in the advancement of science intended to

facilitate our work and add to our comfort! The electric light kills our

sight; the telephone destroys our temper; the District Messenger call

ruins our dinner; and, conjointly, they waste our time and deplete our

purses.

When there was a controversy in the _Daily Graphic_ I wrote in the

interests 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 in

appreciating women in art as in everything else where appreciation of

talent is due. The fashion-plate young lady, with her doll's face, her

empty head, and her sawdust constitution, monopolises all the attention

that selfish man can afford to give outside thoughts about his own sweet

self.

Every year we see some work in the Academy from the easel of a woman

which is far better than many of the works exhibited by Academicians,

and although when that selfish body was being formed there were not

enough men to supply the number of figure-heads required, and two women

were requisitioned to launch the ship, all the gratitude shown to the

sex has been years of continued insult. Yet there are certain

Academicians who paint like women for women, and instead of leaving it

to women receive all the honour and remuneration; and those having this

feminine art and spirit behave the worst to those whom they copy. The

pretty-pretty pictures of conventional coquetries which we have served

up year after year by the chefs of this pastry of art might be concocted

by the dainty fingers of the lady artist just as well as, or even better

than, by the effeminate man who takes her place and robs her of her

honours. But after all, are not the women themselves to blame? Art, I

hold, is nowadays purely a commercial affair. Burlington House is simply

a huge shop, and it is all nonsense to talk for one instant about the

encouragement it gives to art, or to take seriously the prosy platitudes

which are poured forth year by year at that picture tradesmen's

dinner--the Royal Academy Banquet. Women are not invited--women,

forsooth, whose works on the walls have done their share towards

bringing the shillings to the turnstiles of the Academy. But more

ridiculous still is the omission of lady patrons of art, for it is well

known that this feast is given with two objects--to advertise the coming

show, merely "chicken and champagne" in theatrical phraseology, and to

feast Mr. Cr[oe]sus, who buys the pictures of his host.

Now, it is the influence of women that makes the majority of men buy

pictures. Few men buy pictures to please themselves; they buy them to

please their wives. Why women are not patronised in art is for this

simple reason, that women would rather patronise the work of a fool, if

that fool be a man, than the work of a genius, if that genius happen to

be a woman. I agree with Mrs. Jopling, that "with men success is reached

with a fair wind and every favour, while with women those only succeed

who have the power of weathering many storms." Quite true. Grace Darling

will row out to help some feeble man struggling in the billows of

incompetency, but she will sit on a rock and see a woman sink before she

will stretch out a helping hand. If women fail in art, it is because

women fail to help them, and I hold that but for women we might even

to-day find the Royal Academy incapable of forming a quorum without

calling in lady artists, as they did before. I see that the two ladies

most qualified to speak about this subject disagree on the most

essential point. Mrs. E.M. Ward gives it as her opinion that if women

studied with the same quiet devotion as the male student they would be

more successful; but Mrs. Louise Jopling asserts that young girls show

quite as much disposition for art as young men do. I have no hesitation

in saying that the latter opinion is the correct one. The male art

student vies with the medical student in playing the fool. A friend of

mine has recently been driven out of his studio, which was situated next

to an art school, by the asinine behaviour of these "quiet devotional

students." But in any school I have been through I have noted with

astonishment the painstaking sincerity of the lady students.

[Illustration: THE BUTTERFLY.]

All that has been written on the subject from time to time seems to me

to be quite devoid of common sense. We all know what a delightful poet

Mr. Sterry is, and how fondly he sings the praises of women. Probably he

has been so engrossed in describing the grace of the girl that he has

failed to look for the natural elegance of the boy. Possibly no artist

admires the female form more than I do, but any artist will corroborate

me when I say it is a matter of the greatest difficulty to find a

graceful young female model, while you seldom find a youth who is really

awkward. The playground of a girls' school is a conglomeration of

awkward figures, awkward running, awkward gesticulating, enough to make

an artist shudder, while the cricket or football ground of a college is

the 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 of

anatomy tiresome, drawing from the antique a bore, painting from the

nude superfluous, and studies of the old masters uninteresting. An

afternoon round the art schools and art galleries will prove to him the

very reverse. But then the "lazy minstrel" cannot intend his readers to

take him seriously, for he says that women have greater delicacy of

touch and facility of manipulation than men, and that their hands are

less awkward and their fingers more lissom than those of the sterner

sex. In poetry, my minstrel, yes; in reality, bosh. Where are your women

conjurors? You say that their brain is not strong enough to second their

manual advantage, but that they can "knock off" a pretty water-colour or

oil study of flowers, or a graphic caricature! Caricature, indeed!

Perhaps no one has seen more caricatures than I have, but I have never

seen a caricature by a woman. If women have a failing, it is lack of

humour. We poor caricaturists know that; but we also know that whereas

women can compete side by side with painters on the line of the Royal

Academy, we are not honoured by even a failure in caricature.

It is curious how clever lady artists become when they happen to be the

wives of successful painters, but it is a significant fact that while

all writers seem to agree that marriage is the cause of obliterating

artistic ambition in women, it has in many cases been the birth of

genius; and while domestic companionship with an artist will make a

woman a painter, no caricaturist has ever succeeded in making his wife

a humorist in art, and I shall ask Mr. Sterry what he means by placing

"graphic caricature" on a par with "knocked-off" pretty water-colours

and the weak studies of flowers by lady amateurs. Mr. Sterry is an

artist himself, and this disparagement of a most difficult and most

unique 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. The

young lady students of the period were copying those impossible

lithographed heads which formed the stock-in-trade of the

drawing-master, or those fashion-plate Venuses whose necks recalled the

proportions of the giraffe, with the eyelashes of a wax doll, and

fingers that tapered off like the point of a pencil. These sirens of the

drawing-board were invariably smelling a rose or kissing a canary, and

always had a weakness for pearls. They used to be drawn upon tinted

paper, and when the faces had been duly smeared over with the stump to

suggest shadow, and after the drawing-master had endowed the work with

artistic merit by the application of white chalk to the high lights, the

pearls, the canary's eyes, and the pathetic tear-drops upon the damsels'

faces, the immortal productions were ready for framing. The giraffe or

swan-necked angel was the keynote for all ideal work, and even the

recognised 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 her

brother in riding costume, _et hoc genus omne_. These are caricatures,

but, like many of the pictures on the walls of the Royal Academy, they

are unconscious ones.

As I am writing about the failure or success of women, I should like to

introduce 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 of

curious letters from all sorts of people. The following, sent to me from

the 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 L18,000. 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 my

correspondent. I therefore printed his request in a London letter I was

writing at the time and which appeared in the principal local papers in

the United Kingdom, and also in the papers of America and Australia, and

added 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, to

hand to this gentleman should I ever have the pleasure of meeting him.

Judging from this, the manager of a matrimonial agency must indeed get a

curious insight into the minds of the maids of Merry England. This

single experience has been quite enough for me.