PARLIAMENTARY CONFESSIONS.
Gladstone and Disraeli--A Contrast--An unauthenticated Incident--Lord
Beaconsfield's last Visit to the House of Commons--My Serious
Sketch--Historical--Mr. Gladstone--His Portraits--What he thought of
the Artists--Sir J. E. Millais--Frank Holl--The Despatch
Boxes--Impressions--Disraeli--Dan O'Connell--Procedure--American
Wit--Toys--Wine--Pressure--Sandwich Soiree--The G.O.M. dines with
"Toby, M.P."--Walking--Quivering--My Desk--An Interview--Political
Caricaturists--Signature in Sycamore--Scenes in the Commons--Joseph
Gillis Biggar--My Double--Scenes--Divisions--Puck--Sir R.
Temple--Charles Stewart Parnell--A Study--Quick Changes--His Fall--Room
15--The last Time I saw him--Lord Randolph Churchill--His Youth--His
Height--His Fickleness--His Hair--His Health--His Fall--Lord
Iddesleigh--Sir Stafford and Mr. Gladstone--Bradlaugh--His Youth--His
Parents--His Tactics--His Fight--His Extinction--John Bright--Jacob
Bright--Sir Isaac Holden--Lord Derby--A Political Prophecy--A Lucky
Guess--My Confession in the _Times_--The Joke that Failed--The
Seer--Fair Play--I deny being a Conservative--I am
Encouraged--Chaff--Reprimanded--Misprinted--Misunderstood.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: THE INNER LOBBY OF THE HOUSE OF COMMONS.]
[Illustration:
1. Dr. Tanner
2. Rt. Hon. A. Akers-Douglas
3. Lord A. Hill
4. G. Cavendish-Bentinck
5. J. A. Pinton
6. Sir W. H. Houldaworth
7. Sir Albert K. Rollit
8. Rt. Hon. H. Chaplin
9. Sir E. Waskin
10. T. W. Rusell
11. Rt. Hon. C. B. Spencer
12. Christopher Sykes
13. Lord Halabury
14. H. Lubouchere
15. T. Sexton
16. Sir R. H. Fowler
17. Earl Spencer
18. Rt. Hon. J. Chamberlain
19. Admiral Field
20. Sir Frank Lockwood
21. Rt. Hon J. B. Balfour
22. Wm. Woodall
23. F. Ashmead Bartlett
24. Baden-Powell
25. Sir T. W. Maclure
26. Marquis of Hartington (Duke of Devonshire)
27. Sir R. Temple
28. }
29. } Press
30. }
31. }
32. H. W. Lucy (_Toby M.P._).
33. Rt. Hon. John Morley
34. Lord Randolph Churchill
35. Press (_Times_)
36. " "
37. J. Henniker Heaton
38. James A. Jacoby
39. Sir H. H. Howorth
40. P. Power
41. C. S. Parnell]
Some years before Mr. Disraeli quitted the House of Commons upon his
elevation to the Peerage, I enjoyed witnessing a very remarkable
encounter between him and Mr. Gladstone. It was one of those passage
of arms, or to be more correct I should say, perhaps, of words, which in
the days of their Parliamentary youth were so frequent between the great
political rivals; and although I am unable to recall the particular
subject of the debate, or the exact date of its occurrence, I well
remember that Mr. Gladstone had launched a tremendous attack against his
opponent. However, notwithstanding the fact that from the outset of his
speech it was evident that Mr. Gladstone meant war to the knife, that as
it proceeded he waxed more and more hostile, and that his peroration was
couched in the most vehement terms, Disraeli remained to the finish as
if utterly unmoved, sitting in his customary attitude as though he were
asleep, with his arms hanging listlessly at his sides. Once only during
the progress of the attack he appeared to wake up, when, taking his
single eye-glass, which he usually kept in a pocket of his waistcoat,
between his finger and thumb, he calmly surveyed the House as if to
satisfy himself how it was composed, just as an experienced cricketer
eyes the field before batting, in order to see how the enemy are
placed. Then, having taken stock of those present, the eye-glass was
replaced in his pocket, and to all appearance he once more subsided into
a tranquil slumber. But this was only a feint, for the very instant that
Mr. Gladstone sat down up jumped Disraeli. The contrast between his
method and that of Mr. Gladstone was very noticeable. Placing one hand
artistically upon the box in front of him, and the other under his coat
tails, he commenced to speak, and in the calmest manner possible,
although with the most telling and polished satire, he aimed dart after
dart across the table at Mr. Gladstone. As he proceeded to traverse the
speech of his distinguished opponent with the most perfect and effective
skill, it soon became evident that in reality he had slept with one eye
open. With masterly tact, he had reserved the principal point in his
reply to the end, and then, bringing his full force to bear upon it, the
conclusion of his speech told with redoubled effect.
[Illustration: LORD BEACONSFIELD. A SKETCH FROM LIFE.]
Whilst upon the subject of Mr. Gladstone and Lord Beaconsfield, I may
narrate a remarkable story, although I am unable to vouch for the
accuracy of it, as I cannot remember who was my original informant, nor
among my friends in or out of Parliament have I succeeded in discovering
anyone who actually witnessed the incident to which it refers. Should it
turn out to be an invention, like the champagne jelly of Lord
Beaconsfield or the eye-glass of Mr. Bright, I shall no doubt be
corrected. But if on the contrary the anecdote be authentic, I may earn
some thanks for resuscitating it. In any case I can testify that at the
time the story was told to me I had undoubtedly every reason to believe
that it was true.
A similar scene to that which I have described above was taking place in
the House between Mr. Gladstone and Mr. Disraeli, when the latter in the
course of his remarks had occasion to quote a passage from a recent
speech made by his rival upon some platform in the country.
Suddenly Mr. Gladstone started up and exclaimed:
"I never said that in my life!"
Disraeli was silent, and, putting his hands behind his back, simply
gazed apparently in blank astonishment at the box in front of him.
Several seconds went by, but he never moved. The members in the crowded
House looked from one to the other, and many imagined that Disraeli was
merely waiting for his opponent to apologise. But Mr. Gladstone, who had
a habit, which he developed in later years, of chatting volubly to his
neighbour during any interruption of this kind in which he was
concerned, made no sign. A minute passed, but the sphinx did not move.
A minute and a quarter, but he was still motionless.
A minute and a half of this silence seemed as if it was an hour.
When the second minute was completed, the excitement in the House began
to grow intense. Disraeli seemed to be transfixed. Was he ill? Was the
great man sulking? What could this strange silence portend?
Two minutes and a half!
Some Members rose and approached him, but Disraeli raised his hand as if
to deprecate their interference, and they stole back to their places
conscious that they were forbidden to interrupt. Then, at last, when the
second hand of the clock had passed three times round its course, the
most remarkable silence which the House had ever experienced within
living memory was broken as the Tory leader slowly began once more to
speak.
"'Mr. Chairman,'" he said, "'and gentlemen,'" and then word for word he
repeated the whole speech of Mr. Gladstone from which he had made his
quotation, duly introducing the particular passage which the Liberal
leader had denied. Then he paused and looked across at his rival. The
challenge was not to be avoided, and Mr. Gladstone bowed. He would have
raised his hat did he wear one in the House, which, in the phraseology
of the ring, was equivalent to throwing up the sponge. Mr. Disraeli
afterwards informed a friend that, working backwards, he had recalled
the whole of Mr. Gladstone's speech to his mind. Beginning at the
disputed quotation, he recovered the context which led up to it, and so
step by step the entire oration. Then he was enabled to repeat it from
the outset, exactly as he had read it.
I saw Lord Beaconsfield in the House of Commons on the occasion of his
last visit to that chamber in which he had been the moving spirit. I
well recollect that morning. There had been an Irish all-night sitting:
the House was supposed to be listening to the droning of some Irish
"Mimber." The officials were weary, the legislative chamber was untidy
and dusty, and many of those present had not had their clothes off all
night. Lord Beaconsfield, scented, oiled, and curled, the daintiest of
dandies, sits in the gallery, examining the scene through his single
eye-glass. Leaning over him stands the ever-faithful Monty Corry--now
Lord Rowton. I sat within a few yards of them, and made a sketch which
happens to be the most successful study I ever made. The _Academy_ wrote
of it: "In humour Mr. Harry Furniss generally excels; but his portrait
of Lord Beaconsfield on his last appearance in the House of Commons is
something else than amusing--it is pathetic, almost tragic, and will be
historical;" and columns of flattering notices must be my excuse for
confessing in these pages that I myself consider it to be the best
portrait of Lord Beaconsfield, and in no way a caricature.
[Illustration: THE LAST VISIT OF LORD BEACONSFIELD TO THE HOUSE.]
A caricaturist is an artistic contortionist. He is grotesque for effect.
A contortionist twists and distorts himself to cause amusement, but he
is by nature straight of limb and a student of grace before he can
contort his body in burlesque of the "human form divine." Thus also is
it with the caricaturist and his pencil. The good points of his subject
must be plainly apparent to him before he can twist his study into the
grotesque; to him it is necessary that the sublime should be known and
appreciated ere he can convert it into the ridiculous, and without the
aid of serious studies it is impossible for him fully to analyse and
successfully produce the humorous and the satirical. Perchance he may
even entertain a feeling of admiration for the subject he is holding up
to ridicule, for serious moments and serious work are no strangers to
the caricaturist.
[Illustration: MR. GLADSTONE. A SKETCH FROM LIFE.]
The famous collars I "invented" for grotesque effect, but I always saw
Mr. Gladstone without them, for to me his head has never been, as some
suppose, a mere block around which to wreathe a fantastic and
exaggerated collar.
"I am told a Japanese artist who wishes to study a particular flower,
for instance, travels to the part of the country where it is to be
found; he takes no photographic camera, no superb sketching pad or box
of paints, but he lives by the plant, watches day by day the flower
grow, blossom, and decay, under every condition, and mentally notes
every detail, so that ever afterwards he can paint that flower in every
possible way with facility and knowledge. I have myself treated Mr.
Gladstone as that Japanese artist treats the beautiful flower. I have
frequently sat for many many hours watching every gesture, every change
of expression. I have watched the colour leave his cheeks, and the hair
his head; I have marked time contract his mouth, and have noted the
development of each additional wrinkle. I have mused under the shade of
his collars, and wondered at the cut of his clothes, sketched his three
hats and his historical umbrella. More than that; during a great speech
I have seen the flower in his button-hole fade under his flow of
eloquence, seen the bow of his tie travel round to the back of his
neck."
[Illustration: MR. GLADSTONE.
"I have seen the flower in his buttonhole fade under his flow of
eloquence."
_Engraved on wood from an original study._]
Thus I spoke night after night from the platform, and the laugh always
came with the collars. It was not as a serious critic that I was posing
before the audience, so I could fittingly describe the collars rather
than the man. But when I had left the platform and the limelight, and my
caricatures, I have had many a chat with Mr. Gladstone's admirers, with
regard to the light in which I saw the great man without his collars,
and this fact I will put forward as my excuse for publishing in my
"Confessions" a few studies that I have made from time to time of the
Grand Old Man, as an antidote not only to my own caricatures, but to the
mass of Gladstone portraits published, which, with very few exceptions,
are idealised, perfunctory, stereotyped, and worthless. Generations to
come will not take their impressions of this great man's appearance from
these unsatisfactory canvases, or from the cuts in old-fashioned
illustrated papers, in which all public men are drawn in a purely
conventional tailor's advertisement fashion, with perfect-fitting coats,
trousers without a crease, faces of wax, and figures of the fashionable
fop of the period. The camera killed all this. But the photographer,
although he cannot alter the cut of the clothes, can alter, and does
alter, everything else. He touches up the face beyond recognition, and
the pose is the pose the sitter takes before the camera, and probably
quite different from his usual attitude. So it will be the caricatures,
or, to be correct, the character sketches, that will leave the best
impressions of Mr. Gladstone's extraordinary individuality.
[Illustration: MR. GLADSTONE--CONVENTIONAL PORTRAIT.]
I heard Mr. Gladstone express his own views on portraiture one evening
at a small dinner-party. My host of that evening had hit on the happy
idea of having portraits of the celebrities of the age painted for him
by a rising young artist. It was curious to note Mr. Gladstone as he
examined these portraits. His manner was a strange comment on the
political changes which had taken place, for as he came to the portraits
of those of his old supporters who no longer fought under his colours,
he would pass them by as though he had not seen them, or if his
attention were called to any of them he would seem not to recognise the
likeness, and pass on till his eye lighted on some political ally still
numbered among the faithful, when he would at once pronounce the
portrait excellent, and dwell upon its merits with apparent delight. A
portrait of Mr. Labouchere, however, he generally failed to recognise.
The portrait represented the Member for Northampton in a contemplative
mood, certainly not characteristic of his habitual demeanour in the
House.
"I have found," said he, "the artist I have been looking for for years.
I have found an artist who can paint my portrait in four hours and a
half; he has painted three in thirteen hours; that is Millais."
I was much surprised by this curious criticism on portrait painting.
Surely, if the portrait of the great orator is to be painted in four
hours and a half, the same limitation, if carried out, would confine the
greatest speech ever made to a period of four-and-a-half seconds!
Someone pointedly asked Mr. Gladstone whether he liked Millais'
portraits.
"Well," he replied, evading any brutal directness of reply, "I have been
very much interested with his energy; he is the hardest-working man I
ever saw."
"Do you prefer his result to Holl's?"
"Ah, Holl took double the time, and put me in such a very strained
position, nearly on tiptoe. I know my heels were off the ground; it
tired me out, and I was really obliged to lie down and sleep
afterwards."
"You found Millais charming in conversation?"
"He never spoke when at work; his interest in his work fascinated me."
"Mr. Watts?"
"Ah, there is a delightful conversationalist, and a wonderful artist; he
has attempted my portrait often--three attempts of late years--but he
has not satisfied himself, and I am bound to say that my friends are of
the same mind."
"I well remember," remarked Lord Granville, who was one of the party,
"how uneasy poor Holl was before he painted your portrait. He came to me
and said, 'I think if you would speak to Mr. Gladstone on some subject
that would interest him, I would watch him, and that would aid me very
much.'"
In this picture of Mr. Gladstone the late Frank Holl failed to maintain
his reputation as an artist of the highest class: that picture of the
great Liberal leader was disappointing and altogether unworthy of his
name. This was the more unfortunate because, by the exercise of a little
forethought, the artist might easily have avoided that pitfall of
portrait-painters, an awkward, constrained, and unaccustomed attitude,
which Mr. Gladstone confessed was torturing him, and by a very simple
expedient have succeeded in placing Mr. Gladstone in the position which
everyone who has seen him in the act of delivering a speech in the House
of Commons would have recognised at once as a true and characteristic
pose.
Here I have mentioned Mr. Gladstone himself, saying how uncomfortable he
felt upon the occasion of Mr. Holl's visit to his house for the purpose
of obtaining a sitting; but I should add that the genial artist who was
to do the work informed me that he also was no less ill at ease. When
Mr. Gladstone enquired how he should sit for the portrait, Mr. Holl,
anxious no doubt to secure a natural pose, replied, "Oh, just as you
like!" This appeared to disconcert the great statesman somewhat, and he
appeared to be ruminating as to what sedentary attitude was really his
favourite one, when Holl came to the rescue.
[Illustration: CARICATURE OF THE HOLL PORTRAIT.]
"I happened," said Mr. Gladstone, "to be standing at my library table
with my hands upon a book, when Mr. Holl said, 'That will do, Mr.
Gladstone, exactly,' and the result was that he painted me in that
position. But I felt uncommonly awkward and uncomfortable the whole
time, and as I have just said, I had to lie down and sleep after each
sitting."
Now why was this? It was the very attitude of all others with which we
who have studied it so often when the ex-Premier has been standing at
the table in the House are so familiar. No artist who had once seen him
in that position would have failed to select it as the most favourable
and characteristic for the purposes of a historical portrait. And yet
the picture, when it was completed, was a failure, and the artist
himself knew that it was. The explanation is, I think, very simple, and
it exemplifies once more the truth of the formula which defines genius
to be "an infinite capacity for taking pains." Frank Holl undoubtedly
had talent, but his omission of an important detail in this picture--a
detail which would have probably made all the difference between success
and failure--shows once more by how narrow a line the highest art is
often divided from the next best, that art of which we have such a
plethora nowadays--which just contrives to miss hitting the bullseye of
perfection.
When Mr. Holl exclaimed, "That will do, Mr. Gladstone, exactly," he was
no doubt impressed with the idea that the great orator was more at ease
standing at the table in the House of Commons than in any other
position, and he therefore selected it for his picture. But he forgot
that upon the table in the House there stands a box on which Mr.
Gladstone was always in the habit, when he was speaking, of resting one
of his hands, and that if that box was missing he would naturally,
although perhaps unconsciously, be sensible that something to which he
was accustomed was absent, and that he would therefore be as
uncomfortable as a fish out of water. This was actually the case. But if
some substitute for the box, of the proper height and size, had been
forthcoming, I have not the slightest doubt, from my long and close
observation of the habits and movements of Mr. Gladstone in the House,
that he would at once have dropped easily into his customary attitude,
and that the picture in the hands of so true an artist as Holl would
then have been a conspicuous success.
Mr. Gladstone was asked whether he thought the tone of the House had
degenerated in recent times. He replied that he did not think so at all,
quoting in proof that after the introduction of the first Reform Bill
many Members used to express their feelings in cock-crows and other
offensive ways. Mr. Gladstone, however, at the time I met him, was
getting decidedly deaf, and no doubt much that went on behind him in the
House "did not reach" him.
Asked if the "count out" ought to be abolished, Mr. Gladstone said it
was too convenient a custom to be abolished, but that he noticed a very
important alteration of late years in the mode of conducting it. Years
ago he recollected it was the rule that, when a Member moved that
"forty Members were not present, he was obliged to remain in his place
while the 'count out' was in progress." "Now," said Mr. Gladstone, "he
gets up and rushes out.
"Indeed," continued the veteran statesman, "I understand very little
about the rules and regulations of the House now. I am very ignorant
indeed; I believe I am the most ignorant man in the House, and I mean to
continue so; it is not worth my while to begin now to learn fresh
rules."
[Illustration: NOTE OF MR. GLADSTONE MADE IN THE PRESS GALLERY WITH THE
WRONG END OF A QUILL PEN.]
He told us of a curious incident which happened in the House when he was
a young Parliamentary hand. Members did not leave the House for a
division, but it was left to the discretion of the Speaker to decide
which side was in the majority. He would then order them to walk to the
other side of the House, and anyone remaining would of course be counted
with the opposite side. Old Sir Watkin Wynn, I believe, was determined
to vote against a certain Bill. He had been hunting all day, and rode up
to town in time to vote. Arriving in his hunting costume and muddy
boots, he took his seat tired out, and soon went fast asleep. The
division came on, and his party were ordered to go over to the other
side of the House. He slept in blissful ignorance, waking some time
afterwards to find to his horror that he had been counted with those in
favour of the Bill.
Mr. Gladstone remarked that it was curious that in the old days the
Whips could tell to a vote how a division would go. He recollected well,
in 1841, a vote of no confidence in Lord Melbourne was moved. The point
was going to be decided by one vote. I shall never forget the "Grand Old
Man's" graphic description of that vote. There was an old Member who was
known to be to all intents and purposes as dead as a door-nail. The
excitement was intense to know if that still breathing corpse could be
brought to vote. Mr. Gladstone, with other young Tory Members, stood
anxiously round the lobby door watching, and just at the critical moment
when the vote was to be taken the all but lifeless body was borne along
ignorant of all that was going around him, his vote was recorded, and
that one vote sealed the fate of a Ministry.
In Mr. Gladstone's opinion, American humour invariably consisted in
dealing with magnitudes. He preferred to hear American stories on this
side of the Atlantic. He never had been in America, and never intended
going. He expressed himself as apprehensive of the effect on the nervous
system of the vibration caused by the engines of a steamer travelling at
a high speed, but spoke with admiration of the rapid travelling at sea
performed by the Continental mail packets, saying that a few days
before, returning from the Continent, he had only just settled down to
read when he was told to disembark, for the steamer had reached Dover.
I overheard Mr. Gladstone asking the question: "Why is it that when we
get a good thing we do not stick to it?" I fully expected him to launch
into some huge political question, such as the "Unity of the Empire" or
"Universal Franchise." Instead of this, I was somewhat surprised to hear
him proceed: "Now, I recollect an excruciatingly funny toy which you
wound up, and it danced about in a most comical way. I have watched that
little nigger many and many a time, but lately I have been looking
everywhere to get one. I have asked at the shops in the Strand and
elsewhere, and they show me other things, but not the funny nigger I
recollect, so I have given up my search in despair."
I noticed that Mr. Gladstone took champagne at dinner, and after dinner
a glass of port. Some conversation arising with reference to the history
of wines, the old politician seemed to know more on the subject than
anyone else at table; in fact, during the whole evening, there was not a
subject touched upon on which he did not give the heads for an
interesting essay. The only time Mr. Gladstone mentioned Ireland was in
connection with the subject of wines, when he dilated upon the beauties
of Newfoundland port, which was to be found in Ireland in the good old
days.
In one respect Mr. Gladstone was not an exception among the old, for he
seemed fond of dwelling upon the great age which men have attained. He
seemed to think that the high pressure at which we live nowadays would
show its effect on the longevity of the rising generation, and remarked:
"You young men will have a very bad time of it."
[Illustration]
It is curious that very few statesmen indeed have led the House of
Commons in their old age. It may be said that Lord John Russell was the
first to do so; Lord Palmerston also was very old before he obtained
office. And so chatted the Grand Old Man, in the most fascinating and
delightful manner. He was always the same on such occasions, entering
into the spirit of the entertainment, and, as was his habit, forgetting
for the time everything else. When my old friend William Woodall, M.P.
for Stoke (Governor-General of the Ordnance in Mr. Gladstone's
Government 1885), gave at St. Anne's Mansions his famous "Sandwich
Soirees" to his friends, the spacious ballroom on the ground floor
packed with his many friends--a characteristic, polyglot gathering of
Ministers and Parliamentarians of all kinds, musicians, dramatists,
authors, artists, actors, and journalists, who sang, recited, and gave a
gratuitous entertainment (for some of these I acted as his hon.
secretary, and helped to get together a collection of modern paintings
on the walls, besides designing the invitations)--I recollect the
greatest success was the Grand Old Man. There was "standing room" only,
but a chair was provided for Mr. Gladstone in the centre of the huge
circle which had formed around the mesmerist Verbeck. Many guests sat on
the floor, to afford those behind a better chance of seeing. The Prime
Minister, noticing this, absolutely declined to be an exception, and he
squatted "a la Turk" on the floor. I confess this struck me as "playing
to the gallery." It certainly was playing to the Press, for Mr.
Gladstone's attitude on that occasion was paragraphed all over the
country, by means of which fact I have here refreshed my memory. In
fact, Mr. Gladstone was always _en evidence_. When the great statesman
dined with Toby, M.P., I was sitting close to him. He had dispensed with
his own shirt-collars, and wore quite the smallest, slenderest, and most
inconspicuous of narrow, turn-down collars, assumed for that occasion
only. "One of Herbert's cast-offs," someone whispered to me. "That's
strange," said another guest to me. "Last night at dinner the pin in the
back of Gladstone's collar came out, and as he got excited, the collar
rose round his head, and we all agreed that 'Furniss ought to have
witnessed what he has so often drawn, but never seen.'"
[Illustration: MR. GLADSTONE SITS ON THE FLOOR.]
Mr. Lucy has made the statement that Mr. Gladstone was "a constant
student of _Punch_" and "knew no occasion upon which he was not able to
join in the general merriment of the public; but hadn't there been
enough about the fabulous collars?"
I received an editorial order to bury them, "but before long they were
out again, flapping their folds in the political breeze."
[Illustration: THE FRAGMENT OF _PUNCH_ MR. GLADSTONE DID _NOT_ SEE.]
Well, I have no doubt that Mr. Gladstone for many years was "a constant
student of _Punch_," for during the greater portion of his political
career he was idealised in the pages of _Punch_, and not caricatured. I
doubt very much, however, if he made _Punch_ an exception in his latter
period, for it is well known that for years he was only allowed to see
flattering notices of himself, and all references at all likely to
disturb him were kept from his sight. At Mr. Lucy's own house, the night
Mr. Gladstone dined with him, a copy of _Punch_ was lying on the table,
containing a rare thing for _Punch_--a supplement. In this case it took
the shape of my caricatures of the Royal Academy, 1889. Just as dinner
was announced Mr. Gladstone saw the paper, and was on the point of
taking it up. I handed it to him, but at the same moment slipped the
supplement out of the number and threw it under the table, for it
contained a caricature of Professor Herkomer's Academy portrait of Mrs.
Gladstone, objecting to being placed next to a lady by Mr. Val Prinsep
sitting for the "altogether." During dinner Mr. Gladstone mentioned this
portrait of Mrs. Gladstone, and expressed great delight with Herkomer's
work: it showed her mature age, he said, and as a portrait was very
happy and true--he did not say anything about the hanging of it!
Mr. Gladstone was the life and soul of a party, and seemed to enjoy
being the centre of attraction wherever he was.
[Illustration: THE GLADSTONE MATCHBOX.]
Mr. Gladstone's portrait has been adopted by others besides
caricaturists. It is carved as a gargoyle in the stone-work of a church,
and the head of the Grand Old Man has been turned into a match-box. The
latter I here reproduce. It was shown to me one evening when I was the
guest at the Guard Mess at St. James's Palace. A clever young Guardsman,
who had a taste for turning, worked this out in wood from my caricatures
of Mr. Gladstone, and I advised his having it reproduced in pottery. The
suggestion was carried out by the late Mr. Woodall, the Member for the
Potteries, and was largely distributed at the time the G.O.M. was
politically meeting his match and thought by some to be a little
light-headed.
In being shown round the beautiful municipal buildings in Glasgow I
found my caricature there accidentally figuring in the marble-work; and
the guides at Antwerp Cathedral (as I have mentioned in the first
chapter) point out a grotesque figure in the wood carving of the choir
stalls which resembles almost exactly Mr. Gladstone's head as depicted
by me.
I find a note which I introduce here, as I hardly know where to place it
in this hotch-potch of confessions. Is it a fact that Mr. Gladstone
once signed a caricature of himself? In 1896 a Mr. J. T. Cox, of the
"Norwich school" of amateurs, procured a slab of a sycamore tree felled
by Mr. Gladstone, and on it reproduced in pencil my _Punch_ cartoon
depicting a visit of the "Grand Old Undergrad" to his Alma Mater,
Oxford. This was sent to Hawarden, and returned signed with the
following note:
"HAWARDEN CASTLE.
"Mr. Gladstone is obliged to refuse his signature, but Mrs. Drew asked
him for it for herself on enclosed--it was so cleverly arranged.
"_May 5th_, 1896."
Here is to me, I confess, a first-he-would-and-then-he-wouldn't, Cox and
Box mystery I fail to explain.
I drew the G.O.M., Mr. Cox drew me, he drew Mrs. Drew, and Mrs. Drew
drew Mr. Gladstone. Mr. Gladstone refused his signature, and yet he
signed it. I think he signed his cut of sycamore, and not my cut at him.
Both as a "special artist" for the _Illustrated London News_ in my
pre-_Punch_ days, and later for various periodicals, I saw and sketched
Mr. Gladstone on many important occasions, but towards the end of his
career it was sad to see the great man. The _Daily News_ once gave me a
chance in the following account of Mr. Gladstone during one of these
scenes; when Mr. Gladstone, having accidentally mentioned the approach
of his eightieth birthday, "the vast audience suddenly leapt to its feet
and burst into ringing cheers. Mr. Gladstone was evidently deeply
touched by this spontaneous outburst of almost personal affection. He
stood with hands folded, head bent down, and _legs quivering_." The fun
of this joke, however, lies in the fact that the "legs" which quivered
were the telegraph operators'. The reporter wrote "lips."
So great was the public admiration for the illustrious leader of the
Liberal Party that merely to see him was, to the majority of his
audience, enough. In later years he could not be heard at public
meetings. Penetrating as his voice was, it was absolutely impossible for
any but those standing immediately around the platform to hear him upon
such occasions as that of the famous Blackheath meeting, or those at
Birmingham or elsewhere; but the masses nevertheless came in their
thousands, and were more than repaid for their trouble by catching only
a distant glimpse of William Ewart Gladstone.
Whatever one may think of Mr. Gladstone as a politician (and some say
that he was no statesman, and others that he was never sincere, while
many maintain that he was merely a "dangerous old woman"), all must
agree that as a man he was a figure that England might well be proud of.
It will be interesting to see what historians will make of him. When the
glamour of his personality is forgotten, what will be remembered? His
figure, his face--and shall I say his collars?
[Illustration]
In my time Mr. Parnell was the most interesting figure in Parliament,
and, after Mr. Gladstone, had the greatest influence in the House. Mr.
Gladstone was, politically speaking, Parliament itself (at one time he
was the Country); but I doubt if even Mr. Gladstone ever hypnotised the
House by his personality as Parnell did. There was a mystery in
everything connected with the great Irish leader; no mystery hung about
Mr. Gladstone. Mr. Gladstone in the House was voluble, eloquent,
communicative. Mr. Parnell was silent, a poor speaker, and as
uncommunicative as the Sphinx. Mr. Gladstone's power lay in his
unreservedness; Mr. Parnell's lay in his absolute reserve. His orders
were "No one to speak to the man at the wheel," and the man at the wheel
spoke to no one. He guided the Irish ship just as he liked over the
troubled waters of a political crisis, and not one of his men knew what
move would be his next. By this means, so foreign to the Irish
character, he held that excitable, rebellious, irrepressible crew in
thrall. He made them dance, sleep, roar; he made them obstructionists,
orators, buffoons, at his will. He made them everything but friends. A
characteristic story was circulated when Parnell was known as "the
uncrowned king." Accompanied by his faithful private secretary, he was
walking from the House, when he met one of his colleagues. The satellite
saluted his chief and "smiled affably at the private secretary." Mr.
Parnell took no notice whatever of Mr. ----, but after a few seconds had
elapsed, turned to his companion and said, "Who was that, Campbell?"
"Why, ----" (mentioning the name of the hon. Member), was the reply.
"What a horrible-looking scoundrel!" exclaimed the uncrowned king in his
most supercilious manner, and then began to talk of something else.
He was a study as fascinating to the artist as to the politician, and no
portrait ever drawn by pen or pencil can hand down to future generations
the mysterious subtlety in the personality of the all-powerful leader.
[Illustration: PARNELL.]
He was as puzzling to the Parliamentary artist as he was to the
politician: he never appeared just as one expected him. When I first
made a sketch of him he had short hair, a well-trimmed moustache,
shortly-cut side whiskers, a neat-fitting coat and trousers, and
well-shaped boots. He then let his beard and hair grow, and his coat and
trousers seemed to grow also--the coat in length and the trousers in
width; and his boots grew with the rest--they were ugly and enormous.
His hat didn't grow, but it was out of date. Then he would cut his beard
and hair again, wear a short coat, a sort of pilot jacket, and
eventually a long black coat. So that if a drawing was not published at
once it would have been out of date.
Some artists have been flattering enough to take my sketches as
references for Parliamentarians, but others depended on photographs, and
for years I have seen Mr. Parnell represented with the neatly-trimmed
moustache and closely-cut side whiskers. _A propos_ of this, I may
mention here how mistakes often become perpetuated. John Bright, for
instance, was generally represented in political sketches with an
eye-glass. This was a slip made by an artist in _Punch_ many years ago.
But ever after John Bright was represented with an eye-glass--which he
never wore, except on one occasion just to see how he liked it.
The effect upon the House when Mr. Parnell rose was always dramatic. He
sat there during a debate, seldom, if ever, taking a note, with his hat
well over his eyes and his arms crossed, in strong contrast to the
restlessness of those around him. When he rose, it seemed an effort to
lift his voice, and he spoke in a hesitating, ineffective manner.
Neither was there much in what he said, but he was _Parnell_, and the
fact that he said little and said it quietly, that what he said was not
prepared in consultation with his Whips or with his Party, that in fact
he was playing a game in which his closest friends were not consulted,
made his rising interesting from the reporters' gallery to the
doorkeepers in the Lobby the other side.
Mr. Parnell seemed to have been very little affected by his continued
reverses; and perhaps the only visible effect of his loss of power was
that the "uncrowned king" of Ireland changed his top-hat to a plebeian
bowler, but he did not change his coat. He was always careless about his
dress, and his tall, handsome figure looked somewhat ridiculous when he
wore a bowler, black frock coat, and his hair as usual unkempt.
The fall of Parnell was one of the most sensational and certainly the
most dramatic incident in the history of Parliament.
Mr. Parnell was politically ruined and the Irish Party smashed beyond
recovery in the famous Committee Room No. 15, after the disclosures in
the Divorce Court in which Mr. Parnell figured as co-respondent. Mr.
Parnell had found the Irish Party without a leader, without a programme,
without a future. He had by his individual force made it a power which
had to be reckoned with, and which practically controlled Parliament. He
had been attacked by the most important paper in the world. He had come
out of the affair, in the eyes of many, a hero; he made his Party
stronger than their wildest dreams ever anticipated. But his followers
little thought that in hiding from them his tactics he had also hidden
the weakness which caused his ultimate downfall. Howbeit the Irish
Party, whom he held in a hypnotic trance, agreed to stand by him still.
Then, suddenly, Mr. Gladstone made his demand for a sacrifice to Mrs.
Grundy. His famous letter, written November 24th, 1894, to Mr. Morley,
was the death-warrant to Parnellism, and, as it subsequently proved, to
Gladstonianism as well.
There was a strange fascination in watching the mysterious Leader of the
Irish Party during the crisis, and I took full advantage of my privilege
in the House to do so. I was in and about the House early and late, and
probably saw more of Mr. Parnell than anyone else not connected with
him. It was just before his exposure that I happened to be in an
out-of-the-way passage leading from the House, making a little note in
my sketch-book on a corner of the building, when Mr. Parnell walked out.
He stood close by, not observing me, and was occupied for a minute in
taking letters out of the pocket on the right side of his overcoat: they
were unopened. He looked at them singly; now and then he would tap one
on the other, as much as to say, "I wonder what is in that?" Then he
passed it over with the others and put them all into the pocket on the
left side of his overcoat, and strolled off to catch his train to
Brighton. That incident, as I subsequently found out, was the cause of
much of his trouble; for I was informed, when I mentioned it to a great
friend of Mr. Parnell's and of mine--Mr. Richard Power--that about that
time he had written him important letters which might have saved him if
they had been attended to in time.
But those who saw the fallen chief during the sittings in Committee Room
No. 15, when, through the letter of Mr. Gladstone to which I have
referred, he was denounced, and had to fight with his back to the wall,
can never forget his tragic figure during that exciting time. No one
knew better than he that the tactics of his lieutenant would be cunning
and perhaps treacherous; so this lazy, self-composed man suddenly awoke
as a general who finds himself surprised in the camp, and determines to
keep watch himself. Every day he took by right the chair at the
meetings. Had he not been present, who knows that it would not have been
wrested from him? In the early afternoon I saw him more than once walk
with a firm step, with an ashy pale face, his eyes fixed straight in
front of him, through the yard, through the Lobby, up the stairs, and
into Room 15, accompanied by his secretary, Mr. Campbell. The members of
his Party, on their arrival, found him sitting where they had left him
the night before. I recollect one morning, as he passed where I was
standing, he never moved his head, but I heard him say to Mr. Campbell,
"Who's that? what does he want?" in a sharp, nervous manner. He never
seemed to recognise anyone, or wish them to recognise him. His one idea
was to face the man who wished to fight him in the little ring they had
selected in the Committee Room No. 15.
[Illustration: TO ROOM 15.]
No outsider but myself heard any portion of that debate, for at the
beginning of it the reporters, who were standing round the doors outside
to hear what they could, were ordered away; and I was left there, not
being a reporter, to finish a rather tedious sketch of the corridor. A
policeman was placed at either end of this very long passage, and if
anyone had to pass that way he was not allowed to pause for a moment at
the door of the room upon which the interest of the political world was
centred at the moment. Nearly all the time I was there I only saw the
policeman at either end, and one solitary figure seated on the bench
outside the door. It was the figure of a woman with a kind,
homely-looking face, resting with her head upon her hand. She seemed not
to be aware of, or at least not interested in what was going on inside;
she simply sighed as Big Ben tolled on toward the hour for the dismissal
of the Leader of the Irish Party. She was the wife of a blind Member of
Parliament who was taking part in the proceedings, and her thoughts were
evidently more intent upon seeing that her husband was not worn out by
that strange, long struggle than in the political significance of the
meeting.
[Illustration: OUTSIDE ROOM 15.]
It was my good fortune to hear what was perhaps the most interesting of
the speeches--John Redmond's defence of his chief--and I never wish to
listen to a finer oration. Everyone admits that the Irish are, by
nature, good speakers, but they are not always sincere. Here was a
combat in which there was no quarter, no gallery, and no reporters. The
men spoke from their hearts, and if any orator could have moved an
assembly by his power and genius, Mr. Redmond ought to have had a
unanimous vote recorded in favour of his chief. I am not a phonograph,
nor was I a journalist privileged to record what passed, and have no
intention of breaking their trust.
I shall never forget the scene one Wednesday afternoon when Mr. Maurice
Healy, brother of "Tim," and one of the Members for Cork, challenged Mr.
Parnell to retire and so enable their respective claims to the
confidence of the people of Cork to be tested. He tried to drag Mr.
Parnell into a newspaper controversy upon this point, but failing to do
so repeated in tragic tones his somewhat Hibernian sentiment that Mr.
Parnell did not represent the constituency which elected him. Mr.
Maurice Healy, a somewhat sickly-looking young man, with a family
resemblance to his brother, is much taller than his more famous
relative, but lacks the stamina and vivacity of the Member for Longford.
At this moment, when the Irish Party might have been likened to
machinery deprived of its principal wheel, it was curious to notice how
energetic Mr. Parnell became. He tried to cover his position by being
unusually active in Parliament; he followed the Chief Secretary for
Ireland in the debates upon the Land Purchase Bill, to the obvious
discomfort of Mr. Morley, and rather delighted the young Conservatives
by twitting the faction which had thrown him over. His speeches,
however, were laboured, and, as one of the Irish Members remarked to me
in the Lobby, it had a curious effect on them to see Mr. Parnell sit
down after making an important speech without hearing a single cheer.
And whereas for years he had addressed the House with the greatest
calmness, his chief characteristic being his "reserve force," he now
changed all this, and one Friday night caused quite a sensation in the
House in his attack upon Mr. Gladstone, not so much by what he said as
by the manner in which he said it. His excitement was visible to all,
and he was observed to be positively convulsed with anger. He also
remained, contrary to his previous custom, late in the House.
The last occasion on which I saw Charles Stewart Parnell was a few
months before his death. I was in Dublin during the Horse Show week,
giving my "Humours of Parliament" to crowded houses in the "Ancient
Concert Rooms," and my ancient hotel rooms were at Morrison's
Hotel--"Parnell's Hotel," for the "uncrowned king" (at that time
deposed) always stopped there--in fact it was said he had an interest in
the property. It was late on Sunday afternoon. I was writing in my
sitting-room on the first floor, next to Parnell's room, when the
strains of national music of approaching bands smote my ear, and soon
the hotel was surrounded by a cheering, shouting crowd. Banners were
flying, bands were playing, thousands of voices were shouting. Standing
in a brake haranguing the surging mass of people was the familiar figure
of Charles Stewart Parnell. With difficulty he descended from the brake,
and had literally to fight his way into the hotel, while his worshippers
clung on to him into the building, till they were seized and ejected by
the servants. I went out of my door to see the scene, and in the passage
outside, between Parnell's sitting-room and mine, he sat apparently
exhausted. His flesh seemed transparent--I could fancy I saw the
pattern of the wall-paper through his pallid cheeks. The next moment,
before I was aware, another figure sat on the same seat, arms were
thrown round my neck. It was my old Irish nurse, who had come up from
Wexford to see me, and had been lying in wait for me.
[Illustration: OUTSIDE MY ROOM.]
The first picture I drew for _Punch's_ essence of Parliament was a
portrait of Lord Randolph Churchill, "Caught on the Hip," to illustrate
the following truly prophetic words of Toby, M.P.: "The new delight you
have given us is the spectacle of an undisciplined Tory--a man who will
not march at the word of command and snaps his fingers at his captain.
You won't last long, Randolph; you are rather funny than witty--more
impudent than important." That was written at the opening of Parliament,
1891.
[Illustration: "THE G.O.M." AND "RANDY."]
I must plead guilty to being the cause of giving an erroneous impression
of Lord Randolph's height. He was not a small man, but he _looked_
small; and when he first came into notoriety, with a small following,
was considered of small importance and, by some, small-minded. It was to
show this political insignificance in humorous contrast to his bombastic
audacity that I represented him as a midget; but the idea was also
suggested from time to time by his opponents in debate. Did not Mr.
Gladstone once call him a gnat? and do we not find the following lines
under _Punch's_ Fancy Portraits, No. 47, drawn by Mr. Sambourne?
"There is a Midge at Westminster,
A Gnatty little Thing,
It bites at Night
This mighty Mite,
But no one feels its sting."
Two gentlemen of Yorkshire had a dispute about his correct height, and
one of them, anxious to have an authoritative pronouncement, wrote to
the noble Lord, and received the following reply:
"2, CONNAUGHT PLACE, W.
"Dear Sir,--Lord Randolph Churchill desires me to say, in reply to
your letter of the 21st inst., that his height is just under 5ft. 10in.
"I am, yours faithfully,
"CECIL DRUMMOND-WOLFF, Secretary."
[Illustration: MR. LOUIS JENNINGS.]
Lord Randolph Churchill was a mere creature of impulse, the spoilt pet
of Parliament--what you will--but no one can deny that he was the most
interesting figure in the House since Disraeli. He had none of
Disraeli's chief attraction--namely, mystery. Nor had he Disraeli's
power of organisation, for, although Lord Randolph "educated a party" of
three--the first step to his eventually becoming Leader of the House--it
cannot be said that at any time afterwards he really had, in the strict
sense of the word, a party at all. He was a political Don Quixote, and
he had his Sancho Panza in the person of Mr. Louis Jennings. Perhaps
nothing can show the impulsive nature of Lord Randolph more than the
incident which was the cause of Mr. Jennings breaking with Lord
Randolph. Mr. Louis Jennings was, in many ways, his chief's superior: a
brilliant journalist, originally on the _Times_, afterwards editor of
the _New York World_, when, by dint of his energy and pluck, he was the
chief cause of breaking up the notorious Tammany Ring; a charming writer
of picturesque country scenes--in fact, an accomplished man, and one
harshly treated by that fickle dame Fortune by being branded, rightly or
wrongly, as the mere creature of a political adventurer.
One afternoon I was standing in the Inner Lobby when Mr. Jennings asked
me to go into the House to a seat under the Gallery to hear him deliver
a speech he had been requested to make by the Government Party, and one
he thought something of. At that moment Lord Randolph came up and said,
"I am going in to hear you, Jennings; I have arranged not to speak till
after dinner." And we all three entered the House.
Lord Randolph, who had then left the Ministry, sat on the bench in the
second row below the gangway, on the Government side of the House. Mr.
Jennings was seated on the bench behind, close to where he had found a
place for me under the Gallery. He carefully arranged the notes for his
speech, and directly the Member who had been addressing the House sat
down, Mr. Jennings jumped to his feet to "catch the Speaker's eye." But
Lord Randolph, who had been very restless all through the speech just
delivered, sprang to his feet. Jennings leant over to him and said
something, but Churchill waved him impatiently away, and the Speaker
called upon Lord Randolph. Jennings sank back with a look of disgust and
chagrin, which changed to astonishment when Lord Randolph fired out that
famous Pigott speech, in which he attacked his late colleagues with a
vituperation and vulgarity he had never before betrayed. His speech
electrified the House and disgusted his friends--none more so than his
faithful Jennings, who left the Chamber directly after his "friend's"
tirade of abuse, returning later in the evening to make a capital
speech, full of feeling and power, in which he finally threw over Lord
Randolph. In the meantime, meeting me, he did not hide the fact that the
incident had determined him to have nothing more to say to Churchill.
And this was the man I once drew a cartoon of in _Punch_ on all fours,
with a coat covering his head (suspiciously like a donkey's head), with
"Little Randy" riding on his back!
[Illustration: LORD RANDOLPH AND LOUIS JENNINGS.]
If Samson's strength vanished with his hair, Lord Randolph's strength
vanished with the growing of his beard. The real reason why Lord
Randolph so strangely transformed himself is not generally known, but it
was for the simplest of all reasons--like that of the gentleman who
committed suicide because he was "tired of buttoning and unbuttoning,"
Lord Randolph was tired of shaving or being shaved; hence the heroic
beard, which has offended certain political purists who think that a man
with an established reputation has no right to alter his established
appearance. Still, if he had not vanished to grow his beard, I doubt if
he would have survived the winter; and probably he discovered that it
was good for any man to escape now and then from what the late Mr. R. L.
Stevenson called "the servile life of cities." Perhaps no one received
such a "sending off," or was more feted, than Lord Randolph Churchill.
Happening to be a guest at more than one of those festive little
gatherings, I heard Lord Randolph say that all the literary food that he
was taking out with him to Mashonaland consisted of the works of two
authors--one English, and the other French. We were asked who they were.
"In Darkest England," suggested one. "Ruff's Guide to the Turf," said
another. Both were wrong. And it ultimately transpired that, together
with his friends' best wishes for his safe return, Lord Randolph was
carrying with him complete sets of the works of Shakespeare and Moliere.
The deafness which attacked Lord Randolph led to his making mistakes,
and to others making a scene, particularly when the noise in the House
was so great through the excitement on the Home Rule question. I find a
note made then upon this point, alluding to a little incident _a propos_
of Lord Randolph Churchill's deafness: "It is really dangerous,
considering the high state of feeling in the House, that Members
antagonistic to each other should have to sit side by side. During the
stormy scene to which I have just alluded, I was sitting in one of the
front boxes directly over the Speaker's chair, and, although remarks
kept flying about from the benches below, it was difficult to catch the
words, and still more difficult to stop the utterer; so I don't wonder
that Lord Randolph Churchill--who is rather deaf--should have
misconstrued the words, 'You are not dumb!' as 'You are knocked up!'
Later on, however, an Irish Member knocked down another one who was
opposed to him in politics; and this the Press called 'coming into
collision.'"
[Illustration: LORD RANDOLPH CHURCHILL.]
There is little doubt that ill-health was the cause of that
querulousness which led to Lord Randolph's curious and fatal move. I
recollect being introduced to an American doctor in the Lobby one
afternoon when Lord Randolph was at the zenith of his height and fame.
Lord Randolph passed close to us, and stood for a few minutes talking to
the Member who had introduced the doctor to me. I whispered to the
American to take stock of the Member his friend was talking to. He did,
and when Lord Randolph walked away he said, "Well, I don't know who that
man is, but he won't live five years." It was unfortunate for the
reputation of Lord Randolph that the doctor's words did not come true.
Many efforts were made by the friends of Lord Randolph to bring Lord
Salisbury and his lieutenant together again. A deputation of a few
intimate friends, ladies as well as gentlemen, called on Lord Salisbury,
presumably on quite a different matter, but led up to Lord Randolph.
Lord Salisbury, seeing through their object, asked the question, "Have
any of you ever had a carbuncle on the back of your neck?"
"No."
"Then I have, and I do not want another."
But perhaps Lord Salisbury saw more than anyone else that Lord Randolph
was not the man he once was. It was painful in his latter days to see
the Members run out of the House when he rose to speak, and to recollect
that but a few years before they poured in to listen to the "plucky
little Randy"; and the sympathy of everyone for him was shown in a very
marked way by the kindness of the Press when one of the most
extraordinary figures in the Parliamentary world had passed away.
[Illustration: BEHIND THE SPEAKER'S CHAIR.]
Lord Randolph Churchill recalls another familiar figure I
caricatured--Lord Iddesleigh, a statesman who will always be remembered
with respect. No statue has ever been erected in the buildings of the
House of Commons to any Member who better deserves it, and, strange to
say, the white marble took the character and style of the man,
chilliness, pure, and firm. A country gentleman in politics and out of
it, free from flashy party-colour rhetoric.
* * * * *
[Illustration]
Sir Stafford Northcote, as he was known in the House of Commons, the
gentlest of statesmen, had by no means a peaceful career in politics. He
was at one time Mr. Gladstone's secretary, and those who knew him
declare that he never lost his respect and admiration for his former
master, although time took him from Mr. Gladstone's flock to the fold of
Lord Beaconsfield. I recollect on one occasion, when I was seated in a
Press box directly over the Speaker's chair, seeing Mr. Gladstone write
a memorandum on a piece of paper and throw it across the table to Sir
Stafford, who was at that time Leader of the House of Commons; after
reading it, Sir Stafford nodded to Mr. Gladstone, and they both rose
together and went behind the Speaker's chair. One could easily detect in
the manner of the two old friends an existence of personal regard, and
their estrangement on political circumstances must have been a matter of
mutual regret. Sir Stafford and Mr. Gladstone towards the end, however,
did not show that friendliness that had gone on for so many years. This
may have been brought about by many causes, not the least of which was
the fact that Mr. Gladstone refused to lead the House during the
Bradlaugh scene, and left it to Sir Stafford, then Leader of the
Opposition. For instance, after the division in which Mr. Bradlaugh was
refused the House by a vote of 383 to 233, the Speaker appealed to the
House to know what to do. Mr. Bradlaugh stood at the table and refused
to leave it. Mr. Gladstone lay back on the seat of the Government bench
motionless, so Sir Stafford took up the leadership of the House, and
asked the Prime Minister, whom he facetiously called the Leader of the
House, "whether he intended to propose any counsel, any course for the
purpose of maintaining the authority of the House and of the Chair." And
so it was on many occasions. When Mr. Bradlaugh did rush up to the table
of the House, escorted by Mr. Labouchere and Mr. Bass, and went through
the amusing part of taking the oath, he brought the book which he kissed
and the papers which he signed, and then rushed back into his seat. The
House witnessed the scene indescribable by either pen or pencil. But
here again Mr. Gladstone refused to lead the House. There had been a
division, and Mr. Bradlaugh had once more been refused admission; so Sir
Stafford Northcote came forward, as he always did on these occasions, in
the mildest possible way and the most gentlemanly manner, which rather
added to the effect of his taking the reins left dangling uselessly by
the Leader of the House. He said: "Mr. Speaker, I need hardly say that
if the Leader of the House desires to rise, I will give him the
opportunity; but assuming that he does not, I intend to do so, and as I
see no indication of his consent to do so, I shall call the attention of
the House to the position in which we stand," and so on. Sir Stafford
Northcote was not a man to stand the rough treatment which Members have
had in the House during the last fifteen years. Had he been a Member
twenty years before that, or even a little more, he would have been more
in tone with the "best club in London." He was perplexed by Mr.
Gladstone, he was bullied by Lord Randolph Churchill, and he was
generally looked upon as an old woman, and eventually he was simply sent
up to the other House. It was not until his sad and tragic death
occurred that everyone realised that they had lost one of the most able
statesmen and one of the finest gentlemen that ever sat in the House of
Commons.
[Illustration: H]
Had Mr. Bradlaugh taken the oath with the rest of the Members when first
introduced to the House, or had he, after refusing to take it, behaved
with less violence, I doubt if he would have made any name in
Parliament. The House was determined to fight Bradlaugh, and it is not
to be wondered at, for he paraded his atheism, and his views on other
matters, in the most repulsive manner possible. But Bradlaugh did not
run the risk of fighting down mere prejudice. Had he taken the oath, he
would only have won the ear of the House by proving himself a great
politician. This he was not, though he was a hard-working one, and a
model Member from a constituency's point of view. But the only big
question he mastered was his own right to take his seat. Once he got it,
he became a respectable and respected Member of Parliament, and nothing
more. So, with the wisdom of the serpent, he did not enter the House
quietly to fight a wearisome and impossible battle against the
inveterate prejudices of the Members. No, Bradlaugh defied the House of
Commons; he horrified it, he insulted it, he lectured it, he laughed at
it, he tricked it, he shamed it, he humiliated it, he conquered it. He
brought to their knees the men who howled at him--as no other man has
ever been howled at before--by sheer force of character.
[Illustration: BRADLAUGH TRIUMPHANT. _From "Punch."_]
Bradlaugh's bitter struggle would fill a volume. Select Committees were
appointed, and they declared against him. Ignoring them, Bradlaugh
marched up to the table and demanded to be sworn. The Fourth Party would
not let him touch the Testament. Three days followed of angry debate on
Bradlaughism, with more scenes. A new Committee reversed the decision of
its predecessor, and said that Bradlaugh might affirm. Two days were
consumed in discussing this, and the present Lord Chancellor, then Sir
Hardinge Giffard, swayed the House against the report of the Committee.
Nothing daunted, Mr. Bradlaugh the very next day was back at the table
of the House, clamouring to be allowed to address the House on his case.
A scene of wild confusion resulted, Mr. Bradlaugh endeavouring to speak,
the House howling to prevent him. Eventually he was ordered below the
Bar--that is, nominally outside the House, although within the four
walls. After much acrimonious chatter from all sides, he was allowed to
make his speech. His hour had come. He stood like a prisoner pleading
before a single judge and a jury of 670 of his fellow-men. His speech
was more worthy of the Surrey Theatre than of the "Best Club." It was
bombastic and theatrical. He was ordered to withdraw, while the jury
considered their verdict. When he was recalled, it was to hear sentence
of expulsion passed on him. But he would not depart, and another
tremendous uproar took place. Mr. Bradlaugh's well-trained platform
voice rose above all others in loud assertion of his "rights," and he
continued to call for them all through the House, the Lobbies, the
corridors, up the winding stair into the Clock Tower, where he was
immured by the Sergeant-at-Arms. The following day he was released after
another angry debate, and he quickly returned to the forbidden
precincts. Then he was induced to quit, but on the next day he came down
to the House with his family, and with a triumphant procession entered
the House amid the cheers of the crowd. So the drama went on day after
day, like a Chinese play. The characters in it were acted by the leading
players on both sides of the House, and the excitement never flagged for
a moment until Mr. Bradlaugh was allowed to affirm. He was told that he
would vote at his own risk. He voted repeatedly, and by so doing
incurred a fine, at the hands of Mr. Justice Mathew, of the little round
sum of L100,000 (he never had 100,000 farthings), nor could he even open
his mouth in the House without savage interruption. Finally, Mr.
Labouchere, his colleague, moved for a new writ for the borough of
Northampton. Bradlaugh re-won the seat by the small majority of 132
votes, and the Bradlaugh incubus lay once more on Parliament. Then
followed the same old cycle of events, the same scene at the table, the
same angry religious warfare in debate (Mr. Bright's great oratorical
effort will be remembered), the same speech from Mr. Bradlaugh at the
Bar, the same division, the same result. Scene followed scene, and
scandal scandal for weeks, months, years.
[Illustration: CHARLES BRADLAUGH.]
To appreciate Mr. John Bright fully, one must have heard him. Really to
comprehend his power and greatness, one must have heard him at his best.
Yet the greatness of his oratory lay not so much in what he said as in
the beautiful way he said it.
Previous to my having the opportunity of listening to the debates, Mr.
Bright had reached that stage a singer reaches who has to all intents
retired from the stage, and merely makes an appearance for someone's
benefit now and then. In the first two or three years which I recall in
these pages Mr. Bright was making his last appearance in grand political
opera. He was in the Government, but although he assured the House that
"he was not going to turn his back upon himself"--an assertion of his
powers as a contortionist I endeavoured to depict in _Punch_ the
following week--Mr. Bright had practically turned his back upon making
great oratorical displays. The Bradlaugh scandal was in 1881 the subject
of the hour, and it was whilst appearing for Mr. Bradlaugh's benefit, on
the occasion of one of the numerous matinees arranged by the elected for
Northampton, that Mr. Bright used the words. But on no occasion in my
memory did he rise in a full-dress debate to make one of those grand
efforts with which his name will ever be remembered as the great orator.
Statesmanship was not so much to him as speechifying. He was not a
diplomatist such as Beaconsfield, a tactician like Mr. Gladstone, a
fearless, dashing debater like Lord Derby the elder, "The Rupert of
Debate"; nor had he the weight of Lord Salisbury, nor the aestheticism of
Mr. Balfour. But as a mere voice in the political opera he had a charm
above them all. In appearance he was commonplace compared with these
others I have mentioned. Often the most indifferent-looking horse in the
stable or in the paddock is the best in action. You would not give L40
for some standing at ease; but in action, moving to perfection, with
fire and speed and staying power, the price is more like L20,000. Mr.
Bright never got into his stride at any time or in any event while he
came under my observation.
[Illustration: THE MEET AT ST. STEPHEN'S.]
These equine remarks about a great politician bring to mind a protest I
received about a drawing of mine, which appeared a year or two ago,
representing Mr. Gladstone as a Grand Old Horse, hearing the horn at the
meet, cantering towards his companions in so many runs in which he had
taken the lead, and for which his day had gone. The protest came from a
Quaker, horrified at my depicting Mr. Gladstone as a gee-gee! as if he
had not been so depicted often enough before.
Jacob Bright was the very antithesis to his brother, both in appearance
and manner--tall, of a nervous, wiry frame, rigid face, severe
expression. He, like others without a spark of humour, was often the
means of unconscious merriment. For instance, when Lord Randolph
Churchill was Member for Woodstock, Mr. Jacob Bright referred to him as
the noble lord "the Member for Woodcock." Sir John Tenniel in the
cartoon in _Punch_, and myself in the minor pictures of Parliament in
that journal, made full use of the "woodcock," and, therefore, revelling
in heraldry, quickly added the woodcock to the Churchill arms.
Half the bores in London clubs are Indian officials returned to us with
their digestion and their temper destroyed, to spend the rest of their
days in fighting their poor livers and their unhappy friends. The
etiquette of Clubland prevents one from protesting. But in the "Best
Club" they are not spared. They are either howled at, or left to speak
to empty benches.
Perhaps Sir George Campbell, who had been Governor of Bombay, was the
most eccentric bore we have ever had in the House of Commons. Sir George
has acknowledged that he could not resist the temptation to speak. On
one occasion he made no less than fifty-five speeches on the Standing
Committee of one Bill. At breakfast in the morning he read in the
_Times_ his heated, unconsidered interruptions in the House the night
before, and he read of the contempt with which they were received--the
"Loud laughter," cries of "Order!" "Divide! divide! divide!" and the
snubs administered to him by the wearied and disgusted Members. He read
after lunch at his club the jeering remarks of the evening Press. He was
well aware he was a nuisance to the House, and he resolved as he walked
down Whitehall not to open his mouth. But as soon as he crossed Palace
Yard and entered the corridors of the House he sniffed the odour of
authority and the fever of debate. He, the Great Sir George of
India,--silent? Never! Whether there was a question about the
bathing-machines on the beach at Hastings, or the spread of scarlet
fever at Battersea, or about an old pump at Littleshrimpton, he cared
not: he must act his part--that of the Pantaloon in Parliament.
[Illustration: SIR GEORGE CAMPBELL.]
In appearance he was a striking, handsome man, with a strong
individuality. A good head, piercing eye, well-shaped nose, and tall,
active frame no doubt added to his authority in India. He struck me as a
man who had been taken to pieces on his way home to this country, and
put together again badly, for his joints were all wrong. Certainly his
head was, and he was over wound up. His tongue never ceased, and the
worst of it was he had a rasping, penetrating voice, with the strongest
Scotch accent. One afternoon in the House this accent led to one of
those frequent outbursts of merriment and protest combined--so common
when Sir George bored the House, as he was always doing. Sometimes he
made over thirty speeches in one evening. A question was asked about the
obstructive methods of the irrepressible Sir George, who on this
particular afternoon was supported in his boredom by two other bores,
the Member for Sunderland and Mr. Conybeare. These three had the House
to themselves, and peppered the Government benches with question after
question, speech after speech. Sir George alluded to themselves as "a
band of devoted guerillas." The weary House, not paying particular
attention to every accent, failed to catch most of what Sir George said,
as his rasping Scotch accent left them no escape. But the last word was
misunderstood, and an outburst of laughter, long, loud, and hearty,
followed, and, in a Parliamentary sense, killed Sir George for the day.
The House understood him to say "a band of us devoted gorillas."
Perhaps the neatest rebuke Sir George ever had in the House--or, as a
matter of fact, any Member ever had--was administered by that most
polished wit, Mr. Plunket (now Lord Rathmore). Sir George solemnly rose
and asked Mr. Plunket, who happened at the time to be Minister of Public
Works, whether he (Mr. Plunket) was responsible for the "fearful
creatures" whose effigies adorn the staircase of Westminster Hall. Mr.
Plunket rose and quietly replied, in his effective, hesitating manner,
"I am not responsible for the fearful creatures either in Westminster
Hall or in this House," a retort which "brought down the House" and
caused it to laugh loud and long. This I chronicled in a drawing for
_Punch_ the following week.
The subject of gargoyles recalls another witticism, which, however, has
the light touch that failed.
Now there is nothing so disappointing to a humorist as to lead up to an
interruption, and then find he is not interrupted. Mr. Chamberlain
seldom fails to bring off his little unsuspected repartee, and it is his
mastery of this art that make his speeches sparkle with diamond
brilliancy, but then these are usually serious, and he can afford a few
miss-fires. Mr. Goschen, in the Commons, romped through his "plants" for
his opponents; his interruptions were three or four deep, but he was
ready for all of them. He may be likened to a professional chess player,
playing a dozen opponents at once, and remembering all the moves on the
separate boards. But for a humorist to miss fire--after an elaborate
joke is prepared--is a catastrophe.
Colonel Sanderson rose on a very important and ticklish occasion to
"draw" Mr. Labouchere. The Member for Northampton had been electrifying
the House by his free handling of a matter affecting the morality of
private individuals, a course of action for which, later on, he was
suspended. Colonel Sanderson, alluding to Mr. Labouchere, called him a
"political gargoyle." Mr. Labouchere did not, as was expected, rise in a
furious state and demand an explanation. The Colonel paused and
repeated, "I say the hon. gentleman, the Member for Northampton, is a
political gargoyle." No notice was taken by the gentleman compared to
the architectural adornment of past days; it was evident that, like the
gargoyle in ancient architecture, the remark of the humorous Colonel was
some elaboration too lofty to be noticed. A few days afterwards Mr.
Labouchere met the Colonel, and asked him what he meant by calling him a
political gargoyle. "Well," said the Colonel, "rather late to ask me;
you will find the definition in the dictionary. It is a grotesque
gutter-spout." Said Mr. Labouchere, "You're a very clever fellow,
Colonel; that would have been a capital point--if you had made it."
[Illustration: HERALDIC DESIGN ILLUSTRATING MR. PLUNKET'S (NOW LORD
RATHMORE) JOKE. _From "Punch."_]
Mr. Farmer Atkinson, who succeeded Sir William Ingram of the
_Illustrated London News_ and the _Sketch_ as Member for Boston,
Lincolnshire, was an invaluable "subject" for me during his brief hour
upon the Parliamentary stage. Our introduction was peculiar. It so
happened that when Mr. (now Sir) Christopher Furness was first returned
for Hartlepool, Mr. Atkinson, although of opposite politics, was most
anxious to welcome him to Parliament as a companion Dissenter. After
diligent inquiries for Mr. Furness, I was by mistake pointed out to him.
I suddenly found both my hands clasped and warmly shaken by the mistaken
M.P. "Delighted to meet you, Mr. Furness! Allow me to congratulate you.
We are both Dissenters, you know,--what a pity we are on different sides
of the House!"
"Yes," I replied, "a thousand pities,--you see, you are inside and I am
outside.
[Illustration: MR. FARMER ATKINSON.]
My introduction to Mr. Christopher Furness a day or two afterwards was
in a way similar, but rather more embarrassing.
Perhaps there are not two men with surnames so similar and yet so
different in every other way than that great man of business, Sir
Christopher Furness, and myself. He has an eye for business, but not one
for his surname--I have an "I" in my name, and two for art only. When
Mr. Furness was first returned to Parliament, plain Mr., neither a
knight nor a millionaire, _then_ he asked to see me alone in one of the
Lobbies of the House of Commons. He held a note in his hand, _strangely_
and nervously,--so I knew at once it was not a bank-note.
"I--ah--am very sorry,--you are a stranger to me, I--a--stranger to the
House. This note from a stranger was handed to me by a strange
official. I read it before I noticed the mistake. It is addressed to
you."
"Oh, that is of no consequence, I assure you," I said.
"Oh, but it is--it must be of consequence. It is--of--such a private
nature, and so brief. I feel extremely awkward in having to acknowledge
I read it,--a pure accident, I assure you!"
He handed me the note and was running away, when I called him back. It
read:--
"Meet me under the clock at 8.
"LUCY."
"I must introduce you to Lucy."
"No, no! not for worlds,"
But I did. Here he is.
[Illustration]
There were more "scenes" in Parliament in the few sessions that I have
selected to write about in this volume than there were in the rest of
the last century put together. This was largely due to the climax of
Irish affairs in the House. For effect in debate the English and Scotch
Members,--not to speak of the Welsh Representatives,--are failures
compared with those Members from across the water. No matter how hard
the phlegmatic Englishman, the querulous Scotchman, or the whinings of
those from gallant little Wales may try for effect, they have to give
way to the Irish in the art of making a scene in the House.
Occasionally, as when Dr. Kenealy shook some pepper over the House, and
in the case of Mr. Plimsoll--or some other honourable gentleman--who
went so far as to hang his umbrella on the Mace, an English Member
causes a sensation which might almost excite a pang of envy in the
breast of Dr. Tanner or Mr. Healy. No Englishman, however, has exceeded
Mr. Bradlaugh in the persistent quality of sensationalism in Parliament,
which now is sadly in want of another political phenomenon to enliven
its proceedings.
One of the best studies in those days of good subjects for the
Parliamentary caricaturist was the figure of that "squat and leering
Quilp," Joseph Gillis Biggar, Member for County Cavan. Mr. Lucy (Toby,
M.P.), who acted as Biggar's Boswell, records the interesting fact that
when Mr. Biggar rose for the first time in the House (1874) to put a
supplementary question to a Minister, Mr. Disraeli, startled by the
apparition, turned to Lord Barrington as if he had seen seated in the
Irish quarter an ourang-outang or some other strange creature,--"What's
that?"
[Illustration: JOSEPH GILLIS BIGGAR.]
From that moment Mr. Biggar was a continual source of amusement--and
"copy." I venture to say that Toby, M.P., has written a good-sized
volume about Mr. Biggar's waistcoat alone. What he saw in the waistcoat
to chronicle I confess I have failed to see. "A fearsome garment," Mr.
Lucy called it, "which, at a distance, might be taken for sealskin, but
was understood to be of native manufacture."
Mr. Biggar--waistcoat and all--was certainly seen and heard to advantage
"at a distance." He was no doubt useful to his Party, acting, as I
believe he did, as a kind of good-natured nurse to them, looking after
their comfort and seeing they kept in bounds.
Mr. Biggar was always repulsive in both appearance and manner. His
unfortunate deformity, his gargoyle-like face, his long, bony hands,
large feet, the black tail coat and baggy black trousers, the grin and
the grating voice, and the fact that pork was his study before
Parliament, made Joseph Gillis Biggar's appearance as ugly as his name.
His chief claim to a niche in Parliamentary history is the fact that he
originated Obstruction, and showed the manner in which it should be
applied by making a speech occupying four hours of valuable time. He
also showed the length to which gross impertinence can be carried to
bring the House into contempt. He "spied" His Royal Highness, our
present King, one day in the gallery, and by the law of Parliament a
Member by suddenly observing that he "spies" a stranger may have the
House cleared of all but its Members, including Royalty--worse than that
he on one occasion alluded to Mr. Gladstone as "a vain old gentleman."
The nearest approach I ever had to enter into practical politics was a
request I received in March, 1892, to become the successor of Lord (then
Sir Charles) Russell, as chairman of a local Radical association. In
reply I confessed my political creed, and I see no reason to alter it.
MY POLITICAL CONFESSION.
"I have just received your flattering communication asking me to become
the chairman of No. 2 Ward of the East Marylebone Liberal and Radical
Association. It is the first time my name has ever been associated with
Party politics, and I am puzzled to know myself whether I am a Radical,
a Tory, a Liberal, or a Liberal Unionist!
"I read the _Times_ every morning, and the _Star_ and the _Pall Mall
Gazette_ every evening. I read the sporting papers for their politics,
and the political papers for their literary and artistic notes.
"I work sixteen hours a day myself, and would agree to any law
prohibiting others in my profession from working more than three hours.
"I am strongly opposed to Home Rule, as the disappearance of the Irish
Members (who are invaluable to me in my profession) from St. Stephen's
would be a serious loss to me.
"I agree to paying Members of Parliament, but would propose that they
should be fined for non-attendance, and for the privilege of speaking
too long, too often, or not often enough. These fines, in the majority
of cases, would come to three times the amount of the Member's income.
"I am not in favour of capital punishment, and would do away with all
judges and trials by jury, leaving the Press to fight out the criminal
cases between themselves.
"I believe in free education, free libraries, and a free breakfast
table, and would propose that free book-stalls and free restaurants
should be compulsory on all railways.
"I am strongly opposed to vivisection, and hold that the life of a
rabbit is quite as valuable as that of a professor. At the same time I
would not countenance any law making it a punishable offence to boil a
lobster alive.
"I am a believer in hypnotism, thought-reading, and theosophy (I have
been a bit of an amateur conjurer myself).
"Right of public meeting? Certainly. This should be a free
country--everyone do as he likes. Football in Hyde Park, and fairs in
Trafalgar Square. Equal freedom for all processions--if Booth can stop
the traffic, why not Sanger's menagerie?
"As to local option, by all means let all public-houses be closed. (I
never enter one.) And all clubs, too, so long as my own are not
interfered with.
"I am not at present a member of any political club, but if you wish me
to become one I will put up at the Reform, either as a fervent
Gladstonian or a red-hot Unionist; I don't mind which, as neither have
the slightest chance of getting in now.
"If, after considering these qualifications, you are of opinion that I
would be the right man in the right place, I shall be most happy and
willing to become your chairman.--Yours, etc."
[Illustration]
I regret to have to confess that I once posed as a political prophet. I
was encouraged to prophesy the fact that six months before the election
of July, 1892, when Mr. Gladstone was confident of "sweeping the
country" and coming back with a majority of 170 or so, when both sides
predicted a decisive result, and political prophets were cocksure of
large figures, I luckily happened to be more successful in my
vaticinations than they, giving the Gladstonians a majority of something
between forty and forty-five. The actual majority turned out, six
months afterwards, to be forty-two. This encouraged me to write the
following letter to the _Times_, and it appeared July 19th:
"_A Parliamentary Prophecy._
"Sir,--I am surprised that no Parliamentary chronicler has written to
the papers to thank the electors of the United Kingdom for the happy
result of the General Election. The jaded journalist is the only person
to whom the result is pleasing, as he will have no lack of material for
descriptive matter in the coming Parliament.
"The Gladstonians are not pleased, because they have barely got a
working majority. The Conservatives are not pleased, because they have
not got one at all. The Liberal Unionists are not pleased, because they
go with the Conservatives. The Irish Nationalists are chagrined, because
of the success of five Unionists in Ireland. The Parnellites feel
mischievous but unhappy. The Labour representatives mischievous and
happy--they are the heroes of the hour--and, although the members of the
Labour Party have hitherto been nonentities in the House, they will
probably be 'named' several times in the future. But Parliament is a
refrigerator for red-hot rhetoric, and such Members will, in time, find
respectability and aspirants,[2] and grow dull.
[2] See page 212.
"A harassed leader, an ambitious Opposition, the balance of power
resting in the hands of the Irish, divided amongst themselves, a new and
probably noisy party, boredom increased, faddism intensified--such are
the ingredients of the new House; and with little spice thrown in in the
shape of a revived morality scandal, the new Parliament promises to be a
hotch-potch of surprises. I myself take no side in politics, and am
glad to say that I have numerous friends in all parties. Perhaps it was
in consequence of this that I heard all sides of opinion, thereby
enabling me six months ago to weigh all my information correctly and
predict the result of the General Election--a Gladstonian majority of
between forty and forty-five votes--and to this opinion I have firmly
adhered in spite of the fluctuating prospects before the fight. Even on
Wednesday, the 6th inst., when the returns pouring in seemed to point to
a Government majority, I stuck to my prophecy.
"I am now receiving from my friends (more especially from my Liberal
friends) congratulations upon my perspicacity, and, although I am no
Schnadhorst, I must now regard myself in the light of a Parliamentary
prophet. Having in that capacity chanted my incantations and calculated
the number of square feet of Irish linen in one of Mr. Gladstone's
collars to be in inverse ratio to the dimensions of his Mid-Lothian
majority, and having by abstruse computations discovered the hitherto
unknown quantity of Sir William Harcourt's chins, I can safely predict
that there will be another General Election within the space of
thirteen months, and that the result of the same will be the return of
the Unionists with a majority of fifteen.
"Yours truly,
"HARRY FURNISS.
"Garrick Club, London, July 19."
[Illustration: THE HOUSE OF COMMONS FROM TOBY'S PRIVATE BOX.]
The regret I felt was not caused by any failure of my prediction
contained in the last paragraph in that letter, but that the whole of it
was taken seriously. Editorial leaders appeared in the principal papers
all over the kingdom. Letters followed, discussions took place, and
politicians referred to it in their speeches. "Mr. Harry Furniss has
taken the public into his confidence, as one who is thoroughly
acquainted with Party politics, though he takes no personal interest in
them. Men who can thus truthfully describe themselves are excessively
rare, as far as we know. It is usually the person who does not
understand politics who takes no interest in them. A man who understands
politics, but does not concern himself to take sides, is in the position
of the looker-on who sees most of the game," was truthfully written of
me _a propos_ of this letter--but why _a propos_ of this letter? Why not
of my serious work instead? No, my "airy persiflage" was only a cloak. I
was seriously and instantaneously accepted as a serious political
prophet, and otherwise criticised:
"_To the Editor of the 'Times.'_
"Sir, In a letter signed by Mr. Harry Furniss, which appeared in the
_Times_ of the 21st inst., the writer concluded by predicting that there
would be another general election within thirteen months, and that the
result would be a Unionist majority of fifteen.
"Mr. Furniss is evidently fond of odd numbers, but may I point out to
him, and to many other political prophets who have fallen into the same
trap, that the fulfilment of his prediction is an impossibility?
"In a House of 670 Members, or any other even number, if divided into
two parties, the majority (in the sense he uses the word--viz., the
difference) must always be an even number. It is true that the division
lists sometimes show a majority which is an odd number, but in such a
case an odd number of Members must have been absent from the division.
Mr. Furniss must prophesy either fourteen or sixteen.
"The English language is so defective that the word 'majority' is used
to mean 'the greater number,' and also 'the difference between the
greater number and the less.' Cannot a new word be invented to replace
'majority' in one or other of these meanings, and so avoid the use of
the same word for two distinct ideas?
"Your obedient servant,
"GEORGE R. GALLAHER,
"Fellow of the Institute of Bankers.
"44, Fenchurch Street, London, E.C."
I suppose F.I.B. stands for "Fellow of the Institute of Bankers."
Anyway, before I had time to reply to the courteous captious critic the
_Times_ published the following:
"_Political Prophecy._
"Sir,--In endeavouring to correct Mr. Furniss your correspondent Mr.
Gallaher has forgotten that, although the House of Commons consists of
an even number of Members, one of those Members will be elected Speaker;
and that consequently, if all the Members were on any occasion to
attend, the majority would be an odd, and not an even number. There is
therefore no necessity for Mr. Furniss to alter his prophecy at present.
"Your obedient servant,
"FAIR PLAY."
Other correspondents, less technical but strongly political, accused me
of being "an inspired Conservative spy." Others that I was an oracle
worth "rigging." And the Irish and Radical Press questioning my
impartiality, I published this letter:
"_To the Editor of the 'Manchester City News.'_
"Sir,--My attention has been called to a paragraph in your issue of July
23rd, stating that I am a Conservative, an assertion which has highly
amused those who know me well, for I am one of the strongest of Radicals
in some things and the hottest of Tories in others. I earnestly advocate
the claims of the working man, and sometimes I feel myself a Whig of the
old school. Whether I am a Tory, a Liberal or a Radical, troubles me
very little, but as you seem to take a kind interest in my political
opinions I should have preferred you to have styled me an Independent,
which I understand means nothing.
"HARRY FURNISS.
"Garrick Club, London."
But neither "Independent" nor humorous would the partisan
Press allow me to be. Certainly I was applauded by some for
having held steadfastly to my prophecy, despite temptations
which would have made Cassandra succumb. I was flattered
by being held up as an exception among the prophets. From
Mr. Gladstone to Mr. T. P. O'Connor politicians had prophesied
and were hopelessly wide of the mark. Mr. Chamberlain,
speaking at Birmingham that week, said, "The gravity of the
weighty man of the House of Commons, gentlemen, is a thing
to which there is no parallel in the world," and oh! so serious!
[Illustration: THE GOVERNMENT--BENCH BEFORE HOME RULE.
A rough Sketch made in the House.
Mr. W. E. Foster. Mr. Gladstone. Mr. John Bright.
Lord E. Fitzmaurice. Lord Hartington.]
"Prophets--at any rate political prophets--are chiefly distinguished
from other people by being always dull and nearly always wrong. To-day,
however, appears a brilliant exception to the almost universal rule,"
wrote one paper, and yet continued, "Mr. Furniss is simply within his
own ground as one of the shrewdest and best trained of living observers,
when he describes the newly-elected House of Commons as thoroughly
discontented with itself. But we wish that Mr. Furniss had carried his
prediction into the regions of counsel, and had been able to read in
'Mr. Gladstone's collars,' or in the 'unknown quantity of Sir William
Harcourt's chins,' and whatever else serves him for his Stars, what is
to be the outcome of a situation in which no party is able to obtain a
working majority. If Mr. Furniss is right, the question of 'how is the
Queen's Government to be carried on?' will assume a practical importance
which it never had before; and unless he himself, as a thoroughly
non-party man, can be induced to undertake the formation of an
administration of similarly fortunate persons, one does not see what is
to be done. Party government is based upon big majorities--it is within
measurable distance of breaking down altogether unless the country will
make up its mind to stand no more nonsense, and to prefer what is really
a party to a conglomerate of fads and factions."
I was beginning to feel like a man who had started a story and forgotten
the point of it. The only "comic relief" was the following note from the
Editor of _Punch_:
_21st July, 1892.
"_Vates et Vox Stellarum._
"Dear H. F.,--'Respectability and aspirants.' Didn't you squirm at the
misprint? Is that setter-up-of-type still alive? Je m'en doute. The
reference to Harcourt's _chins_ will _get you liked_ very much. You
dated it from the Garrick, but you didn't put the time of night when
you wrote it. 'P.S.'--_Post Supperal_, eh?
"Farewell, O Prophet!--but 'why _didn't you say so before_?'
"Allah il Allah Ari Furniss is His Prophet!
"Yours ever,
"F. C. B.
"_Advt._--'LIKA JOKO'! Parliamentary Prophet!! Prophecies sent out on
shortest notice. Terms, ----. Reduction on taking a quantity."
Yes! I did squirm at the misprint, which, however, was rectified in the
next issue:
"_A Parliamentary Prophecy._--In Mr. Harry Furniss's letter under this
title in the _Times_ of yesterday the word 'aspirates' should be read
instead of 'aspirants' in the following passage: 'The Labour
representatives feel mischievous and happy--they are the heroes of the
hour--and, although the members of the Labour Party have hitherto been
nonentities in the House, they will probably be 'named' several times in
the future. But Parliament is a refrigerator for red-hot rhetoric, and
such members will, in time, find respectability and aspirants, and grow
dull."
I wish I had followed the example of Mr. John Morley, who announced a
couple of months before the election that he had written down his
General Election tip and placed it in a sealed envelope; but so far as I
have heard, he never risked his reputation for prophecy--he refrained
from publishing the secret. That grave and weighty right hon. gentleman
scored as the humorist, and I failed as a prophet in my second attempt.
[Illustration: REDUCTION OF ONE OF MY PARLIAMENTARY PAGES IN _PUNCH_.]