"PUNCH"
Two _Punch_ Editors--_Punch's_ Hump--My First _Punch_ Dinner--Charles
Keene--"Robert"--W. H. Bradbury--du Maurier--"Kiki"--A Trip to the
Place of his Birth--He Hates Me--A Practical Joke--du Maurier's Strange
Model--No Sportsman--Tea--Appollinaris--My First Contribution--My
Record--Parliament--Press Gallery Official--I Feel Small--The "Black
Beetle"--Professor Rogers--Sergeant-at-Arms' Room--Styles of
Work--Privileges--Dr. Percy--I Sit in the Table--The Villain of Art--The
New Cabinet--Criticism--_Punch's_ Historical Cartoons--Darwen
MacNeill--Scenes in the Lobby--A Technical Assault--John Burns's
"Invention"--John Burns's Promise--John Burns's Insult--The Lay of Swift
MacNeill--The Truth--Sir Frank Lockwood--"Grand Cross"--Lockwood's
Little Sketch--Lockwood's Little Joke in the House--Lockwood's Little
Joke at Dinner--Lewis Carroll and _Punch_--Gladstone's Head--Sir
William's Portrait--Ciphers--Reversion--_Punch_ at Play--Three _Punch_
Men in a Boat--Squaring up--Two Pins Club--Its One Joke--Its One
Horse--Its Mystery--Artistic Duties--Lord Russell--Furious
Riding--Before the Beak--Burnand and I in the Saddle--Caricaturing
Pictures for _Punch_--Art under Glass--Arthur Cecil--My Other Eye--The
Ridicule that Kills--Red Tape--_Punch_ in Prison--I make a Mess of
it--Waterproof--"I used your Soap two years ago"--Charles Keene--Charles
Barber--_Punch's_ Advice--_Punch's_ Wives.
[Illustration: T]
The first representative of Mr. Punch with whom I came into contact was
the late Tom Taylor, at that period the tenant of the editorial chair.
To this meeting I have referred on a previous page, when I mentioned
that Mr. Taylor had just returned from the wilds of Connemara and
strongly advised me to make some explorations in that little-known
district for the purpose of making sketches of the "genus _homo_
indigenous to the soil," which I did a week or so prior to my setting
foot in the busy haunt of men on murky Thames.
Tom Taylor was, I believe, one of the best of men, and the possessor of
one of the kindest hearts; but although he certainly professed to take
an interest in me (probably owing to the fact that it was to a relative
of mine that he was indebted for his first introduction to literature),
the fact remains that whenever I sent him a sketch I used to receive one
of his extraordinary hieroglyphical missives supposed to be a note
courteously declining my efforts, notwithstanding that I was often
flattered although not enriched by subsequently seeing the subjects of
them appear redrawn under another name in the pages of _Punch_.
It was not until Tom Taylor had passed away that Mr. Punch would deign
to give me a chance. I had then been seven years in London hard at work
for the leading magazines and illustrated papers, and I may truly say
that my work was the only introduction I ever had to Mr. Burnand.
[Illustration: Age 26, WHEN I FIRST WORKED FOR PUNCH. [_From a Photo by
C. Watkins._]]
When I first entered the goal of my boyish ambition--that is to say, the
editorial sanctum of Mr. Punch--I had never met the gentleman who for a
number of years afterwards was destined to be my chief, and I fully
expected to see the editor turn round and receive me with that look of
irrepressible humour and in that habitually jocose style which I had so
often heard described. I looked in vain for the geniality in the
editor's glance, and there was a remarkably complete absence of the
jocose in the sharp, irritable words which he addressed to me.
"Really," said he, "this is too bad! I wrote to you to meet me at the
Surrey Theatre last night, and you never turned up. We go to press
to-day, and the sketches are not even made."
"I don't quite understand you," I replied, "for I never heard from you
in my life, and I don't think that you ever saw me before."
"But surely you are Mr. ----?" (a contributor who had been drawing for
_Punch_ for some weeks). "Are you not?"
"No," I said. "My name is Furniss, and I understood that you wanted to
see me."
[Illustration: MY FIRST MEETING WITH THE EDITOR OF _PUNCH_.]
This was in 1880, and from that period up to the time of my resignation
from the staff of _Punch_ I certainly do not think that I have ever seen
Burnand's face assume such a threatening and offended expression as it
wore that day.
I was then twenty-six. Strange to say, Charles Keene and George du
Maurier were exactly the same age when they first made their _debut_ in
_Punch_, but not yet invited to "join the table."
As I was leaving my house one summer evening a few years afterwards, the
youngest member of my family, who was being personally conducted up to
bed by his nurse, enquired where I was going.
"To dine with Mr. Punch," I replied.
"Oh, haven't you eaten all his hump _yet_, papa? It _does_ last a long
time!" And the little chap continued his journey to the arms of
Morpheus, evidently quite concerned about his father's long-drawn-out
act of cannibalism.
The first feast to which I was bidden was not one of the ordinary or
office description, but a banquet given at the "Albion" Tavern, in the
City, on the 3rd of January, 1881, to celebrate the installation of Mr.
Burnand as the occupant of the editorial chair. And on my invitation
card I first sketched my new friends, the _Punch_ staff, and a few of
the outside contributors who were present, conspicuous among whom was
George Augustus Sala, the honoured stranger of the evening. That he
should be so struck me as peculiar, for it was an open secret that Sala
wrote and illustrated that famous attack (nominally by Alfred Bunn), "A
Word with _Punch_," a most vulgar, vicious, and personal insult which
had given much offence years before; a clear proof of Mr. Punch's
forgiving nature. That grand old man of _Punch_, Tenniel, I made an
attempt to sketch as he was "saying a few words," but on this particular
occasion it was my _vis-a-vis_ Charles Keene who interested me more than
any other person present. He wore black kid gloves and never removed
them all during dinner--that puzzled me. Why he wore them I cannot say.
I never saw him wearing gloves at table again, or even out of doors.
Then he was in trouble with his cigar, and finally I noticed that he
threw it under the table and stamped upon it, and produced his favourite
dirty Charles the First pipe, the diminutive bowl of which he filled
continually with what smokers call "dottles." He was then apparently
perfectly happy, as indeed he always looked when puffing away at his
antique clay. Years afterwards, when sketching a background for a
_Punch_ drawing in the East End, I noticed some labourers returning
from working at excavations, laughing over something they had found in
the ground; it was a splendid specimen of the Charles clay pipe, longer
than any I have seen. I bought it from them to present to Keene, but he
was ill then, and soon after the greatest master of black and white
England ever produced had passed away.
[Illustration: MY FIRST INVITATION FROM _PUNCH_.]
[Illustration: A LETTER FROM CHARLES KEENE, OBJECTING TO AN
EDITOR INTERVIEWING HIM.]
[Illustration: "Robert."]
After Keene the strangest character present was Mr. Deputy
Bedford--"Robert" in the pages of _Punch_--an undertaker in the City,
and one of the most humorous men within its boundary. I recollect
introducing my wife to him at some function at the Mansion House--not as
Robert, but as Mr. Deputy Bedford. She expressed her pleasure at meeting
one of the City dignitaries, and he offered to show her over the
treasures in the Mansion House. "There's a fine statue for you! Don't
know who did it, but we paid a thousand pounds for it. And that one over
there, which weighs half a ton less, cost twice as much. Oh! the
pictures are worth something, too. That portrait cost L800; I don't know
what that one cost, but the frame is cheap at L20. Yes, fine gold plate,
isn't it? Old designs? Yes, but old or new, boiled down, I should think
L80,000 wouldn't be taken for the pile!" And so on, and so on, with a
merry twinkle in his eye and an excellent imitation of what outsiders
consider City men to be.
[Illustration: GEORGE DU MAURIER.
_From a pen and ink drawing by himself, the property of the Author._]
My caricature of the genial E. L. S. (Sambourne) is not good, but quite
as kind as Sala's remarks were on that occasion in chaffing Sambourne
for turning up in morning costume. In the bottom right-hand corner of
the card is a note of the late Mr. W. H. Bradbury, one of the
proprietors of _Punch_, the kindest and the best host, the
biggest-hearted and most genial friend, I ever worked for. He has his
eye, I notice, on a gentleman making an impromptu speech--the sensation
of the evening--referred to by Mr. M. H. Spielmann in "The History of
_Punch_." Next to that irrepressible orator is Mr. Lucy, "Toby, M.P.,"
as I saw him first.
I note on this card an attempt to sketch du Maurier, the "Thackeray of
the pencil." By the way, I was certainly the first to apply that term to
him--in my first lecture, "Art and Artists." He was some distance from
me at the banquet when I made these notes.
It is a curious fact that I really never had a seat allotted to me at
the _Punch_ table. I always sat in du Maurier's, except on the rare
occasions when he came to the dinner, when I moved up one. It was always
a treat to have du Maurier at "the table." He was by far and away the
cleverest conversationalist of his time I ever met,--his delightful
repartees were so neat and effective, and his daring chaff and his
criticisms so bright and refreshing.
For some extraordinary reason du Maurier was known to the _Punch_ men as
"Kiki," a friendly sobriquet which greeted him when he first joined, and
refers to his nationality. In the same way as an English schoolboy calls
out "Froggy" to a Frenchman, his friends on the _Punch_ staff called him
Kiki, suggested by the Frenchman's peculiar and un-English art of
self-defence.
Du Maurier took very little interest in the discussions at the table; in
fact, he resented informal debate on the subject of the cartoon as an
interruption to his conversation, although he once suggested a cartoon
which will always rank as one of the most historical hits of Mr.
Punch--a cartoon of the First Napoleon warning Napoleon the Third as he
marches out to meet the Germans in the War of 1870.
At times he might enter into the artistic treatment of the cartoon; and
I reproduce a sketch he did on the back of a _menu_ to explain some idea
in connection with the cartoon which appeared the following week in
_Punch_.
Du Maurier's extremely clever conversation struck me the moment I
joined the staff of _Punch_. As I went part of his way to Hampstead, we
sometimes shared a cab, and in one of these journeys I mentioned my
conviction that he, in my mind, was a great deal more than a humorous
artist, and if he would only take up the pen seriously the world would
be all the more indebted to him. He told me that Mr. James had for some
time said nice things of a similar character.
[Illustration: SUGGESTION BY DU MAURIER FOR _PUNCH_ CARTOON.]
About ten days afterwards I received a letter saying that my
conversation had had an effect upon him, and that he was starting his
first novel. So perhaps the world is really indebted to me, indirectly,
for the pleasure of reading "Peter Ibbetson" and "Trilby;" the fact
being that he had, with Burnand and myself, just visited Paris--the
first time he had set foot in the gay city since his youth. Many things
he saw had impressed him, and "Peter Ibbetson" was the result. How
interesting it was to watch him in Paris, the place of his birth,
standing, the ideal type of a Frenchman himself, smiling and as amused
as a boy at his own countrymen and women. "So very un-English, you
know!" Then, as we drove about Paris, he stood up in the carriage,
excitedly showing us places familiar to him in his young days, and
greatly amused us by pointing out no fewer than three different houses
in which he was born! We three were the guests of Mr. Staat Forbes at
Fontainebleau during the same trip, and du Maurier's sketches of our
pleasant experiences on that occasion appear in _Punch_, under the
heading "Souvenir de Fontainebleau," in three numbers in October, 1886.
In the drawing of our _al fresco_ dinner, "Smith" is our host, I am
"Brown," du Maurier "Jones," and Mr. Burnand "Robinson."
Three years afterwards du Maurier re-visited Paris with most of the
staff to see the Paris Exhibition, 1889. In my sketch "En Route--Mr.
Punch at Lunch," du Maurier is speaking to Mr. Anstey Guthrie, who, "for
this occasion only," called du Maurier the Marquis d'Ampstead.
Du Maurier had a little of the green-eyed monster in his bosom, although
he lived to laugh at all when he himself became the greatest success of
any man in his sphere.
When I made my hit with my Exhibition of the "Artistic Joke," du
Maurier, to my surprise, turned sharply round to me one night in the cab
and said, "My dear Furniss, I must be honest with you--I hate you, I
loathe you, I detest you!"
[Illustration: DU MAURIER'S SOUVENIR DE FONTAINEBLEAU.
_From "Punch."_]
"Thanks, awfully, my dear fellow! But why?"
"Ah!" he said, "your success is too great. When I get the return you
send me in the morning, showing me the number of people that have been
to your Exhibition, the tremendous takings at the turnstiles, the number
of albums subscribed for, the number of pictures you have sold, I cannot
work. I go on to Hampstead Heath to walk off my jealousy; when I come in
to lunch I find your first telegram, telling me you have made L80 that
morning. I walk out again, and looking down upon London, although I
shake my fist at the whole place, my wrath is for you alone. I come in
to tea to find another telegram--you have made L100! How can I sit down
and scratch away on a piece of paper when you are making a fortune in a
week?"
This nearly took my breath away.
"My dear du Maurier," I replied, "I feel hurt--seriously, irrevocably.
I shall always feel degraded in your eyes. Of course you are the victim
of a practical joke."
Du Maurier pulled from his pocket one of my supposed returns. It was an
imitation of printing, with the amounts filled in. "This is the kind of
thing I get every morning."
"Why, of course, it is written, not printed. That is the work of the
irrepressible practical joker. But it makes no difference, du Maurier;
if you thought that I would be such a cad as to send you these returns,
I cannot see how we can ever be great friends."
Although as du Maurier believed for a time I had the necessary vulgarity
of the "bloated millionaire," to use his own words, we were never much
more than acquaintances--although very pleasant acquaintances--and I
believe du Maurier reciprocated the kind feeling I had towards him. Du
Maurier rarely forgave a satirical thrust at his expense. His dislike
for Mr. Whistler on this account is well known to all the early readers
of "Trilby," and he often related with unconcealed glee a remark he once
made to Whistler. It appears they had not met for a long period, during
which du Maurier with his satirical pictures on the aesthetic craze,
published in _Punch_, and Whistler with his "symphonies" and "harmonies"
on canvas, exhibited in the Law Courts, had both increased their
reputation.
"Hullo, Kiki!" cried Whistler. "I'm told that your work in _Punch_ is
the making of some men. You have actually invented Tomkins! Why, he
never would have existed but for you! Ha! ha! how on earth did you do
it?"
"Look here, Jimmy, if you don't look out, by Jove, I'll invent you!"
How Kiki--du Maurier--carried out his threat in "Trilby," and what
resulted from it, all the world knows.
By the way, the mention of "Trilby" reminds me of a story about Mr. du
Maurier's own Trilby which is perhaps worth recording. Du Maurier for
some years lived on the top of Hampstead Heath, rather inaccessible for
models. But more than once friends asked him to take a sitting from some
lady or another, as he, drawing fashionable ladies, was different,
perhaps, from painters using models for costumes or, as du Maurier
would say, for the "altogether." In this way a model was introduced to
him, and, to his surprise, she drove up to his house in a hansom, and he
heard her asking one of the servants for change of a sovereign to pay
the cabman. She did not sit very well, so after a short time Mr. du
Maurier told her that he only drew from models for part of the day, and,
rather apologetically, said he of course did not pay for the whole of
the usual day's sitting. And she said:
"Oh, thanks! I am only too pleased to sit for a short time. But would
you kindly ask one of your servants to fetch me a hansom?"
[Illustration: _PUNCH_ STAFF RETURNING FROM PARIS.
(_The original hangs on the wall of Mr. Punch's dining room._)]
This made the artist more than ever miserable, and he said:
"Excuse me, but perhaps you are not aware we only pay a modest amount
for sitters; in fact, I generally pay five shillings for two
hours--aw----"
"You don't mean to say you are really going to give me five shillings?
Oh, how kind of you! It will just pay half my cab fare home. I didn't
know I was going to be so lucky." And she vanished, leaving the artist
more bewildered than ever.
Some time afterwards, in Hyde Park, he was surprised to see a carriage
beautifully appointed pulled up to where he was standing, and a lady
lean out and say:
"I have never seen you before to thank you for your kindness in allowing
me to sit for you. I was so anxious to see what a studio was like.
Thanks, awfully; you must let me call again."
Du Maurier had the faculty of unaffected fun, he had also a feeling for
caricature in portraiture, but he did not care to exercise either to any
extent in _Punch_. I recollect Sir Henry Thompson--the celebrated
physician--showing me a copy of a book he had written, in which he
speaks of hospital life in London. Du Maurier had studied in a London
hospital when he first arrived in England, and he wrote to Sir Henry,
then a stranger to him, to ask him if the wretch in his book who wheeled
off the remains of the corpses from the dissecting-room was the same man
he knew and loathed years ago. The sketch accompanying this query Sir
Henry had pasted in the book in triumph. "There is the man," he said,
"to the life!"
At dinner du Maurier ate sparingly, drank moderately, and smoked
cigarettes. He avoided champagne, preferring the wine of his
country--claret; and after dinner, in place of coffee, he had a huge
breakfast-cup of tea, and, like the soap advertisement boy, he was not
happy till he got it.
[Illustration: JAPANESE STYLE: A BALLET FROM _PUNCH_.]
Mentioning an advertisement suggests that it may interest some to know
du Maurier drew the label for a most popular mineral water. It is safe
to predict that not one person in the tens of thousands looking at it
yearly would connect du Maurier with it. It is that elaborate and rather
inartistic design on Appollinaris water, for which he received fifty
guineas from his friend--one of the proprietors. Anyone following his
work in _Punch_ must have noticed that he was a hypochondriac.
Hypochondriasis was a disease with him, he was always thinking of his
health, and I fear that sudden burst of popularity following the success
of "Trilby," in place of bracing him up, made him dwell somewhat more
upon his state of health, and hastened the end.
I recollect his telling me years ago he was advised to take horse
exercise for his health's sake, so he hired a hack and started in the
direction of Richmond Park. Arriving at the well-known windmill, and
before descending the beautiful slopes on the other side, he took out
his watch and, opening the case, put out his tongue to see what effect
the ride had had on his health. The horse moved, and he found himself
the next moment on the ground.
He gave up horse exercise after that!
My first contribution to _Punch_ appeared in the number dated October
30th, 1880. "Punch," as a policeman, commanded the removal of the
newly-erected "Griffin" in the place of Old Temple Bar: "Take away that
Bauble!" The much-abused "Griffin" is the work (but after the design of
Horace Jones) of an old friend of mine, the late C. B. Birch, R.A., a
clever sculptor and a capital fellow. He sent me "his mark" of
appreciation, but I may say he was the last man to use the instrument of
torture suggested by his name.
[Illustration]
I then "did the theatres" with the editor--no mistake this time--and a
very pleasant time it was. My first "social" drawing appeared in the
second number in the following December, illustrating Scotch "wut"
manufactured in London.
Two Scotch rustics outside an eating-house. One points to a card in the
window on which is "Welsh Rabbit, 6d."
Hungry visitor (ignorant of the nature of this particular delicacy):
"Ah, Donal, mon, we ken weel hev the Rawbit fur saxpence. We ken get twa
Bawbees fur the Skeen when we get bock to Glasgow!"
The Scotch is certainly new, if the joke is not.
[Illustration: CHINESE STYLE. FROM A DRAWING ON WOOD. _PUNCH._]
An Irish joke followed, and then in the Almanack I illustrated a hit at
the style of ladies' dress of the period; in fact, at that time I drew
for _Punch_ quite a number of social subjects dealing with the aesthetic
craze. Besides illustrating various social subjects and caricaturing the
Academy and the new plays, I was illustrating the "Essence of
Parliament." As Mr. M. H. Spielmann in "The History of _Punch_" says
truly, "I romped through _Punch's_ pages." I open a number of _Punch_
published only eighteen months after my first contribution appeared, and
two years previous to my joining the staff, and find no fewer than
eleven separate subjects from my pencil; and I may say that up to the
last I probably contributed more work to _Punch_ than any other artist
ever contributed in the same number of years, Leech not excepted. I do
not claim that this was wholly due to artistic merit, but to a business
one. I never refused to draw a subject I was asked to do, I never was at
a loss for a subject, and I was never late. It was to this facility I
owe the good terms on which the editor and I worked so pleasantly and
for so long. Being accustomed to work at high pressure for the
illustrated papers and magazines since boyhood, I confess that _Punch_
work to me was my playtime.
I contributed over two thousand six hundred designs, from the smallest
to the largest that ever appeared in its pages (the latter were
published in the Christmas Numbers, 1890 and 1891), and I was not in
receipt of a salary, but was paid for each drawing at my full rate. I
have reason to think I drew in the time more money from _Punch_,
proportionately, than any other contributor in its history in a like
period. I read from time to time accounts of the remuneration men like
myself receive. Of course these statements are invariably fiction, as in
fact is nearly everything I have read outside Mr. Spielmann's careful
analysis of _Punch_ concerning myself and my friends.
I deal with my Parliamentary confessions, personal and artistic, in
other chapters; I shall in this merely touch upon a few points in
connection with _Punch_. The greater portion of my Parliamentary work,
however, appeared in other periodicals, but it is probably by _Punch_
work in this direction most of my readers identify me. I was fortunate,
in the twelve years I represented _Punch_ in Parliament with the pencil,
in having the exceptional material for work upon Mr. Gladstone at his
most interesting period, Parnell's rise and fall, Churchill's rise and
fall, Bradlaugh's rise and fall, and a host of others strutting their
brief hour on the political stage. Where are they now? Mr. Chamberlain
alone interests the caricaturist. Parliament itself is dull, the public
is apathetic, and everything appertaining to politics is flat and
unprofitable. Yet as far back as 1885, in the figure "Punch," I asked
for some new character, the familiar faces were getting worked out!
I had attended some sessions of Parliament before I made the
acquaintance of the official presiding over the Press Gallery. The Press
Gallery is, as all know, directly over the Speaker. The front row is
divided into little boxes where the representatives of the leading
papers sit. The others are seated above them against the wall. These
members of the Press look like a row of aged schoolboys very much
troubled to write anything about Parliament to-day. Their monitor sits
by the seat near the door, which in former days was in the middle of the
Gallery.
[Illustration: FAMILIAR FACES.
_Mr. Punch (Cartoonist-in-Chief)._ "OH, I KNOW ALL YOU OLD MODELS. I
WANT SOME NEW 'CHARACTER'!"]
I shall never forget my first experience of this Press Gallery official.
He was big, and fat, and greasy; in evening dress, and he wore a real
gold chain with a badge in front like a mayor or sheriff. He awed
me--recollect I am now speaking of the day I attended as a comparatively
new boy, and I trembled in his presence. There was no seat vacant except
the one next to him. He sleeps! Nervously I slip into the seat. He
wakes, and looks down at me.
"H'm! What are you?" is his sleepy remark.
"_Punch_," I reply.
"Ticket?"
"Left at home."
"Bring it next time."
"Certainly," say I, relieved. He slumbers again. I strain over to see
who is speaking. This wakes the gentleman with the real gold chain
again. He gazes down upon me. I feel smaller.
"What are you?"
"_Punch._"
"Eh! Where's ticket?"
"Left at home."
"Bring it next time. Saves bother, young fellow."
[Illustration: "HE SLEEPS."]
"Certainly," I reply, and, encouraged by his familiarity, I venture to
ask, "Who is that speaking?" I just got the question out in time, for he
was dozing off again.
"New Member," he replied, and, half dozing, he goes on, more to himself
than to me: "One more fool! Find his level here! All fools here! Stuff
you've been givin' them at your College Union. Rubbish! Yer
perambulator's waitin' outside. Oh, follow yer Dad to the Upper House,
an' look sharp about it." He mumbles. I well recollect the youthful
Member, so criticised, labouring through his maiden speech. The eldest
son of a Peer, with a rather effeminate face, Saxon fairness of
complexion, and with an apology for a moustache, it struck me that if
petrified he would do very well as a dummy outside a tailor's
establishment. Yet this youthful scion of a noble line has a good
record. He carried off innumerable prizes at Eton, was a double first at
Oxford, President of the Union, and a fellow of his college; one of the
University Eight, and of the Eleven; distinguished at tennis, racquets,
and football; hero of three balloon ascents; great at amateur
theatricals; a writer upon every possible subject, including theology,
for the leading magazines; member of sixteen London clubs; married a
titled heiress, and is only thirty years of age.
[Illustration: "HERE, I SAY, WHAT ARE YOU?"]
[Illustration: "_PUNCH_," I REPLIED.]
Some of his college friends sit in the Strangers' Gallery to hear their
late President make his first great effort in the real Parliament. The
effect disappoints them. Their champion is "funky." When the Oxford
Eight were behind at Barnes Bridge, it was "Dolly's" muscle and nerve
that pulled the crew together and won the race. When at Lord's the match
was nearly over, and the Light Blues had won all but the shouting,
"Dolly" went in last man and rattled up fifty in half an hour and won
the match. When at the Oxford Union he spoke upon the very question now
before the House--namely, whether a tax should be imposed upon
periwinkles--his oratory alone turned the scale, and gave his party the
victory. Yet now his speech upon the periwinkle problem has certainly
not impressed the House. Men listened for a time and then adjourned to
dinner, and his splendid peroration, recognised by his friends as the
same which he had delivered at the Oxford Union, failed to elicit a
single cheer.
Curiosity, however, induced his supporters to remain and hear the reply.
The next speaker was a contrast to their hero, and a titter went round
among Dolly's friends in the Gallery. He was a type of the preaching
Member. No doubt a very worthy soul, but hardly an Adonis to look at,
nor a Cicero to listen to. Still he is sincere, and with his own class
effective; and sincerity, after all, is the most valuable, and I may add
the most rare, quality in the composition of an ordinary Member of
Parliament.
My neighbour, the Usher, at this point opens his left eye, which takes
in at a glance the Opposition side of the House, and breaks out in this
style:
"All right, little 'un! Keep wot yer sayin' till Sunday. Yer sermon's
sending me to sleep. Forcing taxation on the winks of the 'ungry
Englishman will raise the country to revolt. Tommy rot! Here endeth the
first lesson, thank goodness!"
The soliloquising official rolls off his seat chuckling along the
Gallery. Envelopes are handed to him by the reporters. He rolls back to
the door, opens it, gives the copy to the messengers waiting for it, and
rolls back once more into his seat. In doing so he spies me.
I feel smaller.
"Here, I say, what are you?"
"_Punch._"
"Where's ticket?"
"Left at home."
"H'm! Don't forget it again."
"Certainly not."
I say nothing more, as I am too interested in his running commentary of
the proceedings. A grunt. Shake down:
"Old Waddy, is it? Another sermon. Blow black plaster. Tell that to the
juries, and use it again in chapel. Yer a good friend to us--get a count
soon. Ah, I thought so. Joey Biggar up to count and snuff."
"Have a pinch?" he said to me.
"Thanks." I sneeze.
"What are you?" asked the man of the golden badge, looking down at me. I
met his query as before.
Same demand.
Same reply.
Same promise.
The electric bells were ringing for a "count out." He opened both eyes
to watch if forty Members came in. They did; and three times forty.
"Torment 'em! Keep me here all night, I see."
Samuel Banks Waddy--Pleader, Preacher, Parliamentarian (as he is
designated in a work on M.P.'s)--continues preaching. He is followed by
the Leader of the House. My soliloquising friend continues:
"Ah, Old Morality--as Lucy calls ye--up at last. Move the closure, now
then, that's right; speak of yer dooty to the House and Country. Set the
Rads laughing, shut yer own mouth, and sit down. Oh lor! 'Ere's the
Grand Old Muddler up. We're getting 'usky, old 'un; both of us have 'ad
too much of this job. We're very much alike, Gladdy and me--both great
eaters and great sleepers."
[Illustration: "I FEEL SMALLER!"]
Mr. Gladstone was telling the House all about black plaster, and gave
three points why it should not be used in public hospitals. With the
third point he landed a blow at Home Rule, and his ingenuity in doing
so brought forth a derisive cheer from the Irish benches, which roused
my neighbour.
I looked up at him smiling, as much as to say, "Just like the Old
Parliamentary Hand."
"What are you?" he growled.
"_Punch._"
"Ticket?"
Same reply and promise.
Appeased, he continued:
"Words, words, words--no 'ed no tail. Oh, of course you remember the
introduction of white plaster--3rd of June, 1840--why didn't you say
half-past two o'clock? More convincing. No doubt you got into some
scrape and 'ad to use it. Won't you catch it from the old woman in the
Gallery when you get home if you say so! Can't 'ear yer, thank goodness.
Scribblers will take down any rot you talk. They want _me_, I suppose.
Blowed if the country wants you."
Again he rolls out of his seat, collects the reporters' copy, and gives
it to the attendants.
"Who are you? Ah, _Punch_. Don't forget yer ticket."
Again he dozes.
"'Icks Beach up! 'Ave all the Board of Trade chaps up, capping each
other. Funny thing--Board of Trade chap says anything, all the Board of
Traders must have a word in. Same with Local Government Board--new man
says anything, old 'uns put in a word for theirselves, just to keep the
place warm for them to return. Board!--I'm bored--joke there for Lucy.
Thought the Irish lot couldn't keep quiet much longer. Tanner up,--ought
to know more about plaster than politics. Rum fellers, these doctors in
the House; leave their patients at 'ome, and come here to try
ours--'nother good joke for Lucy--make his 'air stand on end. Tanner
sticking to the plaster--now then, young Tories, jeer 'im down. The
Doctor's goin' it. Order! order! That's right, Brand, turn 'im
out,--wouldn't stand 'im in any place else. City Fowler's
bellowing,--scene a-brewing,--good copy for these quill-drivers."
Dr. Tanner had recited some harrowing tale about black plaster being
used in his native town by a hospital surgeon on the scratched face of
some old woman who had joined "the boys" in a street fight, although she
protested that pink suited her complexion.
"It was a base Saxon trick!" roared the infuriated Member for Cork
County. "On a par with the mane, dirty doings of puppets and spalpeens
like the Mimbers opposite."
"Order! order!" cried the Speaker. "The hon. Member must withdraw that
expression."
"I'll not withdraw anything except by adding that they're all liars on
the Tory benches."
"The hon. Member must withdraw."
The Doctor "exits" with a flourish, glares at the Conservative benches
below the gangway, and hisses at them:
"Better order a ton of plaster, for you'll want it after I meet ye
outside."
Mr. Labouchere and two or three Irish Members rise at once.
My neighbour sneers.
"Oh, sit down, ye rubbishy lot! Labby,--better keep yer jokes for yer
paper. Bless me if Conybeare ain't left standing! Now for an hour of
boredom."
"He _is_ a bore," I remark.
"Yes, I've stood Kenealy and Wharton, but this bore I can't. I'll chuck
it up. Kenealy did his best for the Claimant, and was amusing at times;
and Wharton,--well, he had good snuff, and his hat was a treat; but this
Conybeare is a bore and nothing else."
So he went on.
The "descendant of kings," Sir William Harcourt, rose to pulverise
Torydom and put an end to the Government and everything in general, when
the Speaker rose and said that the question before the House was whether
black sticking-plaster could be used in public hospitals.
"Oh, that's right, he wants putting down; too much of the grand Old
Bailey style. Make yer fortune in plush and knee breeches as a prize
flunkey; platform stuff won't do for us. What are you?" I feel smaller!
"_Punch._"
"You take Harcourt off with the chins?"
"Yes."
"Shake hands!"
We were friends ever afterwards.
[Illustration: "I FEEL SMALLER!"]
One day when I arrived,--actually with my Gallery ticket,-a fresh
pleasant official sat in my old friend's place, wearing his gold chain
and badge. "Should this meet the eye" of his predecessor, soliloquising
in the retirement of his suburban home, I trust it will not disturb the
serenity of his well-earned repose, for he was a capital fellow, and I
can answer for much good sense in his "official utterances."
If a politician were not a caricature by nature, I made him one. Mr.
Gladstone's collar I invented--for the same reason a journalistic friend
of mine invented Beaconsfield's champagne jelly--for "copy." When
Members suggested nothing new, I turned my attention to officials. The
Sergeant-at-Arms in that way became known as the "Black Beetle."
I watched Captain Gosset from the Press Gallery walk up the floor of the
House in court dress, his knee-breeches showing off his rather bandy
legs, elbows akimbo, and curious gait; his back view at once suggested
the beetle, and as the Black Beetle he was known. This, I was assured,
gave offence, so that I was rather anxious to see how I should be
greeted when Professor Thorold Rogers took me into the Sergeant's
presence, after I had been drawing him as the "Beetle" for some time.
The late Professor Thorold Rogers was for many years a familiar
Bohemianish figure in Parliament. He had a marked individuality, a
strong head and a rough tongue, an uncouth manner, sloppy attire, and
his conversation was anything but refined. Still he was kind and
amusing, and, for a Professor in Parliament, popular. Professors are not
liked in St. Stephen's, and never a success; and as a politician
Professor Thorold Rogers was no exception to this rule. It was he who
introduced me to the Sergeant-at-Arms' room, that _sanctum sanctorum_ of
the lively spirits of Parliament. Perhaps I ought correctly to call it
Captain Gosset's room, for although Captain Gosset was the
Sergeant-at-Arms, the Sergeant-at-Arms was by no means Captain Gosset.
An anecdote will illustrate this.
A friend of mine, a well-known journalist, travelling abroad during the
Recess, fell in with Captain Gosset, and they became companions in their
journey. A few days after they arrived home my journalistic acquaintance
was in the Inner Lobby of the House of Commons as the Sergeant-at-Arms
was passing through, and he called out, "How are you, Captain Gosset?
Any the worse for your journey?"
"I beg your pardon, sir, I have not the pleasure of your acquaintance.
You are mistaken."
"Nonsense, Captain! Why, we travelled together. I am----"
"That may be, but---- Oh, I see, you are thinking of that fellow Gosset.
Sir, I am the Sergeant-at-Arms!" And he strode off with the greatest
dignity.
I was agreeably surprised when I was introduced to the "Black Beetle."
[Illustration: THE BLACK BEETLE.]
"Here is Harry Furniss, Gosset" (not Sergeant, I observed); "now give it
to him."
"Delighted to make your acquaintance, Mr. Furniss. You see how I
appreciate your work." And he pointed to a row of black beetles, cut out
of _Punch_ and pasted on the wall, the rest of the wall being covered
with interesting and dignified portraits of Members. Here was Gosset at
twelve o'clock at night. At twelve noon he would be Sergeant-at-Arms,
with power to take me to the Clock Tower.
[Illustration: THE SERGEANT-AT-ARMS' ROOM. _From "Punch."_]
This room is still the Sergeant-at-Arms' office, but in it are no
portraits, no black beetles--on paper; there may be some living
specimens, for aught I know, haunting the old room in search of the
lively company, the pipes, and the huge decanters. The present
Sergeant-at-Arms is as unlike a black beetle as he is unlike the
Bohemian Gosset. But I shall be surprised if, when the courteous and
universally appreciated Sergeant-at-Arms retires, and the present
Assistant Sergeant-at-Arms, Mr. Gosset, takes his place, we shall not
see the old room again the most entertaining spot in the Houses of
Parliament.
When Professor Rogers was escorting me to the famous room, he implored
me to leave politics outside of it,--as if I ever talked politics in the
House! "Rule is--no politics, so don't forget it."
"Ah," he said, as soon as he sat down, "why aint you in the House, Tom,
vilifying and misrepresenting the Irish as I heard you this afternoon!
Disgraceful, I say, disgraceful!" and he thumped the table.
"No politics, Professor," "Dick" Power remarked.
"Oh, indeed, my noble Whip; that comes well from a beater to a beaten
gang. Why aint you at your post,--the door-post, ha! ha!--and rally your
men and overthrow these damned Tories? Oh, yes, King-Harman, your good
looks do not atone for bad measures."
"No politics, Professor," all cried.
"Come, Furniss, come away, they're all drunk here. I'll tell you my last
story on the Terrace. These Tories destroy everything."
[Illustration: CAPT. GOSSET, LATE SERGEANT-AT-ARMS. _From the
"Illustrated London News."_]
Such was my introduction to this select little club in Parliament, in
which, with the exception of the Professor, all forgot politics, and the
best of the Tories, Home Rulers, Radicals, and officials were at peace.
I was always on most friendly terms with my "Black Beetle," a proof that
caricature leaves no unkind sting when the victim is really a man of the
world and a jolly good fellow. Surely nothing could be more offensive to
an official in high office than to be continually represented as a black
beetle!
[Illustration: MY "CHILDISH" STYLE IN _PUNCH_.]
When I did not "invent" a character, such as the "Beetle," I adopted for
a change various styles of drawing. For even the work of a caricaturist
becomes monotonous if he is but a master of one style and a slave to
mannerisms. To avoid this I am Egyptian, Chinese, Japanese, and at times
"Childish"--a specimen of each style in _Punch_ the proprietors have
kindly allowed me to republish in these pages. There is really very
little artistic merit in the "Childish" style of work. I did not use it
often, but whenever I did I tried to introduce some "drawing" as well.
Here, for instance, are my Academy skits--drawn as if by a boy, but the
figures of the teacher and pupil are in drawing. By the way, these
different styles, I am glad to see, are still kept alive in the pages of
_Punch_ by new--if not younger--hands. This year's (1901) Academy skits
and other drawings, I notice, are signed "'Arry's Son," but they are
not--as might be thought--by one of my own boys.
[Illustration]
During most of the time I enjoyed a privilege which belonged to no one
else, not excepting Members, for even Members must, like schoolboys,
keep "within bounds." They are not permitted, for instance, to enter the
Press Gallery, or the portion of the House reserved to the Press;
neither can Press-men enter the Members' rooms at will. The public,
being ignorant of the stringent rules of St. Stephen's, cannot
understand the obstacles there are to seeing the House. One instance
will suffice to show the absurdity of the rules. The ex-Treasurer of the
House of Lords, whose acquaintance I had, and whose offices were in the
corridor by the Select Chamber, could not take anyone into the House,
even when it was empty, without a written order. Although armed with a
Gallery Ticket, and also on the "Lobby list," _i.e._, the right to enter
the Inner Lobby, I was not free to make any sketches of the House
itself, inside or out. Requiring to get such material for the elaborate
interiors and exteriors I use in my Lecture-Entertainment, "The Humours
of Parliament," I boldly bearded the highest official in his den, and
left with this simple document. Aladdin's key could not have caused more
surprise than this talisman. The head of the police, the
Sergeant-at-Arms himself, could not interfere. "The Palace of
Westminster" includes the House of Commons, so I made full use of my
unique opportunity, and possess material invaluable for my Parliamentary
work.
[Illustration: I SKETCH THE HOUSE.]
I had facilities in another way. At one time the Engineer-in-Chief was a
friend of mine, Dr. Percy. Few men were better known in and about the
House than this popular official engineer of the Palace of Westminster.
To begin with, he was over six feet high, and had a voice that would
carry from the Commons to the House of Lords. He had to be "all over the
place"--under the House, over the House, and all round the House. He was
as well-known in the smoking-room of the Garrick Club as he was in the
smoking-room of the Commons, and it was when I joined the Garrick I made
his acquaintance. He was also an art _connoisseur_, and had a very fine
collection of water-colours. The first time I saw the Doctor was years
before on a steamer on the Rance, between Normandy and Brittany. I made
a sketch of his extraordinary features, so that when he entered the
Garrick Club I recognised the original of my caricature. We frequently
walked down to the Houses of Parliament together after dinner, and more
than once he invited me behind the scenes and under the stage of
Parliament, through the "fog filter" and ventilating shafts, when he was
wont to indulge in a grim, saturnine humour appropriate to his
subterranean subject. As he opened the iron doors for us to pass from
one passage to another, close to and above which the benches are
situated,--for the whole House is honeycombed for ventilating
purposes,--he pretended that long experience enabled him to discriminate
between the odours from different parts of the House, and declared that
he could tap and draw off a specimen of the atmosphere on the Government
benches, the Opposition side, or the Radical seats, at will.
"There, my boy! eh? Pretty thick, aint it? That's the Scotch lot. Now
hold your nose. I open this door and we get the Irish draught. Ugh! Come
on, come on quickly--mixture of Irish, working-men M.P.'s, and Rads.
Kill a horse!"
The table of the House, which Mr. Disraeli erroneously described as "a
solid piece of furniture," is in reality--like so many arguments which
are flung across it--perfectly hollow; and one evening when I arrived
with Dr. Percy and found that in consequence of the winding-up speech of
Mr. Gladstone in a great debate the Press Gallery was full and all the
seats under the gallery were occupied, Dr. Percy kindly allowed me to
sit _inside the table_. I was sorely tempted to try the effect of
inserting my pencil through the grating which forms the side of the
table, and tickle the shins of the right hon. gentleman. Anyway, I
looked straight into the faces of the Ministers and those on the front
bench, and not only heard every word, but the asides and whispers as
well.
[Illustration: DR. PERCY. "THE HOUSE UP."
_From "Punch."_]
I only once caricatured Dr. Percy in _Punch_ (December, 1886), after
there had been a sort of earthquake in the Inner Lobby of the House, and
the tesselated pavement was thrown up. I made a drawing, "The House up
at last." Dr. Percy "is personally directing the improvements." It is
interesting to know that some of the pavement taken up on that occasion
is laid in the hall of an hon. Member's house in the country, not far
from West Kirby, Cheshire.
[Illustration: MR. PUNCH'S PUZZLE-HEADED PEOPLE. MR. GOSCHEN.
_From "Punch."_]
THE VILLAIN OF ART.
One frequently hears the remark, "Caricature is so ugly." Well,
certainly pure caricature is the villain of art, and the popular
draughtsman, like the popular actor, should, to remain popular in his
work, always play the virtuous hero. If the leading actor _must_ play
the villain, he takes care to make up inoffensive and tame. So the
villain caricaturist need not be "ugly"--but then he cannot be strong.
Nor is it left to an actor--unless he be the star or actor-manager--to
remain popular by being tame and pretty in every part. So is the
caricaturist, if he is not the star, liable to be cast to play the
villain whether he likes it or not, and if he is a genuine worker he
will not shrink from the part, merely to remain popular and curry favour
with those deserving to be satirised.
[Illustration: MR. PUNCH'S PUZZLE-HEADED PEOPLE. "ALL HARCOURTS."
_From "Punch."_]
Now in _Punch_, as I was cast for it, I played the villain's part. In
doing so I was at times necessarily "ugly," and therefore to some
unpopular. I confess I felt it my duty not to shrink from being "ugly,"
although whenever I could I introduced some redeeming element into my
designs--the figure of a girl, allegorical of Parliament or whatever the
"ugly" subject might happen to be--but in some of my _Punch_ drawings
this relief was impossible. For instance, the series of "Puzzle Heads,"
in each of which a portrait of the celebrity is built up of personal
attributes, characteristics, or incidents in the career of the person
represented, could not but be unpleasant pictures. Some subscribers
threatened to give up the paper if they were continued; others became
subscribers for these Puzzle Heads alone. It is ever so. The old saying,
"One man's meat is another's poison," is as applicable to caricature as
to anything else. It is impossible to please all tastes when catering
for the large public, unless an editor is satisfied to be stereotyped
and perfunctory; but Mr. Punch has made his name by his strength, not
his weakness, and it may be safely inferred that no Tory thinks less of
him for having used all his talent in attacking Benjamin Disraeli year
after year as no man has been attacked before--or since--in his pages.
In looking through the volumes of _Punch_ one is apt to forget that the
strong situations and stirring events by which a caricaturist's hit is
made effective at the time of publication fade from one's memory. The
cartoon in all its strength remains a record of an event which has lost
its interest. One cannot always realise that the drawing was only strong
because the feeling and interest at the time of its conception demanded
it. Allowance should therefore be made for the villain's ugly
caricature, if it is a good drawing, prophetically correct, and
therefore historically interesting.
Perhaps no cartoon of mine in _Punch_ caused such hostile criticism as
"The New Cabinet" (August 27, 1892). It gave great offence to the
Gladstonians. The Radical Press attacked me ferociously, and as I think
most unfairly, for they treated it politically and not pictorially, and
severely reprimanded Mr. Punch for publishing it. Had it been a
Conservative Cabinet the Tory Press would not have resented it or
allowed narrow-minded party politics to prejudice their mind in such
trivial matters. _Punch_ is supposed to be non-political. Its present
editor is impartial. Mr. Punch's traditions are Whig, and somehow or
other a certain class of its readers at that particular crisis was
strongly opposed to the two sides of a question being treated. Yet I
venture to say two-thirds of the readers of _Punch_ are Conservatives,
and should therefore be amused. It is impossible to treat a strong
political subject--such as the meeting of that particular Cabinet
caricatured by me--without offending some readers by amusing others,
unless, as I say, the subject is treated in a colourless manner. This
particular cartoon hurt because it hit a strong situation in a truthful
and straight-forward manner, and subsequent events proved it to be a
correct conception. Yet at the time no name was too bad for me, and as
these are my confessions, let me assure the public that had the Cabinet
been a Conservative one I would have treated it in exactly the same way;
and it is my firm conviction that had such been the case I would have
given no offence either inside or outside of Mr. Punch's office.
My readers will sympathise with me. I am to draw political cartoons
without being political; I am to draw caricatures without being
personal; I am to be funny without holding my subject up to ridicule; I
am to be effective without being strong--in fact, I am to be a
caricaturist without caricature! On the other hand, no cartoon I ever
drew for _Punch_ was more popular. Non-politicians were good enough to
accept it as an antidote to the usual caricatures, and those papers on
the other side of politics were extravagantly complimentary, and I
received a large sum for the original for a private collection. I allow
the following leaderette from the _Birmingham Post_ to illustrate the
point, and at the same time to describe the cartoon. The same paper, I
may add, comments on the principal cartoon in _Punch_ that week--drawn
by Tenniel--as showing that _Punch_ "thinks little of the prospects of
the present Government":
[Illustration: REDUCTION FROM ENGRAVING IN _PUNCH_.]
"'Mr. Punch' is in 'excellent fooling' this week. Rarely has he, even
he, more happily burlesqued a political situation than in Mr. Harry
Furniss's cartoon of 'The New Cabinet.' Not a word of explanation
accompanies the picture: it is good wine, needing no bush, and making
very merry. A glance suffices to seize its meaning, for it expresses a
thought that has flitted, at one time or another, through everyone's
mind. The big moment has come when Mr. Gladstone is to reveal to his
colleagues the secret he has hitherto withheld from them, not less than
from the electorate--to submit to them, masterly, succinct, complete,
the scheme which, with unexampled courage and sublimest modesty, they
have defended on trust, for which they have sacrificed their personal
independence without knowing why, and as to which, painful to remember,
they have sometimes blundered into confident and contradictory
conjecture. We can picture the subtle excitement--in one Minister of
joyful expectation, in another of horrid misgiving--under which they
have come together. Well, Mr. Gladstone unfolds the fateful document,
and lo! it is a blank sheet. Paralysis and grim despair fall upon the
spirits of the assembly; face to face with a nightmare reality, not a
man amongst them has strength to say, 'This is a dream.' At the head of
the table, his elbows resting on the parchment, and an undipped quill
actually split upon it in his angry grasp, sits the Premier, a
never-to-be-forgotten picture of impotent ill-humour. The task with
which the Cabinet is confronted, for him as for the rest, is impossible
and yet inexorable. In the candle-flame, by an effect of hallucination
natural at such a moment, the face of Mr. O'Brien seems to limn itself
out, implacable and contemptuous; and there is a fearsome shadow on the
blind--the massive head of Lord Salisbury. The candle, marked '40,' is
the majority, which dwindles while the Ministers are sadly musing; and
over the mantelpiece, behind the Premier's chair, mutely reproachful,
hangs a picture of the great Cabinet of 1880. It is distinctly the best
thing Mr. Furniss has done."
That impression was shared by my private friends as well, even those on
_Punch_. My dear friend Mr. E. J. Milliken, a strong Radical, and a most
active member of the staff, in a reply to a letter of mine, in which I
intimated that I was afraid my cartoon would give offence, replied in a
most flattering spirit.
I had to play the "villain" in another scene in the same political
drama, "Mr. Punch's Historical Cartoons" (1893), in which the same
Cabinet is shown in Mr. Gladstone's room in the "Bauble Shop"--the House
of Commons. Those Radicals who had not joined the Unionists again took
offence. Those Radicals who had become Unionist wrote to congratulate
me. From one well-known and powerful personality, a historical name in
the publishing world, I received the following:
"February 23rd, 1893.
"Your cartoon p. 95 delights us all. I have looked at it twenty times
and seen fresh points in it. Nothing for years, I should say, has so
entirely caught the very spirit of a great crisis.
"We shall owe something to you for this felicitous exposure of
Gladstone's insane Bill. Alas! the miners and the brickies, the
costermongers and the dust-cart drivers, have now the power. The middle
class has been out-numbered, and if it were not that some labouring men
and artisans have hard heads enough to comprehend the position we should
be landed in a pretty pickle next September.
"It is a pity traitors' heads are nowadays their own copyright."
A "copyright" in heads is a good suggestion, and coming from a publisher
too! But apart from "traitors," there are others known to a
caricaturist. The House of Commons at one time was rich in them. Some
such works of art suffer in being translated. Indeed, what the poet
"Ballyhooley" wrote of one might apply to others:
"DARWIN MacNEILL.
"Darwin MacNeill, all the papers are hot on you,
Darwin MacNeill, they are writing a lot on you.
What in the world sort of face have you got on you?
Send us your photograph, Darwin MacNeill.
Surely you must be both lovely and pure!
Have you got fatures that nothing can cure?
Let's have the first of it,
Let's know the worst of it:
Is your face only a caricature?
Here's a health to you, Darwin MacNeill,
Let penny canes all your enemies feel;
Show me the crature would slander a fature
Of the beautiful Mimber for ould Donegal.
"Our childhers are dull, and we wish to be brightening them
Send us your picture and we'll be enlightening them,
Maybe 'twill only be useful for frightening them;
Still let us have it, dear Darwin MacNeill.
Shut up the slander and talk they are at,
Show us the head you've got under your hat;
True every particle, genuine article,
Send us your picture in answer to that.
Here's a health to you, etc.
"I hear that the Queen she has simply gone crazy, man;
Says she to Gladstone, 'Get out, you old lazy man!
Cannot you see that I'll never be aisy, man,
Till I've a portrait of Darwin MacNeill?'
When of that picture she first got a sight,
She held it up, so they say, to the light,
Looked at the head of it, then all she said of it,
'I'm of opinion that Darwin is right.'
Here's a health to you, etc.
"There's just arrived now, to give great content to us,
A lovely picture, which someone has sent to us.
We know the worst now, for there has been sent to us
What's called a portrait of Darwin MacNeill.
If it's a likeness, I just tell you what,
That you have acted in ways you should not.
Don't try a turn of fists
On with the journalists;
Thrash those who gave you the head you have got.
But here's a health to you, Darwin MacNeill!
Only just manage new fatures to steal,
Then show me the crature would slander a fature
Of the beautiful Mimber for ould Donegal."
This "Pen Portrait," by Mr. Robert Martin, refers to a matter of much
regret to me. I have to confess my sorrow that I was the means of making
a Member of Parliament ridiculous! The innocent item came in the
ordinary course of my work for _Punch_. I was sent an incident to
illustrate for the Diary of Toby, M.P., which, when published, was used
as an excuse to "technically assault" me in the Inner Lobby of the House
of Commons.
[Illustration: REDUCTION OF PAGE IN _PUNCH_, SHOWING THAT MY CARICATURES
WERE--IN THIS CASE--PUBLISHED TOO LARGE.]
Perhaps in the circumstances I may be pardoned if I confess a secret
connected with these Parliamentary caricatures. For some years I
provided a page drawing and some small cuts in every number during
Parliament--the latter were generally sketches of Members of Parliament.
These single portraits were supplied in advance, and engraved proofs
sent in a book to Mr. Lucy to select from week by week. The following
letter is worth quoting in full as a characteristic letter from the
Editor, typical of his light and pleasant way of transacting business
with his staff:
"Dear H. F.,--"Please keyindly see that H. L. (not 'Labby,' but 'Lucy')
has all your parliamentarians whom you (as your predecessor Henry VIII.
did) have executed on the block sent to him, as he found himself
unprovided up to the last moment and so wrote to me in his haste.
"(?) Fancy portrait. Our artist, H. F., as Henry VIII. taking off his
victims' heads on the block, eh?
"Yours, "F. C. B."
To this rule, however, there were exceptions. This particular caricature
was one of them: it was drawn at the last moment to illustrate a
particular passage in Mr. Lucy's Diary of Toby, M.P. Here it is:
"'Look here, Bartley,' said Tommy Bowles; 'if you're going on that tack,
you must come and sit on this side. When I saw MacNeill open his mouth
to speak, I confess I thought I was going to be swallowed whole. You sit
here; there's more of you.'"
[Illustration: REDUCTION FROM THE ORIGINAL DRAWING, SHOWING THAT I GAVE
INSTRUCTIONS FOR THE CARICATURE TO BE "REDUCED AS USUAL."]
Now had I shown "Pongo," as he was familiarly called in the House, in
the act of swallowing "Tommy Bowles," I might have produced a most
objectionable caricature. I made, however, a smiling portrait of the
genial Member. I was away at the time recovering from a long illness:
the sketch was made in the country, and sent up to the _Punch_
engraver's office. By some mistake there, it was not reduced in size in
reproduction as others had been; therefore in the paper it was
apparently given extra importance--I had nothing to do with that. That
Mr. Lucy's reference to Mr. MacNeill is not a caricature can be judged
by anyone reading the passage I had to illustrate, given above. The
notion that the drawing was _purposely_ produced on a larger scale than
usual, so as to give this special caricature prominence, is disproved by
the fact that the caricature of the gallant and genial Admiral Field I
drew exactly under the same conditions appears on the same page also far
too large. Therefore it is a mistaken idea that this particular portrait
was intentionally offensive, or different from others.
It was really the combination of circumstances, if anything, that called
special attention to that particular page in _Punch,_ and gave rise to
A SCENE IN THE LOBBY.
I shall, in describing the curtain rising on this historical incident,
borrow Mr. Lucy's own account of the way in which the Member approached
me after he had seen my illustration to Mr. Lucy's clever Diary of the
Week:
"It was shortly after seven o'clock that Mr. Harry Furniss strolled into
the Lobby. He had been suffering from a long and severe sickness,
dedicating this the first evening of his convalescence to a visit to the
scene of labours which have delighted mankind. Over the place there
brooded an air of ineffable peace. The bustle of the earlier hour of
meeting was stilled. The drone of talk went on in the half-empty House
within the glass doors. Now and then a Member hastily crossed the floor
of the Lobby, intent on preparations for dinner. One of these chanced to
be Mr. Swift MacNeill, a Member who, beneath occasional turbulence of
manner, scarcely conceals the gentlest, kindliest disposition, a
gentleman by birth and training, a scholar and a patriot. The House,
whilst it sometimes laughs at his exuberance of manner, always shows
that it likes him. Mr. Furniss, seeing him approach with hurried step,
may naturally have expected that he was making haste to offer those
congratulations on renewed health and reappearance on the scene of
labour that had already been proffered from other quarters. What
followed has been told by Mr. Furniss in language the simplicity and
graphicness of which Defoe could not have excelled."
Mr. Lucy refers to the following account I wrote at the time:
"On my return to continue my work in Parliament for Mr. Punch after my
severe illness, I found the jaded legislators yearning for fresh air,
and even the approaching final division on the Home Rule Bill had failed
to arouse more than a languid interest. I felt this depression when I
entered the Lobby, its sole occupants being the tired-out doorkeepers
and the leg-weary policemen. I really believe a swarm of wasps would not
have roused them to activity, for I noticed a bluebottle resting
undisturbed upon the nose of one of Inspector Horsley's staff. Even the
Terrace was dusty, and the Members rusty and morose. One of the Irish
Members had selected as his friend Frank Slavin, the well-known
prize-fighter, who had an admiring group round him, to whom no doubt he
was relating the history of his many plucky battles.
[Illustration: WHAT HAPPENED.]