MY CONFESSIONS AS A SPECIAL ARTIST.
[Illustration: DISTRESS IN THE BLACK COUNTRY. _Acting as Special Artist
for The Illustrated London News._]
The Light Brigade--Miss Thompson (Lady Butler)--Slumming--The Boat
Race--Realism--A Phantasmagoria--Orlando and the Caitiff--Fancy Dress
Balls--Lewis Wingfield--Cinderella--A Model--All Night Sitting--An
Impromptu Easel--"Where there's a Will there's a Way"--The American
Sunday Papers--I am Deaf--The Grill--The World's
Fair--Exaggeration--Personally Conducted--The Charnel House--10,
Downing Street--I attend a Cabinet Council--An Illustration by Mr.
Labouchere--The Great Lincolnshire Trial--Praying without Prejudice.
[Illustration: AT THE OXFORD AND CAMBRIDGE BOAT RACE. (_Reduction of
Large Drawing._)]
Sir William Russell and I were called upon at a banquet in the City to
respond to the toast of the Press. Sir William made one of his
characteristic, graceful little speeches, reminiscential and modest.
When I rose I was for a moment also reminiscential--but not modest. "My
Lord Mayor, Sheriffs, and Masters of this Worshipful Company,--I
appreciate the appropriateness in coupling my name with that of Sir
William Russell, for both of us have made a noise in the world at the
same time--Dr. Russell with his first war letters to the _Times_, and I
in my cradle, for I came into this troubled world while others in arms
were making a noise in the Crimea."
[Illustration: AS SPECIAL AT THE BALACLAVA CELEBRATION.]
Naturally for this reason I have always taken an interest in the doings
of that time; so it was quite _con amore_ that I acted as "special" at
the first Balaclava Celebration Banquet (1875), twenty years after
"Billy" Russell's first war letters and my first birthday.
The roll-call on the occasion was funny, seeing that it was that of the
"Light Brigade"--some were "light" and many were heavy--one I recollect
was about eighteen stone. The banquet was held in the Alexandra Palace,
Muswell Hill. The visitors, except the military--past or present--were
shamefully treated. We had to stand all the time behind the chairs and
wearily watch a scene not altogether elevating to lookers-on. We were
not allowed a chair to sit on, nor any refreshment of any kind--not even
if we paid for it; and I well recollect how hungry I was when I returned
to my studio after a tedious journey at 1 in the morning, having had
nothing to eat since 1 of the previous day. Such Red Tape was, I
suppose, to illustrate the disgraceful arrangements of the commissariat
in the Crimea! I was standing close to Miss Thompson (Lady Butler), who
had just become famous by her picture "The Roll Call." She was making
notes, and possibly intended painting a sequel to her celebrated
picture. She was exhausted and tired, and no doubt too disgusted by such
ungallant conduct on the part of the organisers of the banquet to touch
the subject. Had she painted this particular roll-call I fear many of
the figures would have had to be drawn out of the perpendicular.
Twenty years before one of the heroes was, possibly, a better and a
wiser man, and tackled the "Rooshins" with greater dexterity than he
displayed on this occasion in managing a jelly. He had waiters to right
of him, waiters to left of him, and waiters behind him, but that jelly
defeated him, although he charged it with fork, spoon, and finally with
fingers.
From a very early age it was naturally my ambition to be introduced to
Mr. Punch, but this was not to be just yet, and the first London paper
for which I drew regularly was the _Illustrated Sporting and Dramatic
News_, which was started soon after I arrived in London. I continued to
work for it until it was bought by the proprietor of the _Illustrated
London News_, when I became a large contributor to that leading
illustrated paper.
Most of my work for the _Illustrated London News_ consisted of single
and double pages of character sketches, in which Eton and Harrow cricket
matches, Oxford and Cambridge boat races, tennis meetings, the Lawn at
Goodwood, and many other scenes of English life were treated
pictorially; but I also acted sometimes in the capacity of a special
correspondent, and this duty sometimes took me into places far from
pleasant.
[Illustration: DISTRESS IN THE NORTH. _Page (reduction), "Illustrated
London News." Republished by permission of the proprietors._]
On my twenty-fourth Christmas, the year after I was married, I recollect
having to start off upon such a mission to the North of England, where,
owing to strikes and labour disputes, most distressing scenes were
taking place. Throwing myself into the work, I thoroughly ferreted out
the distress which prevailed, pursuing my investigations into the very
garrets of the poor starving creatures whose privacy I thus disturbed at
the entreaty and under the escort of the district visitors and other
benevolent people, whilst the criminal classes also came in for a share
of my observation, which in this case was conducted under the sheltering
wing of a detective.
I cannot, however, say that my energy met with its due reward, for such
was the realism with which I had treated the subject allotted to me
that the editor and proprietors of the _Illustrated London News_ were
reluctant to shock the susceptibilities of their readers by presenting
them with such scenes, and I had to substitute for them sketches of soup
kitchens, committee meetings and refuges. That the editorial decision
was not a sound one was amply proved a few years later, when during a
somewhat similar crisis Mr. G. R. Sims and the late Mr. Fred Barnard
published work of a similar breadth and boldness with signal effect.
Visiting slums, seeing death from want and misery on all sides, is
certainly not the most pleasant way of spending the festive season. In
company with detectives, clergymen, or self-sacrificing district
visitors, you may swallow the pill with the silver on; but try it
single-handed, and it is a very different affair. I was taken for some
demon rent-collector prowling about, and was peered at through broken
windows and doors, and received with language warm enough to thaw the
icicles. The sketches I made during the weeks I spent in the haunts of
want and misery would have made a startling volume, but time and money
were thrown away, and only the perfunctory pictures were published. The
public have no idea, or seldom think, of the great trouble and expense
incurred in faithfully depicting everyday scenes. Still, it is not
possible for a "special" even to see everything, or to be in two places
simultaneously; and consequently, in ordinary pictorial representations,
dummy figures are frequently looked upon as true portraits. One boat
race, for example, is very much like another. Some years ago I executed
a panoramic series of sketches of the University Race from start to
finish, and as they were urgently wanted, the drawings had to be sent in
the same day. Early in the morning, before the break of fast, I found
myself at Putney, rowing up to Mortlake, taking notes of the different
points on the way--local colour through a fog. Getting home before the
Londoners started for the scene, I was at work, and the drawings--minus
the boats--were sent in shortly after the news of the race. The figures
were imaginary and unimportant, but one correspondent wrote to point out
the exact spot where he stood, and complained of my leaving out the
black band on his white hat, and placing him too near a pretty girl,
adding that his wife, who had not been present, had recognised his
portrait.
Yes, I must confess, one has often to draw upon the imagination even in
serious "realism," Some years ago I went with a colleague of the pen to
illustrate and describe the dreadful scenes which were said to take
place in St. James's Park, where the poor people were seen to sleep all
night on the seats. We arrived about 2 A.M. It was a beautiful moonlight
night, but though we walked up and down for hours not a soul came in
sight. My companion said, "It's a bad business; we cannot do anything
with this." I replied, "We must not go away without something to show;
now if you will lie down I will make a sketch of you, and then I will
lie down and you can describe me."
[Illustration: REALISM!]
One of the most "uncanny" experiences I ever had as a "special" I find
graphically described by the late Hon. Lewis Wingfield, who accompanied
me on the strange mission.
[Illustration: "THE CAITIFF" AND ORLANDO.]
"Winter without. Snow. A sea of billows drifting across the sky,
glittering, frosted--a symphony in metals--silver, aluminium,
lead--rendered buoyant for the nonce, ethereal--as though the world were
really gone Christmas mad, and, having a sudden attack of topsy-turvydom
in its inside, had taken to showering its treasures about the firmament,
instead of keeping them snugly put away in mines below ground. A sheet
of snow, and bitter white rain driving still. A huge building looming
black, its many eyes staring into the dark--lidless, bilious, vacant.
This is a hospital. Or is it a factory, disguised with a veneer of the
Puginesque? Or an aesthetic barrack? Or an artistic workhouse? Visible
yet, under falling snow which has not had time to cover them, are
flower-beds, shrub-plots, meandering walks. Too genteel and ambitious
for the most aesthetic of workhouses or advanced of hospitals, we
wonder what the building is; and our wonder is not decreased by seeing a
postern opened in a huge black wall, from which a handful of
conspirators creep silently. We rub our eyes. Are we dreaming? Is this,
or is it not, the age of scientific marvels, levelling of castes,
rampant communism, murder, agrarian outrage, sudden massacre?--the _olla
podrida_ which we are pleased to denominate enlightenment? That first
black figure is James the Second. Heavens! The Jacobites live yet, and
will join, doubtless, with the Fenians and Mr. Bradlaugh, and a _posse
comitatus_ of iconoclasts, to upset the reign of order, and add a thorn
to the chaplet of our hard-run Premier. James the Second. Not a doubt of
it. There he is--periwig, black velvet, and bugles. Where, oh where, is
the Great Seal, with which he played ducks and drakes in the Thames? Yet
no. This is no Jacobite plot, for His Majesty is followed by no troop of
partisans on tiptoe in hose and doublet. He is not seeking to win his
own again. A woodman trudges behind--we recognise him, for his name's
"Orlando"--(Wingfield himself, in a beautiful costume, which he had made
two years previously when playing the part of Orlando in a production of
"As You Like It" in Manchester, the Calvert Memorial performance; Miss
Helen Faucit (Lady Martin), Rosalind; Herman Merivale, Touchstone; Tom
Taylor, Adam; and other well-known celebrities assisting). Then he
describes me: "A muffled creature of sinister aspect. Short,
auburn-locked, extinguished by a portentous hat, tripping and stumbling
over a cloak, or robe, in whose dragging folds he conceals his identity
as well as his power of volition, a weird and gruesome phantom.
What--oh what--is this hovering ghost? He must be just defunct, for the
purgatorial garments fit him not, he stumbles at every step, and when he
trips an underdress is unveiled that's like a City waiter's. What is
he--the arch conspirator--doing himself? He starts, tries to conceal a
book, but we snatch it from him. Sketches! lots of sketches!
caricatures, low and vulgar portraits of ourselves! 'What are you?' we
scream, 'and why this orgy? Speak, caitiff, or for ever hold your
peace!'
[Illustration]
"Perceiving that we are in earnest and not to be trifled with, and glare
with forbidding mien, the caitiff speaks in trembling accents. 'If you
please,' he says, 'I'm the artist from the great illustrated journal;
I'm drawing pictures of the lunatics. My disguise is beyond my own
control, and trips me up, but I'm told it's becoming.' 'Lunatics!' we
echo.
"'Yes,' the caitiff murmurs. 'This is the annual fancy dress ball at
Brookwood Asylum. You and I and the doctors and attendants are the only
sane people in the place. By-and-by the country gentry will be admitted,
and then the tangle will be hopeless, for even in everyday life it's
impossible to know who's mad and who isn't. How much more here?'
"We left the trembling caitiff to his secret sketching, and the
despondency produced by his appearance. He was sane, was he? Then in him
were we revenged on human nature, for sure never was mortal more
oppressed by his gear and his surroundings."
The fact is that my editor, in sending his "young man," omitted to say
that the invitation was crossed with "fancy dress only," so I arrived in
ordinary war-paint. The Doctor was horrified. "This will never do. My
patients will resent it. You _must_ be in fancy dress." All my host
could find was a seedy red curtain and an old cocked hat (had it been a
nightcap I should have been complete as Caudle). I wrapped this martial
cloak around me, and soon found myself in the most extraordinary scene,
so graphically described by Wingfield. He was not alone in his scorn
for me. The "Duke of York" had a great contempt for my appearance, but
when introduced to him as His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales, he
unbent, waved his bauble, and commanded me to be seated. The visitors
eyed me suspiciously all the evening, and on my entering the
supper-room, accompanied by the Doctor, they were seized with the idea
that I must be a very dangerous case, and readily made room--in fact,
made off. One of the poor patients was an artist, and showed me his
sketch-book, the work of many, many months--a number of drawings in
colour, stuck one on top of the other, resembling an elongated
concertina, so that only the corners of the pages could be seen. The
patients wore costumes designed and made by themselves, in marked
contrast to their stylish keepers. Among the guests the county families
were well represented, and garrison officers from a neighbouring depot
formed a motley group which a looker-on, viewing the scene as in a
kaleidoscope, would laugh at. One turn, and the next moment some
incident might occur which an imaginative brain could easily work into a
romance too touching to relate.
For some years I had quite a run of fancy dress balls, a craze at that
time, acting as special artist for various periodicals, the _Illustrated
London News_ in particular. The ball above recorded was unique, but
there is very little variety in such gatherings, where variety is the
one thing aimed at, thus showing the limit of our English artistic
invention. The ingredients of a ball of three hundred, say, would be as
follows,--Thirty Marie Stuarts, ten Marguerites, twenty-eight Fausts,
fifty Flower Girls, nine Portias, three Clowns, sixteen Matadores,
thirty Sailors, twenty-five Ophelias, twenty-five Desdemonas, the
remainder uniforms and nondescripts. Of course any popular figure,
picture or play of the moment will be represented. When the relief of
Mafeking took place, the number of Baden-Powells, tall, short, young,
old, thin and stout, in the various fancy balls and bazaars appearing
will be, as newspaper leader-writers say, "a fact fresh in the mind of
the reader." Some years ago a portrait of the "missing Gainsborough," a
picture of the Duchess of Devonshire, which mysteriously vanished from
Agnew's gallery in Bond Street, was represented in dozens at the fancy
balls of the period, and the Gilbert-Sullivan opera "Patience," supplied
many a costume. My brother "special" on this occasion--Lewis
Wingfield--was a Crichton of eccentricity. The son of an Irish peer, an
officer in the Guards, he dressed as a ballet-girl and danced on the
stage; was a journalist and wrote for Charles Dickens when that great
novelist edited _Household Words_. Wingfield never did anything by
halves, so in writing a series of articles for Dickens on the casual
wards of London he personated a street photographer (having delicate
hands he could not pretend to be a labourer), and wrote his experiences
of the dreadful state of affairs existing in those days under the rule
of Bumbledom. The last he sought relief at was situated close to Golden
Square. Here he was very harshly treated, and when he left he rapidly
changed into his usual clothes, drove up to the establishment as one of
the life patrons (all his family had for years supported the charity),
and had the satisfaction of dismissing the overbearing overseer, to the
wretch's chagrin. Wingfield related this incident with great glee.
[Illustration: AT A FANCY DRESS BALL.]
Anxious to find out the amount niggers made on the Derby Day, he decided
to go as a burnt-cork nigger himself; but it is impossible to do this
unless you are of that ilk, for like the business of the beggars and
street performers, everything is properly organised; there is a proper
system and superintendent to arrange matters. After some difficulty he
managed to get introduced as the genuine article, and at 4 in the
morning had to stand with the other Ethiopian minstrels at "Poverty
Junction," between Waterloo Bridge and Waterloo Station, while lots were
drawn for positions on the course. As luck would have it, Wingfield drew
a pitch opposite the Grand Stand, where at least he would be among his
own acquaintances. All the niggers had to walk to Epsom, unless it
happened some friendly carter could be induced to offer a seat. Had
four-in-hands come along Wingfield might have been saved a walk, but
costers were to him unknown. By lunch-time he was heartily sick of his
new life. However, he was determined to carry it through. In the
evening, after his long, hot day's work, he found he had to wait for the
policeman's train. After the half-million people had returned to London,
he was allowed to crawl into a carriage, and being thoroughly tired he
fell asleep in a corner of the compartment. But the police wanted some
entertainment, and waking him up, said:
"Now then, darky, tune up! we can pay you as well as the toffs; let's
have a song!" They had a concert all the way, Wingfield singing the
solos. The hat was sent round and a collection made, and to the bitter
end Wingfield had to bang away at his banjo and squeak with what little
voice he had left. This nearly finished him. Arriving at Victoria, he
hailed a hansom. One driver after another eyed him scornfully and passed
on. He then for the first time realised that it is not a customary thing
for an itinerant nigger to drive about London in hansoms, even on Derby
Day. So he dragged himself wearily along the streets until he happened
to meet an intimate friend. To him he explained matters, and his friend
called a hansom for him and paid the driver as well before he would take
up his dusky fare. He thought the fact of his driving a street nigger a
great joke, and made merry over his passenger as he passed the other
drivers. But he was very much astonished when he drove up in front of
quite an imposing dwelling and saw the door opened by a footman as the
nigger toiled up the steps.
[Illustration: LEWIS WINGFIELD AS A STREET NIGGER HOME FROM THE DERBY.]
As an artist Wingfield was ambitious. Finding, as he told me, that he
could never be a great artist, he preferred not to be one at all. On his
walls were large classic paintings, not likely ever to find their way to
the walls of anyone else. But he tried his hand at popular art as well.
A scene in a circus, for instance, was one subject. A pretty little
child was engaged to sit in his studio, but as that day he was going to
Hengler's Circus to paint the background he, to the delight of the
child, took her with him. The little girl played about in the ring, and
was noticed by Mr. Hengler, who asked her if she would like to be
dressed up and play in the same ring at night. This led to the child
becoming a professional. She enchanted everyone as Cinderella. Her name
was Connie Gilchrist. I fell in love with her myself when I was in my
teens and first saw her as Cinderella. Afterwards when I came to London
I was as ignorant as a Lord Chief Justice as to who Connie Gilchrist
was; but I recollect a model sitting to me recommending my writing to
her younger sister for some figures she thought her sister would suit.
The day was fixed, but by the morning's post I received a letter from
the young lady to say that Mr. Hollingshead, of the Gaiety Theatre, had
sent for her, and she could not sit to me. She was Connie Gilchrist, and
I believe this was the last engagement she had accepted as a
professional model.
Telegram from the editor of the _Illustrated London News_:--"Election,
Liverpool, see to it at once." So I did. On arriving in the evening, I
rushed off to a "ward meeting," To my surprise the artist of a rival
paper sat down beside me. He did not frighten me away, but candidly
confessed that he had seen a private telegram of mine saying I was
starting, and his editor packed him off by the same train. Ha! I must be
equal to him! I sat up all night and drew a page on wood, ready for
engraving, and sent it off by the first train in the morning. It was in
the press before my rival's rough notes left Liverpool. One would hardly
think, to see candles stuck in my boots, that the hotel was the Old
Adelphi. I trust the "special" of the future will find the electric
light, or a better supply of bedroom candlesticks. All day again
sketching, and all night hard at work, burning the midnight oil (I was
nearly writing boots). A slice of luck kept me awake in the early
morning. A knock at my door, and to my surprise a friend walked in who
had come down by a night train for a "daily" and seeing my name in the
visitors' book had looked me up, thinking I could give him some "tips."
"All right," I said; "a bargain: you sit for me and I'll talk. Here,
stand like this"--the Liberal candidate. "Capital! Now round like
this"--the Conservative. "Drawn from life! And after another day of this
kind of thing, I reached home without having had an hour's sleep. Oh! a
"special's" life is not a happy one.
[Illustration: AN ALL-NIGHT SITTING.]
Great political excitement, there is no doubt, turns men's heads. Once I
recollect finding a most dignified provincial politician in this state,
and necessity compelled me to turn him into a sketching-stool. Mr.
Gladstone was speaking at Bingley Hall, Birmingham, and although close
to him on the platform, I could not, being only five feet two, see over
the heads of others when all stood to cheer. I mentioned this fact to my
neighbour. "Oh, you must not miss this scene!" he said, and quickly,
without ceremony, he had me on his back, his bald head serving as an
easel. It has struck me since that had this old gentleman, a big man in
his native town, and still bigger in his own estimation, seen himself as
others saw him at that moment, the probability is that he would not
have felt anything like so kindly to me as I did to him.
[Illustration: SKETCHES AT THE LIVERPOOL ELECTION: A WARD MEETING.--SEE
PAGE 138.
_Reduction of Page Design. Brush Drawing on wood, made after election
meeting at night, and despatched to London by early morning train. See
the Confessions of a Special Artist._]
Another instance of a special artist having to depend upon his wits was
when I found myself at a big central manufacturing town, sent down in a
hurry from London by the _Illustrated London News_ to illustrate a most
important election meeting--an election upon which the fate of the
Government of the day depended. When I arrived the mills had been
closed, crowds were in the streets, and it would have been a simple
matter to have got into Mafeking compared with getting into the hall in
which the meeting was at the time being held.
[Illustration: MY EASEL. DRAWING MR. GLADSTONE AT A PUBLIC MEETING.]
If there is one thing I dislike more than another it is a crowd,
particularly an electioneering crowd. Political fever is a bad malady,
even when one is impervious to it, if he has to fight his way through an
infected mob. Quickly slipping round to the principal hotel, and finding
there the carriages engaged for the celebrities of the meeting, I got
into one and was driven rapidly up to the hall, cheered by the mob, who
doubtless looked upon me as some active politician. Had I put my head
out of the window and promised them any absurdity, I believe they would
have chosen me their member on the spot. Arriving at the hall, I was
received by the tipstaffs, who, probably not catching my name
distinctly, thought as the hotel people had done, that I was sent down
in some official capacity, and politely ushered me to the platform,
where I was given a seat in the front row.
Ah, you little know the difficulties of the poor artist in running his
subjects to earth. When in New York I was specially engaged by the _New
York Herald_ to contribute a series of studies of the leading public
men. These were to appear in the Sunday edition.
Those Sunday papers! What gluttons for reading the Americans are! The
first Sabbath morning I was in the States I telephoned in an off-hand
sort of way from my bedroom for "some Sunday papers." I went on
dressing, and somehow forgot my order, but on leaving, or rather
attempting to leave, my room afterwards, I found to my astonishment the
doorway completely blocked with newspapers to the quantity of several
tons. I rang my bell vigorously. The attendant arrived, and seemed
considerably amused at my look of consternation. He explained to me that
these were five of the Sunday papers, and added apologetically that they
were all he could get at present. If I had stayed to read through that
pile I should be in the States now.
[Illustration: THE AMERICAN SUNDAY PAPERS.]
The first "subject" I was requested to caricature was the celebrated
sensational preacher, Dr. Parkhurst. When I arrived at his church it was
crowded to the doors, and I could not get near him. A churchwarden told
me to sit down where I was, but I put my hand to my ear and shook my
head, as much as to say "I do not hear you." Then one churchwarden said
to the other churchwarden, "This man is deaf, he doesn't hear; I was
telling him to sit down--"
"Pardon me, but are you speaking?" I whispered. "I regret to say that I
am very deaf. I came specially from London to hear your great preacher,
and I should not like to return without gratifying this one desire I
have."
"Say, is your wife here to-day?" asked one churchwarden of the other.
"No, she is sick at home."
"Could not you squeeze this funny little Britisher into your pew?"
"Guess I could."
So they beckoned to me to follow them, and I was ushered up the aisle
and sat under the Doctor. The result of that little manoeuvre was that
I did my work in peace, although sadly troubled to see his face in
consequence of the church being dark and the reading lamp hiding portion
of it.
In America introductions are superfluous, so knowing Dr. Parkhurst came
over in the _Germanic_, the same ship that I travelled in some months
later, I walked boldly after the service into his room, shook him by the
hand, and mentioned in a familiar way the officers of the ship, the
storm, and other matters connected with his journey, and in that way had
the chance of ten minutes' chat and a closer observation of his facial
expression.
It may happen, even when everything is carefully prepared to make the
visit of a special artist easy and comfortable, that work may be
difficult to accomplish. I must go to the United States for an
illustration of what I mean.
Some years ago I met Max O'Rell at a London club, and was introduced by
him to a very English-looking gentleman with an American accent, who
immediately said:
"Glad to meet you, Mr. Furniss. When you come over to the States we must
put you on the grill!"
What did he mean? I looked at Max. Max turned pale, and seemed for a
moment to lose his self-possession, then hurriedly whispered in my ear:
"Jolly good fellow--very witty--president of strange club in America
where they chaff their guests--see my last book!"
I recollected reading about a club that goes in for roasting as well as
toasting its guests, and replied:
"Strange!" I said. "I always thought the Americans were in advance of
the English; yet here in my country we do not put the Furniss on the
grill, but the grill on the furnace!"
Max laughed and looked relieved, and said:
"You'll do--they'll let you off easy. A Frenchman can't stand chaff, so
I sat down."
He had stood the fire of the enemy upon the field of battle, but he
couldn't stand the fusillade of wit from the Americans at their dinner
table.
The stranger was no other than Major Moses P. Handy, afterwards "Chief
of Department of Publicity and Promotion at the World's Columbian
Exposition, Chicago;" so when I found myself in the "Windy City" as an
unattached "special" from the Old World to the New "World's Fair," I
called at Rand-McNally Buildings, not to be put on the grill, but to be
put in possession of some facts concerning that great "Exposition."
[Illustration: MAJOR HANDY.]
Sometimes there is a great deal in a name. For instance, the late Major
Handy at once indicated the man--handy, always ready with tongue, hands
and legs. He handed me round the city, told me of its wonders, and sent
me off enraptured to the "Exposition." Here I was met by one of the
staff, and escorted all over the skeleton of what eventually proved to
be the most wonderful "Exposition," Exhibition, World's Fair, or
whatever you like to call it, that the New World had ever seen.
The gentleman in possession who met me and acted as my guide was a
clean-cut featured, smooth-faced, typical American, "full of wise saws
and modern instances" and--tobacco juice. He had a merry wit, and his
running commentary would have been invaluable "copy" to America's pet
humourist, Bill Nye.
I had a pencil in the pocket in one side of my coat, and a note-book in
the pocket in the other side, but the carriage in which I was driven
about rushed on so over the rough ground and "corduroy roads" and hills
and chasms, that I found it a matter of utter impossibility to get the
pencil and the book out together, and, therefore, the facts I give about
the "Exposition" may want verification, for my worthy guide kept firing
them into me with the rapidity of a Maxim or a Hotchkiss.
[Illustration: THE WORLD'S FAIR, CHICAGO. A "SPECIAL'S" VISIT.]
"Now here is the Manufactures and Liberal Arts Building. Guess the
largest building ever erected--1,641,223 feet long, 17,894 feet high--"
Down goes the trap on one side, plunging into some excavation, like a
double-harnessed Roman chariot. However, we scrambled up again, but I
had lost the important figure of the width of the building. Now I don't
for a moment wish to imply that my guide was exaggerating, but this
rather reminds me of a story told of an American visiting England, and
his host there one day remarked to him:
"My dear fellow, we are delighted with you here--in fact, you are quite
a favourite; but you will excuse me if I tell you that you possess one
failing pretty general with your countrymen--you do exaggerate so!"
"Guess I kean't help it, but if you'll just kindly give me a kick under
the table when I'm going too far I'll pull up sharp!"
With this agreement they went out to dinner that evening, and among
other topics the conversation turned upon conservatories. Captain de
Vere said that he had a conservatory 200 feet long, but that the Duke of
Orchid had one nearly 1,000 feet long. The American here struck in with:
"I reckon, gentlemen, you're talking about conserva_tor_ies. Now there's
a friend of mine in Amurrca, a private gentleman, who has a
conserva_tor_y 5,000 feet long, 3,000 feet high, and" (kick)--"oh!--2
feet wide!"
But had I heard the figures representing the width of the building, I
don't suppose they would have been in the same absurd proportion as
this, for not all the shin-kicking in the world would have deterred my
entertaining and conversational conductor.
"You must assemble together in your mind's eye all the mighty structures
already existing in the world to form any idea of the magnitude of this
_tre_menjious edifice before you. It is sixteen times as large as St.
Peter's Cathedral at Rome, Westminster Abbey and St. Paul's Cathedral
would nestle together in its ventilating shaft, and the whole of the
armies of Europe could sit down comfortably to dinner in the central
hall. The Tower of London would be lost under one of the staircases, and
fifty Cleopatra's Needles stuck one on top of the other would not
scratch the roof. The building cost fifty million six hundred and
eighty-four thousand two hundred dollars seventy-five cents, and----" On
dashed the horses in their wild career.
Down we went, I thought into the bed of Lake Michigan, but in an instant
we were up again, my hat in one direction and my stick in another, and I
was well shaken before being taken to the next building.
"Say, Mr. Furniss, the roads are not complete yet, but you mustn't mind
these little ups and downs. Guess these horses would pull through
anything--brought 'em right away from the fire-engine shed, considerable
fresh!"
At this moment a train came puffing along laden with masses of ironwork
for the central building. The horses shied at the smoky monster, turned
a somersault (at least, so it seemed to me), and we nearly took a header
into the lake again; but the charioteer managed to turn them just in
time, and the fiery fire-engine steeds snorted past their iron brother,
eclipsing even his noise and steam.
[Illustration: "ON DASHED THE HORSES IN THEIR WILD CAREER."]
I now began to feel thoroughly happy, but I kept a watchful eye on those
gee-gees, and as we skipped over impromptu bridges, whizzed round the
corners of newly-made piles, and bumped over incomplete parapets, I
quite enjoyed myself; but somehow or other I couldn't quite manage to
catch all the marvellous details respecting the buildings we were
passing. I was qualifying myself for the Volunteer Fire Brigade. But our
steeds were reined in for a moment while my guide pointed out to me the
Dairy Building.
"I reckon, sir," he said, "that dairy will be an eye-opener. It'll be
_soo_perb, and I guess it won't be long after the opening of the show
that they'll be turning out gold-edged butter!"
Off we go again, over mounds and down dykes, jumping rocks and shooting
rapids, and I am certain that had our conveyance been a milk-cart,
butter, gold-edged or otherwise, would have been produced pretty soon.
We pull up with a jerk opposite the Agricultural Building.
"The building is 5,000 by 8,000 feet, design bold and heroic. On each
corner and from the centre of the building are reared pavilions."
"Indeed!" I said. "Are they reared by incubators, or upon some special
soil from the fertile tracts of the Far West?"
My guide did not evidently deem my question worthy an answer, and
continued:
"Surmounted by a mammoth glass dome 460 feet high, constructed on
purpose to accommodate the giant Pennsylvania pumpkin we're having
raised specially for the Exposition. That pumpkin will be hollowed out,
and 600 people will be able to sit down together at once in its
interior."
"Now we'll go to the Transportation Building," said my indefatigable
conductor to the driver.
"Bless me!" I thought; "is this a convict prison? Are we to have
visitors from Sing Sing, and am I to see some of my friends from
Portland and Dartmoor? Will there be a model of the Bastille, and a
contingent of escaped refugees from the mines of Siberia? Or is the
building an enormous concern for the transport of visitors to and from
the Exposition?"
"Say, Mr. Furniss, this is the most original conception in the whole
Exposition. You'll see contrasted here every mode of transport, and a
complete train, with a display of locomotives never before attempted,
will be quite _stu_pendous! To quote the guidebook: 'There will be at
least 100 engines exhibited, and placed so as to face each other,' and
every day we will have a steam tournament. Guess it will be a case of
the survival of the fittest of the engines when they meet! Visitors fond
of railway accidents can be despatched with a completeness only to be
witnessed in the stock-yards of this great city!"
This ghastly suggestion had the effect of making me feel more
comfortable than ever.
We had been some hours driving through this wonderful skeleton city.
The last dying rays of the setting sun, sinking behind the sweeping
prairies of the far, far West, lit up the horizon with a blood-red glow,
and, as the shades of evening began to descend and envelop the embryo
Exposition, the driver turned the horses' heads whence we had
come--towards the sunset.
The animals snorted, their nostrils inflated, their eyes glistened, and,
with tails erect, they tore off straight ahead at a tremendous rate.
They couldn't understand why they had been driven aimlessly about all
this time; but now they saw the glare, as they thought, of the fire--the
glare they had been accustomed to regard as the beacon to guide them to
their goal--a goal which had to be reached with lightning speed.
[Illustration]
It seemed as if we were flying through a beautiful place destroyed by
the ravages of fire, for in the dim evening light the outlined houses
gave one the impression that they formed a city dead, not a city
newly-born.
Away to the Wild West of the Exposition we flew, and were eventually
pulled up outside of one of the larger and more complete buildings. My
faculties had been about all shaken out of me by this time, and I was so
bewildered by the chaos of figures in my brain--all that were left of
the volumes that had been poured into my ears--that I had to be all but
lifted out of the fire-engine trap by my good guide. He said, in an
undertone:
"Now I'm going to show you something we keep a profound secret."
Making a supreme effort, I dispersed temporarily the armies of figures
conflicting in my unfortunate head, and became once more a rational
being, so as to appreciate fully this visual tit-bit reserved to the
last. We entered the structure. What was it? A mortuary, a
dissecting-chamber, or a pantomime property-room? Numbers of ghost-like
beings with bared arms streaming with an opaque-white liquid appeared to
be engaged in some ghoulish machinations. Mutilated figures of gigantic
creatures lay strewn about in reckless confusion. It seemed as if
pigmies were butchering giants; and in the dim, weird light among these
uncanny surroundings my jumbled imagination whispered to me that, after
all, this stupendous Exhibition I had just rushed through could not
possibly be the work of the insignificant little men who swarmed all
over the colossal buildings in such ridiculously absurd proportion to
their pretended handiwork.
[Illustration: THE CHARNEL-HOUSE, CHICAGO'S WORLD FAIR.]
No, these giants had performed this herculean undertaking, and were now
being cut up--the reward of many who attempt such ambitious tasks. In
reality, though, this charnel-house was the sculptors' studio, in which
were modelled the gigantic figures which were to be placed on the
buildings and about the grounds.
Now were I to design a model for a statue to be placed in the
Exposition, it would certainly be one of my excellent and entertaining
companion, who proved himself a model conductor, a model of an American
gentleman, and one who is justly proud, as all Americans must be, of
the greatness and thoroughness of the most splendid and most interesting
Exhibition ever recorded in the annals of their great country.
* * * * *
One day I slipped up to 10, Downing Street, to make a note of that very
ordinary, albeit mystical, abode of English Premiers and officials. The
eagle eye of the policeman was upon me, and he was soon at my side
subjecting me to minute examination. My explanation satisfied him that
the only lead I had about me was encased in wood for the purpose of
drawing, and that the substance in my hand was not dynamite, but
innocent indiarubber, for wiping out people and places only of my own
creation. "Ah, sir, there ain't much to see there, unless the 'all
porter's a-lookin' out of the winder. But you ought ter be 'ere in the
mornin' and see the Premier a-shavin' of 'imself, with a piece of old
lookin'-glass stuck up on the winder ter see 'imself in--just wot the
likes of us would do!"
So I, as a "special," was allowed to make a sketch of the outside of the
famous No. 10. Not long afterwards I happened to be standing in the same
place with a number of journalists and a crowd of the public when a
political crisis drew all attention to the Cabinet, the members of which
were arriving at intervals, recognised and cheered by the curious. As
the door opened to allow one of the members of the Cabinet to enter, a
certain official noticed me standing on the opposite side of the street.
To my surprise he beckoned to me, and said, "I have been waiting to see
you, Mr. Furniss, for a long time. I have some sketches in the house
here I want you to see whenever you can honour me with a visit."
"No time like the present moment," I said.
Before the official realised that the present moment was a dangerous one
for the admittance of strangers I was taken into the house. While
examining the works of art in the official's private room a knock came
to the door, which necessitated his leaving me. The moment of the
"special" had arrived--now or never for a Cabinet Council! I was down
the passage, and in a few minutes stood in the presence of the Cabinet,
when Mr. Gladstone, the Premier, was addressing Lord Granville and the
others, who were seated, and just as the Duke of Devonshire (then Lord
Hartington) pushed by me into the room, I was seized by the alarmed
official. Of course I apologised for my stupidity in taking the wrong
turning, and I asked him about Mr. Gladstone's three mysterious hats in
the hall, which he informed me Mr. Gladstone always had by him,--three
hats symbolic of his oratorical peculiarity of using the well-known
phrase, "There are three courses open to us."
I patted Lord Hartington's dog on the head, and had quietly taken my
departure before the official was called into the Cabinet and questioned
about the "spy" who had so mysteriously interrupted their proceedings.
But what was perhaps a more daring and difficult feat than seeing a
Cabinet Council was to disturb the "Sage of Queen Anne's Gate" in his
semi-official residence. It so happened some few years ago I was
commissioned by an illustrated paper to make a drawing of a peculiar
scene that took place in the House of Commons. It was Mr. Gladstone's
only appearance in the Strangers' smoking-room of the House, into which
he had been lured by the Member for Northampton to attend a performance
of a thought reader, which Mr. Labouchere had arranged perhaps to show
his serious interest in the business of the country connected with our
great Houses of Parliament. Not being present at this show, I had no
means of getting material, and, being in a hurry, I boldly drove up to
the house of the "Sage of Queen Anne's Gate." And as I always treat
people as they treat others, I thought that a little of the Laboucherian
cheek (shall I substitute the word for confidence?) would not be out of
place in this instance. The servant took my card, and brought back the
message that Mr. Labouchere was not at home. As I was at that moment
actually acting the character of the "Sage," and remembering the
stories, true or untrue, which he so delights in telling himself about
his own coolness in matters probably not less important than this, I
asked the servant to allow me to write a letter to Mr. Labouchere, and I
was shown into his study, where I sat, and intended to sit, until Mr.
Labouchere made his appearance. From time to time the servant looked in,
but the letter was never written. And my thought-reading proved correct.
Without my pen and pencil I drew Mr. Labouchere. He eventually came
downstairs, and gave me all the information I required.
* * * * *
[Illustration]
London was in darkness. To quote the papers, "Foggy obscuration rested
over the greater part of its area." And I, in common with millions of
others, was having my breakfast by gaslight, when I received an
editorial summons to attend the trial of the Bishop of Lincoln at
Lambeth Palace. Soon a hansom was at the door, with two lamps outside
and one within; the latter smelt most horribly, and I found out later on
that it leaked and had ruined my new overcoat. With an agility quite
marvellous under the circumstances the horse slipped its slimy way over
the greasy streets to Lambeth, and dashed through the fog over
Westminster Bridge in a most reckless manner, which disconcerting
performance was partly explained by its suddenly stopping at the stable
door of Sanger's and refusing to budge. I was partially consoled by the
fact that we were just opposite St. Thomas's Hospital, so that I should
be in good hands if the worst befell. The fog becoming even denser,
Sanger's became veiled from the sight of our fiery steed, which
thereupon consented to slide on towards Lambeth Palace. A sharp turn
brought us to the gateway, where stood a hearse and string of mourning
coaches. Was I too late? Had the Bishops passed sentence, and had the
loved one of Lincoln really been beheaded?
My fears on this point were relieved by a policeman, who restrained my
driver's energetic endeavours to drive through the wall of the Palace,
and as my password was "Jeune" (November would have been more
appropriate on such a morning) I was allowed inside the gates. Here I
could not see my hand, or anyone else's, in front of me, and after
stumbling up some steps and down some others I finally flattened my nose
against a door. Policeman No. 2 suddenly appeared, and turned his
bull's-eye upon me. I felt that I was doomed to the deepest dungeon
beneath the castle moat; I thought of the whipping-post I have read of
in connection with the Palace; of the Guard Room with its pikes and
instruments of torture, and I trembled. Luckily, however, the rays of
the lantern fell upon the note in my hand, addressed to Francis Jeune,
Q.C., and the good-natured "All right, sir. Go hup. 'E's a-speakin'
now," came as a reprieve.
I stumble into the large historic hall known as the Library, wherein the
great trial of the Bishop of Lincoln is being held. The weird scene
strongly resembles the Dream Trial in "The Bells," where the judges,
counsel, and all concerned are in a fog. I expect the limelight to flash
suddenly upon the chief actor, the Bishop of Lincoln, as he takes the
stage and re-acts the part that has caused the trial. The only lights in
the long and lofty Library, excepting the clerical and legal, are a
dozen or two wax candles and a few oil-lamps--of daylight, gaslight, or
electric light, nothing. I can hear the voice of Jeune, Q.C., which
gladdens my heart amid these sepulchral surroundings, but I see him not.
As my eyes gradually become accustomed to the strange scene, I find that
it is composed of three distinct "sets," which present the appearance of
a muddled-up stage picture when the flats go wrong, and you have a part
of the Surrey Hills, a corner of Drury Lane and a side of a West End
drawing-room run on at the same time.
At the further end of the Library we have the Church, very High Church,
represented by an Archbishop and five Bishops; also a Judge, in a
full-bottomed wig, who has evidently got in by mistake. Then we have the
Law, represented by a row of Q.C.'s, their juniors, and attendants; and
then a chorus of ordinary people and common, or Thames Policemen. These
are separated by red ropes and some red tape; the latter I cut with my
self-written passport--my note to the Q.C. who still addresses the
Court.
[Illustration: THE BISHOP OF LINCOLN'S TRIAL. (_From "Punch."_)]
I have come here to see the Bishop of Lincoln, and I roam about in the
fog to find him. Ah, that figure! there he is! I immediately sketch him,
only to find out that the individual in question is the Clerk of the
Court, or whatever the title of that functionary's equivalent may be in
Lambeth Palace. What vexes me is that whenever I enquire the whereabouts
of the Bishop, a warning finger is raised to the lips to denote silence.
The Bishops sit round three tables, on a raised platform. In the centre
is the Archbishop of Canterbury; on his right the mysterious Judge, in
full wig and red robes; here is the Vicar-General, Sir James Parker
Deane, Q.C.; next to him sits Assessor Dr. Atlay, Bishop of Hereford,
who looks anything but happy, his hair presenting the appearance of
being blown about by a strong draught, while his hand is raised to his
face, suggesting that the draught had caused toothache. The portly
Bishop of Oxford on his right, like the other corner man, the Bishop of
Salisbury, scribbles away at a great rate in a huge manuscript book or
roll of foolscap. On the left of the Archbishop sits the Bishop of
London, who severely interrogates the Counsel, and evidently relishes
acting the schoolmaster once more. The Bishop of Rochester, sitting on
London's left, supplies the element of comedy as far as facial
expression goes, and his wide-open mouth and papers held in front of him
lead me to expect him to burst into song at any moment. But where is
_the_ Bishop--the Bishop of Lincoln? Ah, now I see him, in one of those
side courts, and I forthwith sketch him, marvelling at my stupidity in
not identifying him before. I write his name under the sketch, and show
it to one of the reporters. He scribbles "Wrong man" across it. Done
again! I write, "Then where is he?" He waves me away, as Mr. Jeune is
quoting some extraordinary document six hundred years old in reply to
Sir Horace Davey's authority, which only dates back five hundred and
ninety-nine years. It suddenly occurs to me that the Bishop is beside
his Counsel at the other end of the long table, but, alas! there is a
candle in front of him. This is all I can see, so I make my way to the
other side of the table, only to discover that my Bishop is an old lady.
I write on a piece of paper, "Where does the Bishop of Lincoln sit?" and
take it to an official. It is too dark to read, so some time is lost
while he takes my memorandum to a candle. He looks across at me, and
points to a corner.
At last! good! The old gentleman in the corner is in plain clothes, it
is true, but still he looks every inch a Bishop. I cautiously approach
to a coign of vantage close beside him, and have just finished a careful
study of him, when he turns round to me and whispers, "Please, sir, can
you tell me which is the Bishop of Lincoln?" I shake my head angrily,
and move away. This is really humbug. I'll bide my time, and take
Counsel's opinion--I'll ask Mr. Jeune. He is just occupied in answering
the hundred and seventh question of the Bishop of London, and is being
"supported" by Sir Walter Phillimore. Indeed, it amuses me to see the
way in which these two clever Counsel, when in a fog (and are we not all
in one?), hold an animated legal conversation between themselves, and
totally ignore the Bishops--not that the latter seem to mind, for they
scribble away merrily. An evil suspicion creeps into my head that they
are seizing the opportunity to write their next Sunday's sermons.
In the meantime I discover that one of the little side courts is
converted into a studio, with an easel and canvas. I approach my brother
brush, feeling that he, or she, or both (for a lady and a gentleman were
jointly at work upon a picture of the Trial, in black and white--the
black was visible, but there was no chance of seeing the white) will
tell me where I can catch a glimpse of the Bishop of Lincoln. I whisper
the question. But a "Hush!" goes up from the H'Usher, and the artists,
sympathising with me in my dilemma, obtain a candle and point out the
Bishop to me in their picture. I slip away in search of that face. Its
owner ought to be near his Counsel. The severe Sir Horace Davey sits
writing letters; next him is the affable Dr. Tristram, then the rubicund
Mr. Danckwerts, but no Bishop--in fact, there is no one of public
interest to be seen; probably they have not come, as to-day is to be a
half-holiday. It is now one o'clock, and the Bishops rise to go to the
Levee. I pounce upon Francis Jeune, Q.C., and gasp, "Where, oh, where is
the Bishop of Lincoln? Quick! I want to sketch him before he leaves."
"Oh, he's not here--never comes near the place!"
The play is over for the day. I have seen "Hamlet" with the Prince left
out.