THE CONFESSIONS OF AN ILLUSTRATOR--A SERIOUS CHAPTER.
Drawing--"Hieroglyphics"--Clerical Portraiture--A Commission from
General Booth--In Search of Truth--Sir Walter Besant--James Payn--Why
Theodore Hook was Melancholy--"Off with his Head"--Reformers'
Tree--Happy Thoughts--Christmas Story--Lewis Carroll--The Rev. Charles
Lutwidge Dodgson--Sir John Tenniel--The Challenge--Seven Years'
Labour--A Puzzle MS.--Dodgson on Dress--Carroll on Drawing--Sylvie and
Bruno--A Composite Picture--My Real Models--I am very Eccentric--My
"Romps"--A Letter from du Maurier--Caldecott--Tableaux--Fine
Feathers--Models--Fred Barnard--The Haystack--A Wicket Keeper--A Fair
Sitter--Neighbours--The Post-Office Jumble--Puzzling the
Postmen--Writing Backwards--A Coincidence.
[Illustration: If]
If I confess as a caricaturist, surely I need not caricature my
confessions by any mock-modesty. Although I have illustrated novels,
short stories, fairy tales, poems, parodies, satires, and _jeux
d'esprit_, for the realistic, the fanciful, the weirdly imaginative and
the broadly humorous, as my _Punch_ colleague, E. T. Milliken, wrote, my
more distinctive, natural and favourite _metier_ is that of graphic art.
This intimate friend, in publishing his "appreciation" of me, put in his
own too highly-coloured opinion of my black and white work in this
direction. I blush to quote it:
[Illustration: MAJUBA HILL. DRAWN BY HARRY FURNISS.
_Reproduced by permission of the proprietors of the "Illustrated
London News."_]
"And they are in error who imagine Mr. Furniss's powers to be
substantially limited to political satire or Parliamentary caricature.
Much of the work he has already given to the public, and perhaps more of
that which he has not yet published, but of which his chosen familiars
are aware, will prove that in more serious or imaginative work, in
strong, vivid realism as well as in frolic fancy, in landscape as well
as in life, in the picturesque as well as in the humorous, he can
display a notable mastery."
This confession of one of my "chosen familiars" I have the pluck to
reprint, as an answer to those unknown strangers who so frequently write
me down as "a conventional comic draughtsman of funny ill-drawn little
figures." "What shall I call him?" said one; "a master of
hieroglyphics?" Well, if I am commissioned to draw humorous
hieroglyphics, I do my best to master their difficulties. Caricature
pure and simple is not the art I either care for or succeed in
practising as well as I do in my less known more serious and more
finished work. When I joined _Punch_, at the age of twenty-six, I had
had nine-tenths of my time previous to that occupied (ever since I was
fifteen years of age) in drawing far more elaborate and finished work
than would be in keeping in a periodical such as _Punch_. _Punch_
required "funny little figures," and I supplied them; but my _metier_, I
must confess, was work requiring more demand upon direct draughtsmanship
and power. I am a funny man, a caricaturist, by force of circumstances;
an artist, a satirist, and a cartoonist by nature and training. The one
requires technical knowledge--in the other, "drawing doesn't count." The
more amateurish the work, the funnier the public consider it. The
serious confession I have to make is that I have been mistaken for a
caricaturist in the accepted and limited meaning of the term.
"It is the ambition of every low comedian to play Hamlet, that of every
caricaturist to be able to paint a picture which shall be worthy of a
place on the walls of the National Gallery," are my own words on the
platform; but I do not essay to play Hamlet on the platform, nor do I
paint pictures for posterity in my studio. Therefore I do not place
myself in the category of either, for I am neither a low comedian nor
am I strictly and solely a mere caricaturist. This fact is perhaps not
generally known to the public, but it is known to the publishers, and
when a Society Church paper wished to present a series of
supplements--portraits of the leading clergy--I was selected as the
artist. The portrait of Canon Liddon, which is here very much reduced,
is one of these.
[Illustration: CANON LIDDON. A SKETCH FROM LIFE.]
And furthermore I received a commission from General Booth, which
unfortunately, through pressure of work, I was unable to undertake, to
make a study of Mrs. Booth, who was at the time on her death-bed,
suffering from cancer, which the General was "exceedingly anxious" to
reproduce and issue to his Army, as he had "never yet been able to
secure a good photograph, although frequent attempts had been made by
eminent London photographers."
I must confirm, a confession I made some years ago to the editor of the
_Magazine of Art_ regarding some of the difficulties with which artists
illustrating books have to contend. In that I questioned whether authors
and artists worked sufficiently together. Few authors are as
conscientious as Dickens was, or, in fact, care to consult with their
illustrators at all. In operatic work the librettist and composer must
work hand in hand. Should not the artist do likewise?
Undoubtedly there are some writers who take great trouble to see their
subject from the artistic standpoint. One sensational writer with whom I
am acquainted will make a complete model in cardboard of his "Haunted
Grange," so as to avoid absurdities in the working out of the tale. The
"Blood-stained Tower" is therefore always in its place, and the
"Assassin's Door" and "Ghost's Window" do not change places, to the
bewilderment of the keen-witted reader. Many writers, on the other hand,
show an extraordinary carelessness, or, shall I say, agility? "Hilarity
Hall" or "Stucco Castle" is supposed to be a firm erection, capable of
withstanding storm, or, if necessary, siege; whereas the artist too
often detects the author turning it inside out and upside down to suit
his convenience, like the mechanical quick-change scenes in our modern
realistic dramas.
It may seem strange, but I have never found over-conscientiousness in
seeking to secure "local colour" meet with the slightest reward. Two
instances among many similar experiences which have fallen to my lot
will serve to show my ground for making this observation.
Those who have read Sir Walter Besant's delightful but little known "All
in a Garden Fair" (it is interesting to know that this was
semi-autobiographical, and that its original title was "All in a Garden
Green") will recollect the minute description of the locality in which
the opening scenes take place. The author and I "talked it over." He
told me the exact spot where the story was laid--a village a good many
miles from London. The next day, provided with exact information, my
wife and I went by train to the station nearest to the village in
question, and then, taking a "trap," went on a voyage of discovery.
First, however, we endeavoured to gain some useful directions from the
proprietor of the hotel where we lunched, but, to our surprise, he knew
of no such village. The driver of our "conveyance" was equally unlearned
concerning the object of our search.
[Illustration: [Handwritten note]]
"Strange," said I, "how these country people ignore all the beauties and
graceful associations that are around them--they don't even know of the
existence of this idyllic village."
Nothing daunted, I undertook to pilot the party to the place, and after
a lovely drive we reached the spot where the village ought to be. Here I
saw a kind of model hotel, and, I think, a shanty of some description;
the rest was an ordinary English landscape. I hardened my heart, and
patiently sketched the building, which, of course, was not there at the
period the story referred to, and some details of the place where a
village only existed in the author's imagination.
When next I saw Sir Walter Besant, he tried to console me with the
assurance that there certainly must have been a village there some
centuries ago!
[Illustration: THE LATE SIR WALTER BESANT.]
Besides being a wit and a delightful conversationalist, Sir Walter was
the most practical and businesslike of authors. It was a treat to meet
him, as I frequently did, walking into Town, and enjoy his vivacious
humour. I recollect one morning, speaking of illustrators, mentioning
the fact that Cruikshank always imagined that Dickens had taken "Oliver
Twist," merely endowing it with literary merit here and there, and
palming it off as his own!
"Ah!" said Besant, "how funny! Do you know, I overheard two of my little
girls talking a few mornings ago, and one said to the other, 'Papa does
not write all his stories, you know--Charlie Green helps him.'"
(Green was at the time illustrating Besant's "Chaplain of the Fleet.")
[Illustration: THE "JETTY."]
My second instance occurred about the same period. The author was the
most delightful and entertaining of literary men of our time, Mr. James
Payn. I was selected to illustrate the serial story in the _Illustrated
London News_, and as in that also the author minutely describes the
scene of the semi-historical romance, I, being a thoroughly
conscientious artist, visited James Payn, then editor of _Cornhill_, in
his editorial den in Waterloo Place, to talk the matter over. My notes
were: "Jetty--Lovers meet--Ancient church--Old houses." But the "Jetty"
was _the_ important object--I must get that. I therefore started for the
South Coast. Again I was forced to bow down before my author's
wonderful powers of imagination, for once more, in company with my wife,
with a hireling to carry my sketching stool and materials, I walked a
great distance in search of the jetty. Vain, vain! not a ghost of a
jetty was to be seen. The menial could not enlighten us. At last we
unearthed the "oldest inhabitant," who took us back to where a few
sticks in the water alone marked where it stood "a many years ago." I
tried to develop some of the powers of the late Professor Owen, when he
constructed an animal from the smallest bone, and succeeded in
"evolving" a jetty from the green remains of four wooden posts.
I forgave Payn as I forgave Besant. Both men were as genial as they were
eminent, and but for the circumstances of illustrating their stories I
might not have enjoyed their acquaintanceship. I also illustrated Payn's
most charming story, "The Talk of the Town," for _Cornhill Magazine_. I
never enjoyed any work of the kind so well as this--it has always been
my regret Payn did not write another of the same period. I recollect,
when I first saw him in Waterloo Place, I had just read an article of
his in which he gave a recipe for getting rid of callers, which was to
bring the conversation to an abrupt termination, say absolutely nothing,
but steadfastly stare at your visitor until he left. I can vouch for its
being a simple and effective plan.
[Illustration: ILLUSTRATION FOR "THE TALK OF THE TOWN" (REDUCED).
_By permission of the proprietors of "Cornhill Magazine."_]
When I entered his editorial sanctum the genial essayist received me
most cordially, and looked the picture of comfort, surrounded as he was
by a heterogeneous collection of pipes. Presently, through the clouds of
smoke through which he had chatted in that lively, vivacious manner
peculiarly his own, he knocked the ashes out of his finished pipe and
mutely stared point-blank at me till I, like the pipe, went out also.
But before making my exit I reminded him that I had read the article I
refer to, up to which he was no doubt acting, and that I was pleased and
interested that he practised the doctrine he preached. Possibly this
remark of mine was unexpected, and therefore somewhat disconcerted him
for a moment, for he quickly replied, "Not at all! not at all! Fact is,
I was rather upset before you came in by a miserable man who called to
see me, and at the moment I was, _a propos_ of him, thinking of a funny
story about Theodore Hook I came across last night I never heard before.
Poor Hook was at a smart dinner one evening, but instead of being as
usual the life and soul of the party, he proved the wet blanket on the
merry meeting, despite the fact that he, in all probability, had imbibed
his stiff glass of brandy to get him up to his usual form before
entering the house at which he was entertained. This most unusual phase
of Hook's character surprised everybody present, so much so that his
host ventured to remark that the volatile Theodore did not seem so merry
as usual.
"'Merry? I should think not! I should like to see anyone merry who has
gone through what I have this afternoon!'
"'What was that?' asked everyone, with one voice.
"'Well, I'll tell you,' said Hook. 'I have just come up from York in the
stage coach, and I was rather late in taking my seat; the top was
occupied to the full, so I had no alternative but to become an inside
passenger. The only other occupant of the interior was a melancholy
individual rolled up in a corner. He had donned his great-coat, the
collar of which was turned right up over his ears. He stolidly sat
there, never uttering a word, until I became fascinated by his weird
appearance. By-and-by the sun sank below the western horizon, the inside
of the coach became darker and darker, and more ghastly seemed the
cadaverous stranger as the blackness increased. The strain was too much
for me. I could not keep silent another minute.
"'My good sir,' I said, 'whatever is the matter with you?'"
"'I'll tell you,' he slowly muttered. 'Some months ago I invested in two
tickets in a great lottery, but when I told my wife of the speculation I
had indulged in she nagged and nagged at me to such a frightful extent
that at last I sold the tickets.'
"'Well?'
"'Well, do you know, sir, to-day those two numbers won the two first
prizes, and those two prizes represent a sum of money of colossal
magnitude!'
"'Goodness gracious me!' I shouted. 'If that had happened to me it would
have driven me to desperation! In fact I really believe that I should
have been frantic enough to cut my throat!'
"'Why, that's just what I have done!' replied the stranger, as he turned
down his collar. 'Look here!'"
[Illustration: "THAT'S JUST WHAT I HAVE DONE!"]
This ghastly tale reminds me of one of my earliest and most trying
experiences in illustrating stories. I had made a very careful drawing
to illustrate a startling episode in a novel by Mrs. Henry Wood.
Naturally it was designed on a block, and represented the hero having
just swallowed poison after committing a murder. The face in the drawing
was everything, and I had taken the greatest pains to depict in the
distorted features all the authoress desired--in fact, I was rather
proud of it. The authoress was pleased, and the block was sent to the
engraver. I was then about twenty--photographing a drawing on to wood
was unknown, and process work was not invented--all drawings were made
on boxwood and engraved by hand. To my horror the engraver returned the
block to me a week afterwards with an apologetic note. The face had been
destroyed in the engraver's hands, and he had "plugged the block"--that
is, another piece of wood had been inserted where the hero's head had
been, and whitened over, for me to draw another. The rest of the design
had been engraved. That face gone! How could I conjure it up again on
that unsightly, isolated patch of block, with all the rest of the
drawing engraved and therefore my lines undiscernible? I did my best.
When it was printed it was seen that the face did not fit on the neck
properly, and to my chagrin I received a sarcastic letter from the
editor to inform me that I had made a mistake. The hero had swallowed
poison and had not, as I supposed, cut his head off!
[Illustration: SPECIMEN OF JAMES PAYN'S WRITING.]
Another illustration of the conscientious illustrator in search of the
truth. I had to introduce the Reformers' Tree, Hyde Park, into a
picture. Now we are always hearing about the Reformers' Tree in
reference to demonstrations in the Park, so I went in search of the
historical stump. The first person to whom I put a question as to its
whereabouts pointed to a huge tree in flourishing condition. I had just
sketched in its upper branches when it somehow occurred to me that it
would be just as well to ask someone else and make assurance doubly
sure. This time I interrogated a policeman.
"No, that ain't it; that there row of hoaks is wot people calls the
Reformers' Tree."
I started another sketch on the strength of this statement, but feeling
a bit dubious over his assertion that the one tree was comprised of a
whole row, I tackled the "oldest inhabitant," an ancient and pensioned
park-keeper, who luckily hove in sight.
"Hover there," he replied, gruffly, pointing to a stump that resembled
the sole remaining molar the old man possessed.
This stump was picturesque. It must be the Reformers' Tree.
Result--another sketch, which I showed to the gatekeeper at the Marble
Arch.
"Reformers' Tree? Why, there ain't no such thing in the Park." And I
really believe there isn't. It is a myth, and merely exists in the
fertile brain of the descriptive author or the imagination of the
agitator.
After James Payn's "Talk of the Town" no book has given me such pleasure
to illustrate as F. C. Burnand's "Incompleat Angler." The combination of
the picturesqueness of Isaak Walton with the humour of Burnand could not
be otherwise, but most unfortunately the form of its publication ruined
the effect of the drawings. Over this, too, the author and I talked--no,
not exactly--to be exact we laughed over it. I dined with Burnand, and
afterwards in his study he read it to me, and as he frankly admitted he
never laughed so much at anything before.
[Illustration: THE TYPICAL LOVERS IN ILLUSTRATIONS OF NOVELS.]
The illustrator's difficulties by no means end when the author is
satisfied. Many authors give you every facility, and hamper you with no
impossibilities; but then steps in the editor, especially if he be the
editor of a "goody" magazine. Novels will be novels, and love and lovers
will find their way even into the immaculate pages of our monthly
elevators. I once found it so, and certainly I thought that here was
plain sailing. A tender interview at the garden gate. She "sighed and
looked down as Charles Thorndike took her hand"--unavoidable and not
unacceptable subject. Lovers are all commonplace young men with large
eyes, long legs, and small moustaches (villains' moustaches grow apace);
moreover, lovers, I believe, generally take care to avoid observation;
but no! it appears that "our subscribers" have a stern code which may
not be lightly infringed. A letter from the editor rebukes my worldly
ways:
"DEAR SIR,--Will you kindly give Charles Thorndike a beard, and show
an aunt or uncle or some chaperon in the distance; the subject and
treatment is hardly suitable otherwise to our young readers."
Sometimes a publisher steps in and arranges everything, regardless of
all the author and artist may cherish.
Years ago a well-known but not very prosperous publisher sent for me,
and spoke as follows:
"Now, Mr. F., what I want is to knock the B.P. with Christmas. The story
is all blood and murder, but don't mind that--you must supply the
antidote; put in the holly and mistletoe, plenty of snow and
plum-pudding (the story was a seaside one in summer time). I like John
Tenniel's work--give us a bit of him, with a dash of Du Maurier and a
sprinkling of Leech here and there; but none of your Rembrandt
effects--they are too dark, and don't print up well. Never mind what the
author says; he hasn't made it Christmas, so you must!"
It is equally difficult to comply with an editorial request such as
this: "The story I send you is as dull as ditch-water; do please read it
over and illustrate it with lively pictures."
But some authors are their own publishers, and they are then generally
more careful of the illustrations. Perhaps the most exacting of all
authors was "Lewis Carroll."
[Illustration: T]
The name of Charles Lutwidge Dodgson is practically unknown outside of
Oxford University, where he was mathematical lecturer of Christ Church;
but the name and fame of "Lewis Carroll," author of those inimitable
books for children, both young and old, "Alice's Adventures in
Wonderland" and "Through the Looking-glass and what Alice found there,"
are known and beloved all over the world. His first book for children,
"Alice's Adventures," was published at a time exactly to suit me. I was
just eleven--_the_ age to be first impressed by the pen of Carroll and
the pencil of Tenniel.
When I, a little, a very little boy in knickerbockers, first enjoyed the
adventures of Alice and worshipped the pen and the pencil which recorded
them, I little thought I would some day work hand in hand with the
author, and when that day did arrive I regretted that I had not been
born twenty-two years before I had, for for me to follow Tenniel was
quite as difficult and unsatisfactory a task as for Carroll to follow
Carroll. The worst of it was that I was conscious of this, and Lewis
Carroll was not. Fortunately for me Sylvie was not like her prototype
Alice; the illustrations for Sylvie would not have suited Tenniel as
Alice did. I therefore did not fear comparison, but what I did fear was
that Carroll would not be Carroll, and Carroll wasn't--he was Dodgson. I
wish I had illustrated him when he was Carroll; that he was not the
Carroll of "Alice" is plainly indicated in his life in the following
passage:[1] "The publication of 'Sylvie and Bruno' marks an epoch in its
author's life, for it was the publication of all the ideals and
sentiments which he held most dear. It was a book with a definite
purpose; it would be more true to say with several definite purposes.
For this very reason it is not an artistic triumph as the two 'Alice'
books undoubtedly are; it is on a lower literary level, there is no
unity in the story. But from a higher standpoint, that of the Christian
and the philanthropist, the book is the best thing he ever wrote. It is
a noble effort to uphold the right, or what he thought to be the right,
without fear of contempt or unpopularity. The influence which his
earlier books had given him he was determined to use in asserting
neglected truths.
[1] "The Life and Letters of Lewis Carroll," by Stuart Dodgson
Collingwood (Fisher Unwin).
"Of course the story has other features--delightful nonsense not
surpassed by anything in 'Wonderland,' childish prattle with all the
charm of reality about it, and pictures which may fairly be said to
rival those of Sir John Tenniel. Had these been all, the book would have
been a great success. As things are, there are probably hundreds of
readers who have been scared by the religious arguments and political
discussions which make up a large part of it, and who have never
discovered that Sylvie is just as entrancing a personage as Alice when
you get to know her."
[Illustration: INSTRUCTIONS IN A LETTER FROM LEWIS CARROLL.]
The character of the book was a bitter disappointment to me. I did not
want to illustrate a book of his with any "purpose" other than the
purpose of delightful amusement, as "Alice" was. Tenniel had point-blank
refused to illustrate another story for Carroll--he was, Tenniel told
me, "impossible"--and Carroll evidently was not satisfied with other
artists he had tried, as he wrote me: "I have a considerable mass of
chaotic materials for a story, but have never had the heart to go to
work to construct the story as a whole, owing to its seeming so hopeless
that I should ever find a suitable artist. Now that _you_ are found,"
etc. That was in 1885, and we worked together for seven years. Tenniel
and other artists declared I would not work with Carroll for seven
weeks! I accepted the challenge, but I, for that purpose, adopted quite
a new method. No artist is more matter-of-fact or businesslike than
myself: to Carroll I was not Hy. F., but someone else, as _he_ was
someone else. I was wilful and erratic, bordering on insanity. We
therefore got on splendidly.
Of course it was most interesting to me to study such a genius at such a
time, and in recording my experiences and impressions of Lewis Carroll
my object is not so much to deal with the actual illustration to those
ill-conceived books "Sylvie and Bruno," but to deal with my impressions
of the man obtained by working with him for so long, for to have known
the man was even as great a treat as to read his books. Lewis Carroll
was as unlike any other man as his books were unlike any other author's
books. It was a relief to meet the pure simple, innocent dreamer of
children, after the selfish commercial mind of most authors. Carroll was
a wit, a gentleman, a bore and an egotist--and, like Hans Andersen, a
spoilt child. It is recorded of Andersen that he actually shed tears,
even in late life, should the cake at tea be handed to anyone before he
chose the largest slice. Carroll was not selfish, but a liberal-minded,
liberal-handed philanthropist, but his egotism was all but second
childhood.
He informed my wife that she was the most privileged woman in the world,
for she knew the man who knew his (Lewis Carroll's) ideas--that ought to
content her. She must not _see_ a picture or read a line of the MS.; it
was sufficient for her to gaze at me outside of my studio with
admiration and respect, as the only man besides Lewis Carroll himself
with a knowledge of Lewis Carroll's forthcoming work. Furthermore he
sent me an elaborate document to sign committing myself to secrecy. This
I indignantly declined to sign. "My word was as good as my bond," I
said, and, striking an attitude, I hinted that I would "strike,"
inasmuch as I would not work for years isolated from my wife and
friends. I was therefore no doubt looked upon by him as a lunatic. That
was what I wanted. I was allowed to show my wife the drawings, and he
wrote: "For my own part I have shown _none_ of the MS. to anybody; and,
though I have let some special friends see the pictures, I have
uniformly declined to _explain_ them. 'May I ask so-and-so?' they
enquire. 'Certainly!' I reply; "you may _ask_ as many questions as you
like!' That is all they get out of me."
But his egotism carried him still further. He was determined no one
should read his MS. but he and I; so in the dead of night (he sometimes
wrote up to 4 a.m.) he cut his MS. into horizontal strips of four or
five lines, then placed the whole of it in a sack and shook it up;
taking out piece by piece, he pasted the strips down as they happened to
come. The result, in such an MS., dealing with nonsense on one page and
theology on another, was audacious in the extreme, if not absolutely
profane--for example:
"And I found myself repeating, as I left the Church, the words of Jacob,
when he '_awaked out of his sleep_,' surely the Lord is in this.
"And once more those shrill discordant tones rang out:--
"'He thought he saw a Banker's Clerk
Descending from a bus;
He looked again, and found it was--
A Hippopotamus.'"
These incongruous strips were elaborately and mysteriously marked with
numbers and letters and various hieroglyphics, to decipher which would
really have turned my assumed eccentricity into positive madness. I
therefore sent the whole MS. back to him, and again threatened to
strike! This had the desired effect. I then received MS. I could read,
although frequently puzzled by its being mixed up with Euclid and
problems in abstruse mathematics.
I soon discovered that I had undertaken a far more difficult task than I
anticipated, for in the first letter of instructions I received from the
author he frankly acknowledged I had my work "cut out." "Cut out"
suggests dressmaking, the very subject first chosen for discussion and
correspondence.
The extraordinary workings of this unique mind are shown by quotations
from his letters to me:
"I think I had better explain part of the plot, as to these two--Sylvie
and Bruno. They are not fairies right through the book--but _children_.
All these conditions make their _dress_ rather a puzzle. They mustn't
have _wings_; that is clear. And it must be _quite_ the common dress of
London life. It should be as fanciful as possible, so as _just_ to be
presentable in Society. The friends might be able to say 'What
oddly-dressed children!' but they oughtn't to say 'They are not human!'
"Now I think you'll say you have 'got your work cut out for you,' to
invent a suitable dress!"
How I wish I had had those dresses cut out for me! The above
instructions were quickly followed by other suggestions which added to
my already scanty idea of a costume suitable to Kensington Gardens and
to fairyland! I was thinking this difficulty would be lessened if the
story took place in winter, when I received another letter, which I must
frankly confess rather alarmed me:
[Illustration: SPECIMEN OF LEWIS CARROLL'S DRAWING AND WRITING.]
"As to the dresses of these children in their fairy state (we shall
sometimes have them mixing in Society, and supposed to be real children;
and for _that_ they must, I suppose, be dressed as in ordinary life, but
_eccentrically_, so as to make a little distinction). I _wish_ I dared
dispense with _all_ costume; naked children are so perfectly pure and
lovely, but Mrs. Grundy would be furious--it would never do. Then the
question is, how little dress will content her? Bare legs and feet we
_must_ have, at any rate. I so entirely detest that monstrous fashion
_high heels_ (and in fact have planned an attack on it in this very
book), that I cannot possibly allow my sweet little heroine to be
victimised by it."
Another monstrous fashion he condemns refers to a picture of his
grown-up heroine in London Society:
"Could you cut off those high shoulders from her sleeves? Why should we
pay any deference to a hideous fashion that will be extinct a year
hence? Next to the unapproachable ugliness of 'crinoline,' I think these
high-shouldered sleeves are the worst things invented for ladies in our
time. Imagine how horrified they would be if one of their daughters were
_really_ shaped like that!"
I did make a note of a horrified mother with a nineteenth century
malformation, but I did not send it to the author, as it struck me, when
re-reading his letter, he was possibly serious. Still we had Sylvie's
dress, Mrs. Grundy, crinolines, and high heels to discuss:
[Illustration: ORIGINAL SKETCH BY LEWIS CARROLL OF HIS CHARMING HERO AND
HEROINE.]
"As to your Sylvie I am charmed with your idea of dressing her in
_white_; it exactly fits my own idea of her; I want her to be a sort of
embodiment of Purity. So I think that, in Society, she should be wholly
in white--white frock ('clinging' certainly; I _hate_ crinoline
fashion): also I _think_ we might venture on making her _fairy_ dress
transparent. Don't you think we might face Mrs. Grundy to _that_ extent?
In fact I think Mrs. G. would be fairly content at finding her
_dressed_, and would not mind whether the material was silk, or muslin,
or even gauze. One thing more. _Please_ don't give Sylvie high heels!
They are an abomination to me."
Then for months we corresponded about the face of the Heroine alone. My
difficulty was increased by the fact that the fairy child Sylvie and the
Society grown-up Lady Muriel were one and the same person! So I received
reams of written descriptions and piles of useless photographs intended
to inspire me to draw with a few lines a face embodying his ideal in a
space not larger than a threepenny-piece. By one post I would receive a
batch of photographs of some young lady Lewis Carroll fancied had one
feature, or half a feature, of that ideal he had conjured up in his own
mind as his heroine.
[Illustration: LEWIS CARROLL'S NOTE TO ME FOR A PATHETIC PICTURE.]
He invited me to visit friends of his, and strangers too, from John o'
Groats to Land's End, so as to collect fragments of faces. _A propos_ of
this I wrote in an artists' magazine a brief account of artists'
difficulties with the too exacting author. (It is quite safe to write
anything about Judges and Dons: they never read anything.) I described
how I received the author's recipe for constructing the ideal heroine. I
am not to take _one_ model for the lady-child or child-lady. I am to
take _several_; for all know no face--at least, no face with expression,
or with plenty of life or good abilities, or when showing depth of
religious thought--is perfect. I am therefore to go to Eastbourne to see
and study the face of Miss Matilda Smith, in a pastry-cook's shop, for
the eyes. I am to visit Eastbourne and eat buns and cakes, gazing the
while into the beauteous eyes of Miss Smith. Then in Glasgow there is a
Miss O'Grady, "with oh, such a perfect nose! Could I run up to Scotland
to make a sketch of it?" A letter of introduction is enclosed, and, as a
precaution, I am enjoined that I "must not mind her squint." But I _do_
mind, and I am sure the blemish would sadly mar my proper judgment of
the lovely feature for gazing on which those eyes have lost their
rectitude. For the ears a journey to Brighton to see Miss Robinson, the
Vicar's daughter, is recommended. No, she may listen, think I, to the
"sad sea-waves," or to her father's sermons, but never to any flattery
from me. The mouth I shall find in Cardiff--not an English or Welsh
mouth, but a sweet Spaniard's Senora Niccolomino, the daughter of a
merchant there. In imagination I picture that cigarette held so lovingly
in those perfect lips. But I am to draw an English heroine of fifteen
innocent summers--how those curly wreaths of pearly smoke would
disenchant my mind of the spell of youth and innocence! For the hair I
must go to Brighton; for the figure to a number of different places. In
fact, my author had mapped out a complete tour for me. Had he never
heard the old story of the artist who was determined to paint a
perfectly correct figure, strictly in accordance with the orthodox rules
of art? As he painted a portion he covered it up, and so went on until
the figure was complete. When it was finished he tore off the covering.
The result was hideous! He went mad! I feel sure that fate would have
been mine had I attempted to carry out Lewis Carroll's instructions. I
therefore worked on my own lines with success. As his biographer states:
"Meanwhile, with much interchange of correspondence between author and
artist, the pictures for the new fairy tale, 'Sylvie and Bruno,' were
being gradually evolved. Each of them was subjected by Lewis Carroll to
the most minute criticism--hypercriticism, perhaps, occasionally." Still
he was enthusiastic in his praise, and absurdly generous in his thanks.
He was jealous that I would not disclose to him who my model was for
Sylvie. When dining with us many a smile played over the features of my
children when he cross-questioned me on this point. Repeatedly he wrote
to me: "How old is your model for Sylvie? And may I have her name and
address?" "My friend Miss E. G. Thomson, an artist great in 'fairies,'
would be glad to know of her, I'm sure," and so on.
The fairy Sylvie was my own daughter! All the children in his books I
illustrated were my own children; yet this fact never struck him! He
visited us in the country when I was at work, and I soon afterwards
received the following letter:
"Thanks. I was not aware that the boy, whose photo I sent you, had
far-apart eyes. If you think (and you are _quite_ the best judge of the
point) that these eyes are needed in order to give to the face the fun
and roguery I want expressed, by all means retain them.
"It had occurred to me to write and beg that, if Arundel did not furnish
all requisite models for drawing from life, you would let all portions
of pictures which would have to be done without models or wait till you
return to town, _wait_. But as I think you definitely told me that you
never do the finished pictures _except_ from life, I presume the
petition to be superfluous."
When I received this letter at Arundel my second boy was sitting in his
bathing costume on a garden-roller on the lawn for a picture of Bruno
sitting on a dead mouse. I was chaffing my model about flirting with a
young lady he met at a children's garden party, and threatened to inform
his sweetheart in London, when he assured me with knowingness, "Fact is,
papa, the young lady here is all right for the country, you know--but
she would _never_ do in town!"
[Illustration: SYLVIE AND BRUNO. MY ORIGINAL DRAWING FOR LEWIS CARROLL.
(_Never published._)]
It was the same idea as Lewis Carroll's about models.
As I have brought my family into this, I may mention that there is one
picture in "Sylvie and Bruno" (vol. i., p. 134) which brings back to me
the only sorrowful hour I had in connection with the otherwise enjoyable
work. My wife was very ill--so ill it was a question of life and death.
Expert opinion was called in, and the afternoon I had to make that
drawing--with my own children as models--the "consultation" was being
held in my wife's room. Carroll was on his way from Oxford to see the
work, and I was drawing against time. It's the old story of the clown
with the sick wife. Caricaturists are after all but clowns of the
pencil. They must raise a laugh whatever their state of mind may be. For
a long time I never would show Lewis Carroll my work, for the simple
reason I did not do it. He thought I was at work, but I was not. That's
where my acting eccentricity came in. I knew that I would have to draw
the subjects "right off," not one a month or one in six months.
Correspondence for three months, as a rule, led to work for one week.
Isolated verse I did let him have the illustrations for, but not the
body of the book. This was my only chance, and I arrived at this secrecy
by the following bold stroke.
[Illustration: I GO MAD!]
Lewis Carroll came from Oxford one evening, early in the history of the
work, to dine, and afterwards to see a batch of work. He ate little,
drank little, but enjoyed a few glasses of sherry, his favourite wine.
"Now," he said, "for the studio!" I rose and led the way. My wife sat in
astonishment. She knew I had nothing to show. Through the drawing-room,
down the steps of the conservatory to the door of my studio. My hand is
on the handle. Through excitement Lewis Carroll stammers worse than
ever. Now to see the work for his great book! I pause, turn my back to
the closed door, and thus address the astonished Don: "Mr. Dodgson, I am
_very_ eccentric--I cannot help it! Let me explain to you clearly,
before you enter my studio, that my eccentricity sometimes takes a
violent form. If I, in showing my work, discover in your face the
slightest sign that you are not _absolutely_ satisfied with any particle
of this work in progress, the _whole_ of it goes into the fire! It is a
risk: will you accept it, or will you wait till I have the drawings
_quite_ finished and send them to Oxford?"
"I--I--I ap--appreciate your feelings--I--I--should feel the same
myself. I am off to Oxford!" and he went.
[Illustration: Handwritten note]
I sent him drawings as they were finished, and each parcel brought back
a budget of letter-writing, each page being carefully numbered. This is
the top of page 5 in his 49,874th letter. I am not sure if I received
all the remaining 49,873 letters in the seven years. To meet him and to
work for him was to me a great treat. I put up with his
eccentricities--real ones, not sham like mine.--I put up with a great
deal of boredom, for he was a bore at times, and I worked over seven
years with his illustrations, in which the actual working hours would
not have occupied me more than seven weeks, purely out of respect for
his genius. I treated him as a problem, and I solved him, and had he
lived I would probably have still worked with him. He remunerated me
liberally for my work; still, he actually proposed that in addition I
should partake of the profits; his gratitude was overwhelming. "I am
grateful; and I feel sure that if _pictures_ could sell a book 'Sylvie
and Bruno' would sell like wildfire."
Perhaps the most pleasant confession I have to make is my fondness for
children. They always interest and amuse me more than "grown-ups." The
commonplace talk is to them unknown; it is full of surprises.
Perhaps the nursery's record of my family is not longer or any more
interesting than the sayings and doings of the youngsters of any other
family; still a few extracts may interest those who, like myself, are
interested in first impressions.
My eldest, just entering on his teens, had as companions two brothers
and one sister. Hearing there was an addition to this little family
group, he, dressed in flannels, ran into my studio, bat in hand, "Papa,
is it a boy or a girl?"
"A boy."
"Oh, I am so glad. I do want a wicket-keeper, and Dorothy can't
wicket-keep a bit."
[Illustration: "I DO WANT A WICKET-KEEPER!"]
A stoutly-made little fellow of eight, to his mother, who happened to be
extremely thin:
"Oh, mother, I do believe you must be the very sweetest woman in the
world!"
"Thanks very much, Lawrence. But why so affectionate? What do you want?"
"I don't want anything. I only know you must be the very sweetest woman
in the world."
"Really, you are too flattering. Why this sudden outburst of affection?"
"Well, you know, I've been thinking over the old, old saying, 'The
nearer the bone the sweeter the meat.'"
Children, I think, have the art of "leading up" to jokes better than
adults. They hear some strange remark, they naturally analyse it, and it
suggests an application. For instance, this brat possibly objected to
some portion of meat at table. His mother had reminded of the old
saying, "The nearer the bone the sweeter the meat." Thin
mother,--there's the application.
One of my youngsters ran into the drawing-room at five o'clock tea. A
lady visitor thus addressed him:
"Come here, my little man. I suppose when you grow up you will be an
artist, like your father?"
"My father is not an artist."
"Oh, my dear, he _is_ an artist."
"Oh, no, no, no, my father is not an artist--he's only a black and white
man. I am going to be an artist in all colours."
[Illustration: PORTION OF LETTER FROM LAWRENCE, AGE 9.]
My own children have been my models, not only for Lewis Carroll's books,
but for all my drawings of children. I have three boys and one girl.
Dorothy is now a successful artist, and Lawrence is, at the age of
eighteen, a professional draughtsman of mechanical subjects; my youngest
is just out of his teens. Their portraits manifolded will be found in
the page sketch from "Romps" Du Maurier wrote me a most graceful
appreciation of these books, which, considering his delightful pictures
of children in _Punch_, was most gratifying to me.
[Illustration: REDUCTION FROM A DESIGN FOR MY "ROMPS."]
[Illustration: PORTION OF A LETTER FROM GEORGE DU MAURIER.]
An artist for whose work I have the greatest admiration was the late
Randolph Caldecott, and the only occasion on which I had the pleasure of
meeting him was of a semi-theatrical kind. It was at one of the
"Artists' Tableaux" which were given in London some years ago. In those
produced in Piccadilly I took no part, and the entertainment to which I
refer was held at the Mansion House. At the last moment, in order to
complete one of the pictures, a portly Dutchman was required, and a
telegram was despatched to me to enquire whether I would represent the
character. A dress, which was not a very good fit, was provided for me
by the costumier of the show, and with the aid of a little padding, a
good deal of rouge, a long clay pipe, and a bottle of schnapps, I
managed to look something like the inflated Hollander I was
representing, in the centre of the group, where I was supposed to be
looking on at a game of bowls. Caldecott, who was placed at a window,
flirting with the maids of the Queen, was attired in a graceful costume
of the most faultless description, surmounted by a magnificent hat with
a sweeping brim and splendid feathers, upon which he had expended no
little pains and money. My head-gear consisted of a very insignificant
stage property hat, but as I was not intended to contribute an element
of beauty to the picture, that didn't matter. The tableau was arranged
by Mr. E. A. Abbey, and when taking his last look round before the
curtain was raised, his artistic eye detected that more black was
required in the centre. While we were thus in our allotted positions,
and straining every nerve to remain perfectly rigid--an ordeal which, by
the way, I never wish to go through again, as I had hard work to
restrain myself from breaking out into a Highland fling or an Irish jig,
or calling out "Boo!" to the audience to relieve my pent-up
feelings--Mr. Abbey suddenly seized the superb hat on Caldecott's head,
which the latter had had specially made, and in which he really fancied
himself, handed it to me, and to Caldecott's horror, and almost before
he was conscious that he had been made ridiculous by the wretched
remnant which had been sent from Bow Street for me, the curtain was rung
up.
I confess I have a certain amount of pity, closely akin to contempt, for
the artist who must have the actual character he wants to paint, who
cannot use a model merely for reference, but paints in everything like a
photograph. Some artists call such feebleness conscientiousness, but to
me it seems mere weakness. Must an author paint each character in his
book, or an actor take his every impersonation on the stage, minutely
from some living model? Surely observation and natural originality is
more than the photographic copying of your "conscientious" artist! Worse
feebleness still it is when an artist has to paint a well-known
character, say King Lear or Mary Queen of Scots, and goes about hunting
for a living person as near as possible in appearance to the original,
and then costumes and slavishly reproduces him or her, without any show
of judgment or insight after the model is once selected. And this lack
of insight into character seems deplorably prevalent among our figure
painters, for how often we see in the exhibitions the model with a "good
head" tamely reproduced over and over again--here as a monk, there as a
Polonius, Thomas a Becket, a "blind beggar," "His Excellency," a
pensioner, or painted by some artist who wants to make a bid for
portraiture as "A portrait of a gentleman"!
Black and white men have to introduce so many characters into their
work, they are obliged to invent them; but it is a curious fact that
this facility disappears at times. The late Mr. Fred Barnard, clever as
he was at inventing character for his black and white work, found, when
he was painting in oil, that confidence had left him, and he spent
several days wandering about London to find real characters for a
picture he was painting representing the jury in "Pilgrim's Progress."
One day in Oxford Street he saw a hansom-cab driver with a face besotted
with drink and "ripe" for production as a slave to Bacchus. Barnard
hailed the hansom, jumped in, and directed the jehu to drive him to his
studio on Haverstock Hill. In going up the Hampstead Road a tram-car ran
over a child. Barnard was terribly upset by the touching sight, and told
the driver to pull up at the nearest tavern. Getting out, he looked at
his "subject," intending to invite him to refreshment before taking him
on to his studio, where he intended to paint him. To his horror the face
of the bibulous cabman had lost all its "colour," and was of a pale
greenish hue.
[Illustration: A TRANSFORMATION.]
"That was horful, sir, warn't it? It'll upset me for a week."
The disappointed artist dismissed his "subject."
[Illustration]
Much could be written of this genuine humourist. His buoyant fun was
irrepressible; indoors and out of doors he entertained himself--and
sometimes his friends--with his jokes. In his studio he kept as pets
some little tortoises. They were allowed to crawl about as they liked,
but he had painted on their backs caricatures--a laughing face, a
sour-green face, one with a look of horror, another of mischief. A
visitor seated unaware of these would suddenly spring off the sofa as
the walking mask slowly appeared from underneath it! Barnard's power of
mimicry was great, and his jokes were as excellent as his drawings. Even
when sitting before the camera for his photograph, he had his little
joke.
[Illustration: BARNARD AND THE MODELS.]
There are a number of girls who go the round of the studios, but have no
right whatever to do so. They generally hunt in pairs, and this habit
surely distinguishes them from the real model. They are more easily
drawn than described. Two of this class once called on Barnard.
"What do you sit for?" he asked.
"Oh, anything, sir."
"Ah, I am a figure man, you are no use to me, but there is a friend of
mine over there who is now painting a landscape--I think you might do
very well for a haystack; and your friend might try studio No. 5 and sit
for a thunder-cloud, the artist there is starting a stormy piece--oh,
good morning." Tableau!
A wretched individual once called upon me and begged me to give him a
sitting. I asked him to sit for what I was at work upon: this was a
wicket-keeper in a cricket match bending over the wicket. I assured the
man he need not apologise, as he had really turned up at an opportune
moment; the drawing was "news," and it had to be finished that day. When
I had shown my model the position and made him understand exactly what I
wanted, I noticed to my surprise that he was trembling all over. I
immediately asked him if he were cold.
"No."
"Nervous?"
"No."
"Then why not keep still?"
"Well, that's just what I can't do, sir! I had to give up my occupation
because, sir, I am hafflicted with the palsy, and when I bend I do
tremble so. I only sit for 'ands, sir--for 'ands to portrait painters. I
close 'em for a military gent--I open 'em for a bishop--but when the
hartist is hin a 'urry I know as 'ow to 'ide one 'and in my pocket and
the hother hunder a cocked 'at."
[Illustration: "I SIT FOR 'ANDS, SIR."]
Hiding hands recalls to me a fact I may mention in justice to our modern
English caricaturists. We never make capital out of our subjects'
deformities. This I pointed out at a dinner in Birmingham a few years
ago, at which I was the guest of the evening, and as I was addressing
journalists I mention this fact in justice to myself and my brother
caricaturists. As it happened, that afternoon I had heard Mr. Gladstone
making his first speech in the opening of Parliament, 1886, after being
returned in Opposition. Turning round to his young supporters, he used
for the first time the now famous expression "an old Parliamentary
hand," holding up at the same time a hand on which there were only three
fingers. Now had I drawn that hand as it was, minus the first finger,
showing the black patch? It would have been tempting on the part of a
foreign caricaturist, because it had a curious application under the
circumstances. (But it would be noticed that in my sketch in _Punch_ the
first finger, which really did not exist, is prominently shown.) This
was the first time the fact was made public that Mr. Gladstone had not
the first finger on the left hand; since then, however, all artists,
humorous or serious, were careful to show Mr. Gladstone's left hand as
pointed out by me.
Now I had noticed this for years in the House, and I hold as an argument
that men are not observant the fact that Members who had sat in the
House with Mr. Gladstone, on the same benches, for years, assured me
that they had never noticed his hand before I made this matter public.
So that when I am told that I misrepresent portraits of prominent men I
always point to this fact.
Mr. Gladstone was careful to hide the deformity in his photographs, but
in his usual energetic manner in the House the black patch in place of
the finger was on many occasions in no way concealed.
These are plebeian models, but sometimes artists' friends recommend
amateur models--a broken-down gentleman or some other poor relation--and
when you are drawing social modern subjects, of course these are really
of more use than the badly-dressed professional model.
[Illustration: A _PUNCH_ ENGRAVING, DRAWN ON WOOD.]
On "Private View Day" at the Royal Academy a few years ago a knot of
artists and their wives were in one of the rooms; it was late, and few
of the visitors remained. The attention of the artists was attracted by
a stately and beautiful being who entered and went round examining the
pictures.
"How charming!" remarked one.
"Delightful!" replied another.
"Oh, if she would but sit to me!" prayed a third.
"Why not ask her?" asked the practical one. "If anyone can, you can; so
remember that faint heart never won fair sitter!"
"Well, here goes!" whispered the cavalier, Mr. Val Prinsep, R.A., in the
tone of one about to lead a forlorn hope, and he charged desperately
across the gallery. He approached the fair stranger, and politely taking
off his hat said diffidently:
"Madam, I am one of the Academy. Should you wish to know anything about
the pictures I shall be glad----"
"Oh, thanks. I know a good deal about them."
"Indeed! Then you will understand how we artists are always on the
look-out for beauty to paint--and--ah--hm--well, you see I--that is we"
(pointing to the group) "were so struck with your presence
that--ah--pardon my abruptness--we thought that if such a thing were
possible you might condescend to allow one of us to make a study of your
head--ah."
"Oh, with pleasure," said the fair visitor, taking from her hand-bag a
neat little note-book, and opening it, she said:
"Well, I have only got Sundays and one Wednesday next month
disengaged,--I have got sittings on every other day. Will this be of any
use to you?"
She was a model!
The first house I occupied after I married faced one occupied by a
well-known and worthy fiery-tempered man of letters, and it so happened
that one evening my wife and I were dining at the house of another
neighbour. We were gratified to learn that our celebrated _vis-a-vis_,
hearing we had come to live in the same square, was anxious to make our
acquaintance. On our return home that night we discovered the latch-key
had been forgotten, and unfortunately our knocking and ringing failed to
arouse the domestics. It was not long, however, before we awoke our
neighbours, and a window of the house opposite was violently thrown
open, and language all the stronger by being endowed with literary merit
came from that man of letters, who in the dark was unable to see the
particular neighbours offending him, and he referred to my wife and
myself in a way that could not be passed over. A battle of words ensued
in which I was proved the victor, and my neighbour beat a hasty retreat.
Before retiring I wrote a note to the friend we had just left to say
that in the circumstances I refused to know my neighbour, and he had
better inform him that I would on the first opportunity punch his head.
By the same post I wrote for a particular model,--a retired pugilist. As
soon as he arrived next morning I placed him at the window of my studio
facing the opposite house, now and then sending him down to the front
door to stand on the doorstep to await some imaginary person, and to
keep his eye on the house opposite. I went on with my work in peace.
Presently a note came:
"DEAR FURNISS,--Your neighbour has sent round to ask me what you are
like. He has never seen you till this morning, and he is frightened to
leave his house. He implores me to apologise for him."
He departed from the neighbourhood shortly afterwards.
[Illustration: MY FIGHTING DOUBLE.]
Sad to relate that all Governmental undertakings of an artistic nature,
from our most colossal public building or monument to the design of a
postage stamp, are fair game for ridicule! The outward manifest record
of the Post Office Jubilee--rather the "Post Office Jumble"--was the
envelope and post card published by the Government and sold for one
shilling. The pitiful character of the design, from an artistic point of
view, shocked every person of taste; so I set to work and burlesqued it,
strictly following the lines of the genuine article. A glance at my
envelope alone, therefore, is sufficient to show the wretched quality of
the original. It happened that the postmen's grievances were very
prominent at that time. The Postmaster-General and the trade unionists
and others were at fever heat, and excitement ran high. This
caricature-parody, therefore, was a sketch with a purpose. It was said
at one of the meetings that my pencil "may perhaps touch the public
sympathy in behalf of the postman more effectually than any language has
been able to do." The wretched thing was thought worthy of an article
by Mr. M. H. Spielmann. My skit, it is needless to add, was very popular
with the postmen. They showed their gratitude by saving many a
misdirected letter. A letter addressed "Harry Furniss, London," has
frequently found me, without the loss of a post.
[Illustration: SPECIMEN OF MR. LINLEY SAMBOURNE'S ENVELOPES TO ME.]
I signed a certain number, which sold at 10_s._ 6_d._ each, and were
bought up principally by the members of the Philatelic Society.
Perhaps the publication of this "Post Office Jumble" card was also the
cause of the puzzled postmen taking the trouble to decipher and deliver
the far more amusing artistic jokes of that irrepressible joker, Mr.
Linley Sambourne. By his permission I here publish a page, a selection
of the envelopes he has sent me from time to time.
It is bad enough purposely to puzzle the overworked
letter-carriers--they are too often tried by unintentional touches of
humour emanating from the most innocent and unsuspected members of the
public--but I confess that I was once the innocent cause of Mr.
Sambourne trying the same thing on with the overworked bank clerk.
[Illustration: CHEQUE FOR 5-1/2D. PASSED THROUGH TWO BANKS AND PAID. I
SIGNED IT _backwards_, AND IT WAS CANCELLED BY CLERK _backwards_.]
I sent my _Punch_ friend a cheque, here reproduced, for the sum of
5-1/2_d._, payable to "Lynnlay Sam Bourne, Esqre," signed by me
backwards, crossed "Don't you wish you may get it and go." Sambourne
endorsed it "L. Sam. Bourne," and sent it to his bank. The clerk went
one better, and wrote "Cancelled" _backwards_ across my reversed
signature. It passed through my bank, and the money was paid. This is
probably unique in the history of banking.
[Illustration: SIR HENRY IRVING WRITES HIS NAME BACKWARDS.]
_A propos_ of writing backwards, in days when artists made their
drawings on wood everything of course had to be reversed, and writing
backwards became quite easy. To this day I can write backwards nearly as
quickly as I write in the ordinary way. One night at supper I was
explaining this, and furthermore told my friends that they themselves
could write backwards--in fact, they could not avoid doing so. Not of
course on the table, as I was doing, but by placing the sheet of paper
against the table underneath, and writing with the point upwards.
Perhaps my reader will try--and see the effect. For encouragement here
are a few of the first attempts on that particular evening.
[Illustration: SIR HENRY IRVING'S ATTEMPT.]
[Illustration: MR. J. L. TOOLE'S FIRST ATTEMPT.]
[Illustration: MR. J. L. TOOLE'S SECOND ATTEMPT.]
A few years ago a banquet was given at the Mansion House to the
representatives of French art; several English painters and others
interested in art were invited to meet them. Previous to being presented
to the Lord Mayor, every guest was requested to sign an autograph
album--an unusual proceeding, I think, at a City dinner. Were I Lord
Mayor I would compel my guests to sign their names--not on arrival, but
when leaving the Mansion House, and thus possess an autograph album of
erratic graphology, and one worth studying. In company with my friend
Mr. Whitworth Wallis, the curator of the Birmingham Museum and Art
Gallery, I entered the Mansion House, when we were immediately accosted
by a powdered flunkey in gorgeous uniform, in possession of the
autograph album, who presented a truly magnificent pen at us, and in
peremptory tones demanded our life or our signatures. Whitworth Wallis
wrote his first, with a dash and confidence. I stood by and admired.
"Oh," I said, taking the pen, "that's not half a dash; let me show you
mine."
[Illustration]
Jeames, in taking the pen from me, looked condescendingly over the page,
and with the air of a justice delivering judgment said to me:
"Beaten 'im by hinches, sir. Beaten 'im by hinches!"
Months after that I gave an entertainment one evening at Woolwich. My
audience was principally composed of Arsenal hands. On leaving the
platform I was taken into the Athletic Club rooms, and asked to sign
their autograph book and say a "few words" to the members. The few words
consisted of the "record" I had made in the signing match I had with Mr.
Wallis at the Mansion House--an incident which was brought to my mind
suddenly when I took the pen in my hand. It so happened that Whitworth
Wallis, who is a well-known lecturer on art matters, was on that same
night lecturing in the North of England, and as he left the platform at
the same hour as I at Woolwich, he was, like me, asked to sign an
autograph book, and told the very same story to his friends in the North
as I was telling under exactly similar circumstances, the same evening,
at the same hour, in the South. Neither of us knew that the other was
lecturing that night. It is not by any means a usual thing to be asked
to sign a club album, and Wallis and I had not met or corresponded since
the evening at the Mansion House.
After working many years for the _Illustrated London News_, I became a
contributor to the _Graphic_, and for that journal wrote and illustrated
a series of supplements upon "Life in Parliament"; but from this time
forward it would be difficult to name any illustrated paper with which I
have not at some time or other been connected. For instance, the
_Yorkshire Post_ a few years ago started a halfpenny evening paper, and
sent their manager down to me to ask my honorarium to illustrate the
first few numbers with character sketches of the members of the British
Association, who were holding their meetings that week in Leeds. This
was a happy thought, as the "British Asses," as they are too familiarly
called, sent these first numbers of the paper all over the country; the
new ship had something to start upon, and is now a prosperous concern.
There are various stories about the sum I received for this work. It was
a large sum for England, where enterprise of this kind is very rare. I
was "billed" all over the town as if I were a Patti or Paderewski, and
telegrams were sent to the London papers by the special reporters
announcing the terms upon which I was at work; altogether it was a bit
of Yankee booming that would have made a Harmsworth or a Newnes green
with envy.
CARICATURE.