upon me in the Inner Lobby, which has afforded the stale House some
little excitement, which has been the salvation of the silly season. So
many papers have given startling accounts of this attack upon me, some
stating that I was caned, others that I was pummelled, shaken like a
dog, and so on, that I am glad to take the opportunity of giving a clear
statement of what really occurred. I was standing close to the doors of
the Inner Lobby, talking to Mr. Cuthbert Quilter, when Mr. Swift
MacNeill interrupted us by asking me, 'Are you the man that draws the
cartoons in _Punch_?' 'That depends upon what they are,' said I. 'I
refer to one,' said the excited Member, 'that has annoyed me very much,'
'Let me see it,' I replied. Mr. MacNeill then drew out his pocket-book
and showed me a cutting from the current number of _Punch_. 'Yes,' I
said, 'that is from a drawing of mine,' 'Then ye're a low, black-guardly
scoundrel,' melodramatically exclaimed the usually genial Member. Taking
two or three steps back, he hissed at me, with a livid face, a series of
offensive epithets too coarse for publication. Having exhausted his
vocabulary of vulgarity, a happy thought seemed to strike him. 'I want
to assault you,' he said, and forthwith he nervously and gingerly tapped
me as if he were playing with a hot coal. He then danced off to Members
who were looking on, crying, 'This is the scoundrel who has caricatured
me; witness, I assault him!' and he recommenced the tapping process
which constituted this technical assault. Knowing that Mr. MacNeill is a
very excitable subject, and at once detecting that this assault was a
'put-up job,' I was determined to remain perfectly cool; and, truth to
tell, the pirouetting of the agitated Member hugely amused me,
particularly as the more excited he became, the more he resembled the
caricature which was the cause, or supposed to be the cause, of this
attack, I treated the hon. Member exactly as the policeman treated the
bluebottle--with perfect indifference, not even troubling to brush away
the trifling annoyance. But when in the midst of its buzzing round me I
moved in the direction of one of the officials, it flew away. Then
appeared what I had been anticipating, and the real cause of the insult
transpired. Dr. Tanner came up to me just as I recollect Slavin
approaching Jackson in their historic fight. He showered the grossest
insults upon me, and I was surrounded at once by his clique, who were
anxious for the scene which must have occurred had I, like Jackson, been
the first to let out with my left. But here again was I face to face
with a chronically excited Member, backed up by his friends, and I
refused to be drawn into a brawl. But the secret of the real cause of
this organised attack upon me was revealed to me by Dr. Tanner, who at
once informed me that it was the outcome of my imitations of the Irish
Members in my entertainment, 'The Humours of Parliament,' which I have
given for two seasons all over the country. This was my offence; my
caricature of Mr. Swift MacNeill the excuse for the attack."
[Illustration: DR. TANNER.]
Mr. MacNeill's "technical assault" was a very childish incident. He
merely touched the sleeve of my coat with the tip of his finger, and
asked me if I would accept that as a "technical assault." This
mysterious pantomime was subsequently explained to me, and meant that I
was to take out a summons--but I only laughed. At the moment Mr.
MacNeill was pirouetting round me at a distance, Mr. John Burns came on
to the scene, and chaffed Mr. MacNeill, drawing an imaginary picture
(for Mr. Burns was not in the Lobby) of a real assault upon me. A
gentleman connected with an evening paper, who happened to enter with
Mr. Burns, failed to see Mr. Burns's humour, and thereupon took down in
shorthand Mr. Burns's imaginary picture as a matter of fact. It was
published as a fact, and, for all I know or care, some may still believe
that I was assaulted!
[Illustration: ASSAULT ON ME IN THE HOUSE. WHAT THE PRESS DESCRIBED.]
When I read that I had been treated like a cur, I was rather amused; but
when I read a statement in the papers from a man like John Burns saying
that he saw me "taken by the lapels of the coat and shaken like a dog,
and then taken by the ear and shaken by that," I thought the joke had
been carried far enough. Determined to have this cock-and-bull story
contradicted at once, I went down to the House and saw Mr. John Burns,
who expressed to me his regret that he should have invented the story,
and he left me to go to the writing-room, and promised I should have
from him a written contradiction.
After waiting a considerable time, a message was brought to me that Mr.
Burns declined to keep his promise. I therefore wrote these particulars
and sent them off to the Press. At the same time Mr. Burns, who had been
closeted with some Radical journalists, wrote an offensive note--which
was shown me, and which I advised him to publish.
Poor Mr. MacNeill! Well may he say, "Save me from my friends!" The Press
put on their comic men to make copy at his expense. If I were to publish
it all, it would make a volume as large as this. By permission I publish
the following lay from the _St. James' Budget_ (September, 1893):
"THE LAY OF SWIFT MACNEILL.
(_Picked up in the Lobby._)
"Have ye heard, have ye heard, of the late immortal fray,
When the lion back of Swift MacNeill got up and stood at bay,
When the lion voice of Tanner cried, 'To Judas wid yer chaff!'
An' the Saxon knees were shaking, though they made believe to laugh.
"'Twas widin the Commons' Lobby, in the corner by the dure,
There was Misther Harry Furniss a-standing on the flure,
When up to him came stalking, like O'Tarquin in his pride,
The bowldest of the bowld, MacNeill, wid the Docther by his side.
"Then the valiant Swift MacNeill from his pocket he took out
A picther very like him, an' he brandished it about,
An' he held it up to Furniss for his Saxon eyes to see,
An' he asked of him, 'Ye spalpeen, is this porthrait meant for me?'
"''Tis your likeness, as I see it,' was the answer that he got,
An' the wrath of Misther Swift MacNeill then wax'd exceeding hot,
An' he cast the picther from him, an' he trod it on the ground,
An' he took an' danced an Irish jig the artist's form around.
"'Ye spalpeen,' thus again he spoke, 'ye most obnoxious fellow!
Ye see that I'm a lion, yet ye've made me a gorilla;
If your Saxon eyes are blinded to the truth of what I say,
Go and borrow for a moment the glasses of Tay Pay.
"'They will show ye that our seventy are Apollos one and all,
That we're most divinely lovely an' seraphically tall;
They will show ye we're all angels--though for divils I'll allow,
'Tis the black ones ye'll be seeing where the lost to Redmond bow.'
"Then Misther Swift MacNeill, just to lave his meaning clear,
Wid flowers of Irish eloquence filled Mr. Furniss' ear;
An' he also shook wid passion, an', moreover, shook his fist,
An' the Docther an' his blackthorn stood all ready to assist.
"Misther Furniss smiled serenely, an' the only word he spoke
Was to say it seemed that Misther Swift was slow to see a joke,
But for all his jokes an' blarney, things were looking like a fight,
When a minion of the Spayker was seen to be in sight.
"Then Apollo Swift MacNeill from his dignity got down,
An' he withered Misther Furniss wid a godlike parting frown,
An' he stalked along the Lobby wid his grand O'Tarquin stride,
An' the other Mimbers followed him, an' went the House inside.
"An' there they still are threading on the necks of Saxon slaves,
An' nightly wid their eloquence they're digging Saxon graves;
An' my counsel to the artist who their fatures would porthray,
Is to thry and see their beauty through the glasses of Tay Pay."
This manufactured "scene," coming as it did in the silly season, was
made to serve instead of the Sea-Serpent, the Toad-in-the-Rock, the
Shower of Frogs, and other familiar inventions for holiday reading.
Unfortunately the poor Members of Parliament obliged to remain in St.
Stephen's had to suffer far more than I did through the eccentricity of
Mr. Swift MacNeill. Several of them complained to me that he lured them
into the corridors and corners of the House, and then vigorously set to
work to demonstrate practically how he assaulted me, or how he imagined
he assaulted me, to the discomfiture and consternation of the poor
M.P's.
[Illustration: JOHN BURNS.]
I should like to explain why this "technical assault" on me was not made
a matter of discussion. I did intend a friendly Member should have
brought it before the Speaker, and in that way published the truth of
the matter and exposed the stupid inventions of Burns & Co. With that
object I had an interview with the Speaker, and he implored me not under
any circumstances to have it brought before the House. He was already
tired, at the end of a trying session, and did not want any personal
questions discussed, which invariably led to protracted scenes. For that
reason, and for that reason only, it was not mentioned in Parliament,
notwithstanding it was really a much more serious affair than was
imagined. It was a deliberately organised conspiracy. When I was leaving
the Lobby, after my amusing interview with Mr. MacNeill, in which he
told me that I was "technically assaulted," Chief Inspector Horsley took
me down a private passage, and informed me that he had been looking for
me, as he had discovered there was a conspiracy to attack me, and at
that moment nine or ten Members from Ireland were in the passage
downstairs, out of which I would have in the ordinary course gone
through, lying in wait for me. So I left with him by another door.
[Illustration: NOTE FROM SIR FRANK LOCKWOOD, AFTER READING THE BOGUS
ACCOUNT OF THE "ASSAULT."]
In this I was not more to blame than other caricaturists, but I was more
in evidence, and was selected to be "technically assaulted," so as to
force me to bring an action, in which all papers, except those
supporting the Irish Party, would have been attacked and discussed, and
their influence if possible injured for purely political purposes. An
aggrieved person, smarting under a gross injustice, does not
"technically assault" the aggressor. Had Mr. McNeill tried it on with
me, weak and ill as I was, I think I had enough power to oblige him; as
it happened, I only saw the humour of the thing.
[Illustration: LETTER SUPPOSED TO COME FROM LORD CROSS. (LOCKWOOD'S
JOKE.)]
One of the most amusing sketches I received was this from Sir Frank
Lockwood. Lockwood and I frequently exchanged caricatures, as shown by
the clever sketches I introduce here and there in these pages. Sometimes
he sent me some chaffing note written in a disguised hand, and disguised
drawing; but the latter experiment, although it failed to deceive,
certainly entertained me greatly. Here is a letter supposed to be from
Lord Cross, a favourite subject of mine when he was in the Lower House.
Seldom a week passed but I made his nose shorter and his upper lip
longer, made his head stick out, and his spectacles glisten. Did he
object? No, no! "Grand Cross" is a man of the world; nor was he ever a
mere notoriety-seeking political adventurer. I once met him at dinner,
and we chatted over my caricatures of him, and I recollect his saying,
"A man is not worth anything if he is thin-skinned, and certainly not
worth much if he cannot enjoy a joke at his own expense."
Sir Frank Lockwood whiled away the weary hours in Parliament to his own
amusement and those around him, but he was not aware perhaps that what
he did was seen from the Ladies' Gallery. The ladies got a birdseye view
of his caricatures in progress. One in particular was the cause of much
amusement, not only to the ladies, but to the Members. My lady informant
related the incident to me thus: "I always watch Mr. Lockwood sketching,
and I saw he had his eye on the burly figure of a friend of mine sitting
on the Ministerial bench. Mr. Gladstone turned round to say something to
him, and his quick eye detected Mr. Lockwood sketching. The artistic
Q.C. handed the sketch (which I saw was a caricature of the late Lord
Advocate) to Mr. Gladstone, who fairly doubled up with laughter, and
handed it to those on either side of him. Eventually it was sent over to
Mr. MacDonald and Mr. Balfour, and they thoroughly enjoyed the
caricature of themselves, as did all their Tory friends. But _we_ had
seen it first!" It may have been this sketch subsequently sent to me and
redrawn in _Punch_.
I recall an incident which happened one evening when I was on watch in
the Inner Lobby to find and sketch a newly-elected M.P., who, I heard,
was about to make his maiden speech, and it was most important I should
catch him. Just as I was going up to the Press Gallery, Sir Frank
Lockwood came into the Lobby and offered to get me a seat under the
Gallery where I could see the new M.P. to advantage. The new M.P. was
"up," so Lockwood went into the House to fetch me the Sergeant's order.
I waited impatiently for his return; a long time passed; still I waited.
A smiling Member came out of the House, and I asked him if he had seen
Lockwood. "Oh, rather," he replied, smiling still; "I've just been
sitting by him, watching him make a capital caricature of a chap making
his maiden speech." When the Member had finished his speech, Lockwood
ran out, and cheeringly apologised to me for his absent-mindedness. "So
tempting, you know, old chap, I couldn't resist sketching him!"
Sir Frank Lockwood was perhaps the most favourable modern specimen of
the buoyant amateur. Possessing a big heart, kindly feeling, a brilliant
wit, and a facile pen, he treated art as his playfellow and never as his
master. And in the spirit in which his work was executed so must it be
judged. The work of an amateur artist possessing a distinct vein of
humour is, in my opinion, far more entertaining than that of the
professional caricaturist, the former being absolutely spontaneous and
untrammelled by the conscientiousness of subsequent publication, of
correct draughtsmanship, made only from impressions of the moment, and
not the effort (as in the case of many a professional humorist) of
having to be funny to order.
An excellent example of the amateur at his best is to be found in the
drawings of Sir Frank Lockwood. No one would resent less than Lockwood
himself having the term "amateur" applied to his work; indeed, he would,
I am sure, have felt proud to be classed in the same category as several
of our most popular humorous artists.
[Illustration: SIR F. LOCKWOOD.]
Circumstances connected with a curious coincidence concerning a
caricature (what alliteration!) are worth confirming.
One morning I was taking my usual horse exercise round the ride in the
inner circle of Regent's Park, before that spot, once the quiet haunt of
the horseman, became the noisy ring of the cyclist. At that time a few
cycling beginners used the circle for practice, and their alarming
performances were gradually depleting the number of equestrians. One of
these novices came down the hill, having an arm round the neck of his
instructor, and one leg on the pedal, the other in mid air. He was
unable to steer the machine, and as I cantered up, the performer's hat,
which had been over one eye, fell off, disclosing the features of
Professor Bryce. The next moment the machine, its rider and his
instructor, were "all of a heap" on the ride up which my horse was
cantering. I had just time to jump my horse on to the path and thus
save my own neck, and the life of the energetic Member of Parliament,
who I noticed later in the day, when sitting in the Press Gallery, was
on the front Opposition bench, next to Sir Frank Lockwood, quite
unconcerned. I made a rough sketch of the incident of the morning, and
sent it down to my brother Two Pins, Sir Frank, with a request that his
friend Bryce should in future select some other spot to practise
bicycling. This was handed to Lockwood just as he was leaving the House,
strange to say, on his way home to dress for a dinner at Professor
Bryce's. Lockwood mischievously placed the sketch in the pocket of his
dress coat, and at the dinner led up to the subject of cycling,
suggesting at the same time that his host ought to try it.
"Well, strange to say, Lockwood, I've been seriously thinking of it, but
I don't know how one should begin."
"Don't you?" cried Lockwood from the other end of the table. "What do
you say to this, nearly killing my friend Harry Furniss!" And my
caricature was produced and handed down from guest to guest, to the
chagrin of the host. That was Lockwood's version of the coincidence.
[Illustration: LEWIS CARROLL'S SUGGESTION, AND MY SKETCH OF IT IN
_PUNCH_.]
Suggestions for _Punch_ came to me from most unexpected quarters, but
were rarely of any use. Lewis Carroll--like every one else--got excited
over the Gladstonian crisis, and Sir William Harcourt's head to Lewis
Carroll was much the same as Charles the First's to Mr. Dick in "David
Copperfield," for I find in several letters references to Sir William.
"_Re_ Gladstone's head and its recent growth, couldn't you make a
picture of it for the 'Essence of Parliament'? I would call it 'Toby's
Dream of A.D. 1900,' and have Gladstone addressing the House, with his
enormous head supported by Harcourt on one side, and Parnell on the
other."
This suggestion is the only one I adopted. Strange to say, neither
Gladstone, Parnell, nor Lewis Carroll lived to see 1900.
"Is that anecdote in the papers _true_, that some one has sent you a
pebble with an accidental (and not a 'doctored') likeness of Harcourt?
If so, let me suggest that your most _graceful_ course of action will be
to have it photographed, and to present prints of it to any authors
whose books you may at any time chance to illustrate!"
This is the "anecdote":
"Someone found on the seashore the other day a pebble moulded exactly on
the lines of Mr. Furniss' portrait of Sir William Harcourt."
Other notices were in verse. This from _Vanity Fair_ is the best:
"For Fame, 'tis said, Sir William craves,
And to some purpose he has sought her;
His face is fashioned by the waves:
When will his name be 'writ in water'?"
I lay under a charge of plagiarism. Nature had "invented" my Harcourt
portrait, and had been at work upon it probably before I was born; the
wild waves had by degrees moulded a shell into the familiar features,
and when completed had left the sea-sculptured sketch high and dry on
the coast. I now publish, with thanks, a photo-reproduction of the shell
(not a pebble) as I received it: it is not in any way "doctored." It is
a large, weather-beaten shell.
[Illustration: NATURE'S PUZZLE PORTRAIT.]
There is no doubt but that at one time Lewis Carroll studied _Punch_,
for in one of his earliest letters to me he writes:
"To the best of my recollection, one of the first things that suggested
to me the wish to secure your help was a marvellously successful picture
in _Punch_ of a House of Lords entirely composed of Harcourts, where the
figures took all possible attitudes, and gave all possible views of the
face; yet each was a quite unmistakable Sir William Harcourt!"
Again he refers to _Punch_ (March, 1890):
"A wish has been expressed in our Common Room (Christ's Church, Oxford),
where we take in and bind _Punch_, that we could have 'keys' to the
portraits in the Bishop of Lincoln's Trial and the 'ciphers' in
Parliament" (a Parliamentary design of mine, "The House all Sixes and
Sevens"). "Will you confer that favour on our Club? If you would give me
them done roughly, I will procure copies of those two numbers, and
subscribe the names in small MS. print, and have the pages bound in to
face the pictures. The simplest way would be for you to put numbers on
the faces, and send a list of names numbered to correspond."
Yet a few years brought a change (October, 1894):
"No doubt it is by your direction that three numbers of your new
periodical have come to me. With many thanks for your kind thought, I
will beg you not to waste your bounties on so unfit a recipient, for I
have neither time nor taste for any such literature. I have much more
work yet to do than I am likely to have life to do it in--and my taste
for comic papers is _defunct_. We take in _Punch_ in our Common Room,
but I never look at it!"
Hardly a generous remark to make to a _Punch_ man who had illustrated
two of his books, and considering that Sir John Tenniel had done so much
to make the author's reputation, and _Punch_ had always been so
friendly; but this is a bygone.
PUNCH AT PLAY.
[Illustration: W]
Well, Sir John, the Grand Old Man of _Punch_, the evergreen, the
ever-delightful Sir John, has earned a night's repose after all his long
day of glorious work and good-fellowship. "A great artist and a great
gentleman": truer words were never spoken. It seems but yesterday he and
I took our rides together; but yesterday he and I and poor
Milliken--three _Punch_ men in a boat--were "squaring up" at Cookham
after a week's delightful boating holiday on the Thames.
[Illustration]
"There sat three oarsmen under a tree,
Down, a-down, a-down--hey down!
They were as puzzled as puzzled could be,
With a down;
And one of them said to his mate,
'We've got these mems in a doose of a state,'
With a down derry, derry down!
"Oh, they were wild, these oarsmen three,
Down, a-down, a-down--hey down!
Especially one with the white puggree,
With a down;
For it's precious hard to divide by three
A sum on whose total you can't agree,
With a down derry, derry down!
"They bit their pencils and tore their hair,
Down, a-down, a-down--hey down!
But those blessed bills, they wouldn't come square,
With a down;
'Midst muddle and smudge it is hard to fix
If a six is a nine or a nine is a six,
With a down derry, derry down!
"A crumpled account from a pocket of flannel
Down, a-down, a-down--hey down!
With dirt in dabs, and the rain in a channel,
With a down,
Is worse to decipher than uniform text,
Oh, that is the verdict of oarsmen vext,
With a down derry, derry down!
"A man in a boat his ease will take,
Down, a-down, a-down--hey down!
But financial conscience at last will wake,
With a down;
Then Nemesis proddeth the prodigal soul
When he finds that the parts are much more than the whole,
With a down derry, derry down!
"Those oarsmen are having a deuce of a time,
Down, a-down, a-down--hey down!
The man in the puggree is ripe for crime,
With a down.
Now heaven send every boating man
For keeping accounts a more excellent plan,
With a down derry, derry down!"
So pencilled poet Milliken. "The man in the puggree" is Sir John,--ripe
for many years to come, and when he has another banquet, may I be there
to see.
_The Two Pins Club_ was a _Punch_ institution.
Original notice of
"THE TWO PINS CLUB.
"There are Coaching Clubs, Four-in-hand Clubs, Tandem Clubs, and
Sporting Clubs of all sorts, but there is no _Equestrian Club_.
"The object of the present proposed Club is to supply this want.
"The Members will meet on Sundays, and ride to some place within
easy reach of town: there lunch, spend a few hours, and return.
"Due notice will be given of each 'Meet,' and replies must be sent in to
the Secretary by Wednesday afternoon at latest. When it is considered
necessary, Luncheon will be ordered beforehand for the party, and those
who have neglected to reply by the time fixed, and who do not attend the
Meet, will be charged with their share of the Luncheon.
"There will be other Meets besides those on Sundays, which will be
arranged by the Members from time to time.
"The title of the Club is taken from the names of the two most celebrated
English Equestrians known to 'the road,' viz.:--
"'DICK TURPIN'
AND
"'JOHN GILPIN.'
"The Members of 'THE TWO PINS' will represent all the dash of the one
and all the respectability of the other.
"The original Members at present are:--
MR. F. C. BURNAND.
MR. JOHN TENNIEL.
MR. LINLEY SAMBOURNE.
MR. HARRY FURNISS.
MR. R. LEHMANN.
"It is not proposed at first to exceed the number of twelve. The other
names down for invitation to become members are--
MR. FRANK LOCKWOOD, Q.C., M.P.
MR. JOHN HARE.[3]
SIR CHARLES RUSSELL, Q.C., M.P.
"We hope you will join. The eight Members can then settle a convenient
day for the first Meet, and inaugurate the TWO PINS CLUB.
[3] "N.B. No hounds."
[Illustration: LORD RUSSELL'S ACCEPTANCE TO DINE WITH ME.]
The Two Pins Club was started in 1890, and flourished until its
President, Lord Russell, was elevated to the Bench. My only claim for
distinction in connection with it rests on the fact that I was the only
member who, except when I was in mid-Atlantic on my return from the
States, never missed a meet. Were the Club now a going concern, I would,
of course, refrain from mentioning it, but as it is referred to in the
"History of _Punch_" by Mr. Spielmann, and in "John Hare, Comedian," by
Mr. Pemberton, I may be pardoned and also forgiven for repeating the one
joke ever made public in connection with this remarkable Club.
One afternoon our cavalcade was approaching Weybridge, which had been
the scene of the boyish pranks of one of our members. To the amusement
of us all, this brother Two Pins, as reminiscences of the district were
recalled to him by one object and another, grew terribly excited.
"Ah, my boys, there is the dear old oak tree under which I smoked my
first cigarette! And there, where the new church stands, I shot my first
snipe. Dear me, how all is altered! I wonder if old Sir Henry Tomkins
still lives in the Lodge there, and what has become of the Rector's
pretty daughter?" etc.
Sir Frank Lockwood, observing lettering on the side of a house, "General
Stores," casually asked our excited reminiscent friend if he "knew a
General Stores about these parts?"
"General Stores! Of course I do, but he was only a Captain when I lived
here!"
When the members lunched at The Durdans our host and honorary member,
Lord Rosebery, remarked that it was a Club of "one joke and one horse!"
the fact being that we all drove over from Tadworth, Lord Russell's
residence, where we were staying, with the exception of Lord Russell
himself, who rode. We had, of course, each a horse: some of the members
a great deal more than one, but we were careful to trot out one joke
between us: "General Stores" became our general and only story.
The first public announcement respecting the Club appeared in the _Daily
Telegraph_, the 4th of May, 1891:
"The T.P.C. held its first annual meeting at the 'Star and Garter Hotel'
yesterday morning. There was a full attendance of members. Under the
careful and conciliatory guidance of the President, Sir Charles Russell,
supported mainly by Mr. F. C. Burnand, Mr. Frank Lockwood, Mr. Harry
Furniss, Mr. Edward Lawson, Mr. Charles Mathews, Mr. John Hare, Mr.
Linley Sambourne, and Mr. R. Lehmann (hon. sec.), the customary
business was satisfactorily transacted, and the principal subjects for
discussion were dealt with in a spirit of intelligent self-control. Mr.
Arthur Russell was unanimously elected a member of the association,
which in point of numbers is now complete."
[Illustration: _This sketch is a propos of Mr. Linley Sambourne's
portrait in "Vanity Fair." Note refers to his being made
Solicitor-General._]
[Illustration]
But the object of the Club being carefully concealed, much mystery
surrounds its name. Few were aware that it was merely a band of
"Sontag-Reiters." Our hon. sec., being at the time prominent in
politics, received congratulations from those who imagined the T.P.C.
was a political association, and much wonderment was excited by the
decidedly enigmatical appellation of the small and select society. Sir
Edward Lawson showed marked ingenuity in retaining the mystery by his
paragraphs in his paper. The first meet of our second season was the
only one I missed during the years the Club existed:
"The first meeting of the T.P.C. for the season of 1892 took place
yesterday at the 'Star and Garter Hotel,' under the presidency of Sir
Charles Russell, who was assisted in the performance of his duties by
Mr. Frank Lockwood, Mr. Linley Sambourne, Mr. Edward Lawson, and Mr C.
W. Mathews. The arrangements for the season were completed, and a digest
was made of the subjects which claimed the immediate consideration of
the members. The President called attention to a delay which had
occurred in the fulfilment of certain artistic duties which had been
entrusted to Mr. Harry Furniss and Mr. Linley Sambourne, and which had
been retarded in their accomplishment by Mr. Furniss' voyage to America.
But it was understood that immediate attention would now be bestowed
upon the work in hand; and the remainder of the business was of a
routine character."
[Illustration: MR. LINLEY SAMBOURNE.]
The "artistic duties" referred to, I have no recollection of, but I know
that at our preliminary meeting, when all matters, artistic and
otherwise, were discussed and arranged, the two following important
resolutions were proposed, seconded, and carried unanimously:--
"That Mr. Rudolph Lehmann be elected Permanent Secretary, and that the
duty of sending out all notices convening the Meets of the T.P.C., as
well as all arrangements connected with the Club, be entrusted to him;
and that every notice of meeting be posted and prepaid by him eight
lunar, or at least three calendar, days before the date of each Meet;
and further, that records in a neat and clerkly style of each and every
Meet be faithfully kept by the said Secretary, and be at all times open
for the inspection of each and every member of the T.P.C."
"That Mr. Linley Sambourne shall provide at his own expense the
notepaper and envelopes required for the business of the Club, and shall
invent and draw a design, which design, also at his own expense, he
shall cause to be stamped or otherwise engraved on the said notepaper
and envelopes, and shall cause the said notepaper so stamped or
engraved to be forwarded to the Perpetual President, the Permanent
Secretary, and the other members, for use in connection only with the
business of the Club."
"It was further resolved that all maps and charts be kept at the
Secretary's Office, and in the event of any dispute, the Ordnance Map or
the Admiralty Chart shall be decisive."
But during the existence of the Club there never was any cause to refer
to an Ordnance Map or Admiralty Chart. There never was a Secretary's
Office, nor did Mr. Linley Sambourne either design or provide the
notepaper or envelopes, nor are there any records in existence, either
printed or written "in a neat and clerkly style," of the merry meetings
of this unique Club. It ran its delightful and dangerous course, its
wild career, unmarred by any dispute or accident. The last "meet" was to
dine Lord Russell on his elevation to the Bench.
[Illustration: PORTRAIT OF ME AS A MEMBER OF THE TWO PINS CLUB, BY
LINLEY SAMBOURNE.]
I shall never forget the first occasion on which I saw the late Lord
Russell. It was in the old days when the Law Courts were in
Westminster,--and I, in search of "character," strangely enough found
myself wandering about the Divorce Court, where so many characters are
lost. It was a _cause celebre_,--the divorce suit of a most
distinguished Presbyterian cleric who charged his wife, the
co-respondent being the stable-boy. Russell (then plain Mr.) was for the
clergyman, and when I entered the crowded court, he was in the midst of
his appeal to the jury, working himself up to a pitch of eloquence,
appealing to all to look upon the saintly figure of the man of prayer
(the plaintiff, who was playing the part by kneeling and clasping his
hands), and asking the jury to scorn all idea of his client having any
desire to free himself of his wife so as to marry his pretty governess,
or cousin, or whomever it was suggested he most particularly admired.
Russell had arrived at quoting Scripture,--he was at his best, austere,
eloquent, persuasive, an orator, a gentleman, a great advocate, and as
sanctimonious as his kneeling client.
[Illustration: THE LATE LORD RUSSELL, THE PRESIDENT OF THE TWO PINS
CLUB.]
He was interrupted by someone handing him a telegram. As he opened it he
said, waving it towards his client, "This may be a message from Heaven
to that saint,--ah, gentlemen of the jury, the words so
pure--so--so----" (he reads the telegram).
"D----! D----! D----!" He crushed the telegram in his hand, and with an
angry gesture threw it away. Although his words were drowned by the
"laughter in Court," his gestures and face showed his chagrin and
disgust. The Grand National had been run half-an-hour before.
Years afterwards, on his own lawn at Tadworth, I told him of this
incident, and asked him what the contents of that telegram were. He
declared I was wrong, such an incident never occurred in his career. I
convinced him I was right--it was the first time I saw him, and every
detail was vividly impressed upon my memory. After dinner he came to me
and said, "Furniss, I have been thinking over that incident. You are
quite right--it has all come back to me. I lost my temper, I recollect,
because I had wired to my boy over there to make a bet for me on an
outsider at a long price; when at lunch, I heard the horse had won. I
was delighted, and therefore at my best when I addressed the jury. The
telegram was from my boy to say that he forgot to put the money on!"
Riding has caused my appearance in a Police Court, but not as a member
of the Two Pins Club. In October, 1895, I was returning from my usual
ride before breakfast, accompanied by my little daughter; we turned into
the terrace in which we live, and our horses cantered up the hill about
120 yards. As we were dismounting, a Police Inspector passed, addressing
me by name, and in a most offensive tone declared that he would summon
me, as I had been cautioned before for furious riding. This remark was
so absolutely untrue that I met the summons, and the Inspector in the
Court made three distinct statements on oath: That I spurred my horse
(when cross-examined by me, he gave a minute description of my spurs);
that I charged up the hill 250 yards at the rate of sixteen miles an
hour; and that I had been cautioned before for the same thing. Now, I
have never been cautioned in my life; the distance I went up the hill is
120 yards, and no horse could get up any pace in that distance; and I do
not wear spurs, although two constables swore I did.
The magistrate, face to face with these three facts, looked the picture
of misery. It was evident to him, as it must be evident to every
fair-minded man, that the police were in the wrong. And when the
magistrate was thinking out this dilemma, I made a fatal mistake. I gave
my reason for appearing as a sacrifice on my part to show the magistrate
the sort of evidence upon which poor cabmen and others are fined and
made to suffer. The magistrate, Mr. Plowden, waxed very wroth, and as he
could not punish me, and would not reprimand the police, I was asked to
pay the costs of the summons, which was withdrawn. The late Mr. Montagu
Williams, who sat in the Marylebone Police Court, the court in which I
was charged with furious riding, gave it as his private opinion that the
longer a policeman was in the service the less he could rely upon his
word.
[Illustration: "FURIOUS RIDING." SKETCH BY F. C. GOULD.
_From the "Westminster Gazette._"]
This case led to all sorts of trouble. I was assailed by people in the
street, strangers to me, for "riding over children." Letters came from
all sorts of societies--Cruelty to Animals, and other excellent
institutions. I found people measuring the terrace; others riding up it
to see if it were possible to get the pace (which it is not), but few
knew the truth. The constable when I left the court remarked to me,
"I'll tache ye to caricature Oirishmen in Parleymint!" However, I was
repaid by the humour the incident gave rise to in the imagination of my
brother workers on the Press. Mr. F. C. Gould made this capital sketch,
and others portrayed my crime in verse. The following was written to me
by one of London's most celebrated editors, and has never been published
before:
"H. Furniss was an artist gent
Of credit and renown,
Who'd ride a horse up Primrose Hill
With any man in town.
"The morn was fine as morn could be
Upon last Thursday week,
And, like the early morn, H. F.
Was up before the beak.
"(Full little dreamed that worthy cit,
Some dozen mornings hence
He would be 'up before the beak'
In quite another sense.)
"Upon two tits of pranksome mood,
The gallant Lika Joko
And Likajokalina rode,
'Desipere in loco.'
"'Cantare pares' rode the pair,
Ad equitatum nati,'
But to a bobby's summons not
'Respondere parati.'
"So 'appy rode the blithesome pair,
They scoured the hill and plain,
And warming with their morning's work,
Rode hotly home again.
"But by the slope of Primrose Hill
The rude Inspector Ross
Beheld H. Furniss canter up
Upon his foaming hoss.
"'Look 'ere, young man,' says he to him,
'There are some children dear
That by the ridin' of you folk
Do go in bod'ly fear.
"'Your hasting steed pull up, I say!
S'welp me, draw your rein!
The innocents abroad, young man,
Are frightened by you twain.
"'Look at yer smokin' job 'oss 'ere--
I seen you job 'is flank!
'E's well nigh done--tyke 'im away,
And back upon the rank.'
"H. Furniss fixed him with his eye;
His brow was awful cross;
He Kyrled his lip contemptuous-like
At this rude man of Ross.
"'The spirit of my gallant cob,
Ruffian, you shall not squelch;
I ride nor Scotch nor Irish hot,
But Furniss-heated Welsh.
"'Mine and my daughter's gentle pace
Could not affright a foundling;
Be off, and peep down areas, or
Move on some harmless groundling!'
"The Inspector glared: 'Come, Mr. F.,
We can't stand this no longer;
I summons you to Marylebone'--
(He muttered something stronger).
* * * * *
"Good Mr. Plowden heard the charge,
As two policemen swore it;
Then heard H. Furniss' defence,
And sagely pondered o'er it.
"'The Inspector swears you galloped up;
You swear you merely trotted:
My own opinion in this case
Is, as usual, Gordian-knotted.
"'Now Gordian knots were tied to be
By magistrates divided;
We cut them--and the severed ends
Do much as once the tied did.
"'In this case, add the paces up,
And then divide by two:
A canter is the quotient;
I think that that should do.
"'A sound decision that will please
Both parties this I trust is;
It is a fine distinction, but
Avoids the fires of justice.
"'You, Mr. Furniss, must disburse
Two bob costs to my till,
And promise me to try no more
Primrose babes to kill.
"'And all in Court, take warning by
The furious Canterer's fate,
And go not up the Primrose path
At such an awful rate.
"'But if your sluggish livers you
Must vigorously shake,
"Vigor's Horse Exercise at Home"
(Vide Prospectus) take.'"
As a matter of fact, the magistrate did not look at the charge-sheet,
or know me, or catch my name, or he might have made
his usual joke at my expense in another way.
[Illustration: MY PORTRAIT, BY F. C. BURNAND.]
Mr. Burnand and I rode a great deal together. Avoiding the Row, my
editor preferred to ride to Hampstead, Harrow, or Mill Hill, calling for
me on the way. Once, when I could not ride, he wrote: "Very sorry to
hear of your being laid up with a cold; it shows what even the Wisest
and Best amongst us are liable to. The idea is monstrous of a _Cold
Furniss_. A _coal'd_ furniss is satisfactory. Don't take too much out of
yourself with riding. 'He speaks to thee who hath not got a
horse'--Shakespeare." Then follows later a specimen of his irrepressible
good humour:
_22 Nov._
"Alas and alack!
I've got a hack,
But the weather's been such,
I've not got on his back.
"I got no jog
Because of the fog,
And up to twelve,
In breeches and boots,
Which I had to shelve
And recover my foots.
I lunched at the 'G'
(So there was, you see,
One _Gee_ for me).
"Then I came back
And wrote some play
But oh, good lack!
No riding to-day.
If foggy here,
At Ramsgate 'twas clear.
"Alas and alack!
I'll sell my hack,
Much to my sorrow.
I'll ride to-morrow,
That is, if fine,
But not at nine.
I shall not start, if I'm alive
And have the heart, till ten forty-five.
"Away to parks I'll trot
To get a little hot,
Also to get a little dirty,
And with you be 11.30.
"Till one,
Then done.
Back to Lunch,
Then to Office of _Punch_.
This my plan, you'll be happy to learn, is
At your disposal, Mr. Furniss."
But excursions in search of material my editor and I had to do on foot,
and were not so pleasing; still, Mr. Burnand always managed to have his
little joke in all circumstances.
[Illustration]
One day he and I were "doing" the picture shows in the interests of Mr.
Punch. At one o'clock, feeling jaded and tired, a retreat to the Garrick
Club to lunch was suggested. "Happy thought!" said my editor. "Better
still, here is an invitation for two to the Exhibition of French Cookery
at Willis's Rooms. Capital lunch there, I should think." So off we went,
anticipating a _recherche_ lunch. Fancy our chagrin on arrival to find
cooks galore, discussing their art, but, alas! their art, like the high
art of the Masters of the Brush in our National Gallery, was all under
glass! Aggravatingly appetising, but absolutely uninteresting to the two
hungry art critics. We soon were in a cab and at the Garrick. As we
pulled up, the greatest _gourmet_ of the Club, that clever actor, Arthur
Cecil, greeted us:
"Hallo, Frank, where have you two come from?"
"Oh, Arthur, _such_ luck! Furniss and I have just had the most
_recherche_ lunch you could imagine."
"H'm--hullo--h'm--where? The deuce you have! Lucky dogs! Eh, what was it
like?"
"Oh, you can see it for yourself; it's going on now at the French
Cookery Exhibition in Willis's Rooms. Special invitation--ah, here's a
ticket."
"Thanks, old chap! what a treat! I'm off there! No, no; you fellows
mustn't pay the cab--I'll do that. Here, driver--Willis's Rooms--look
sharp!"
Arthur Cecil undoubtedly was a quaint fellow and a clever actor, but he
had an insatiable appetite. One would never have thought so, judging
from appearance: his clever, clean-cut face, his small, thin figure,
together with the little hand-bag he always carried, rather suggested a
lawyer or a clergyman. His eccentricity was a combination of
absent-mindedness and irritability. The latter failing, he told me,
would at times take complete control of him: for instance, he had to
leave a train before his journey was completed, as he felt it impossible
to sit in the carriage and look at the alarm bell without pulling it. I
have watched him seated in the smoking-room of the club we both
attended, in which the star-light in the centre of the ceiling was
shaded by a rather primitive screen of stretched tissue paper, gazing at
it for half-an-hour at a time, and eventually taking all the coins out
of his pocket to throw them one after another at the immediate object of
his irritation. He frequently succeeded in penetrating the screen, the
coins remaining on the top of it, to the delight of the astonished
waiters.
His eccentricity--perhaps I ought to say in this case his
absent-mindedness--is illustrated by an incident which happened on the
morning of the funeral of a great friend of his. As Cecil (his real name
was Blount) was having his bath, he was suddenly inspired with some idea
for a song; so, pulling his sponge-bath into the adjoining sitting-room
closer to the piano, he placed a chair in it, and sat down to try it
over. A friend, rushing in to fetch him to the funeral, found him so
seated, singing and playing, balancing the dripping sponge on the top of
his head.
THE CARICATURING OF PICTURES.
[Illustration: THE PICTURE SHOWS.
_Design from "Punch."_]
To feed upon one's own kind is a custom which, like so many other
vestiges of a previous civilisation, seems in the present day to have a
fair chance of revival. We have long had with us the City Cannibal, the
Fleet Street Cannibal, the Dramatic, Literary and Musical Cannibals.
Latterly the Society Cannibal has come more distinctly to the front.
Then why, I long ago asked myself, should there not be the Cannibal of
the etching pen and the brush? Especially as the writhing victims of
those mighty instruments appear to be so enamoured of their fate as to
besiege that comic slaughter-house, the studio of the caricaturist, and
with persistent cries of "Eat us! eat us! Our turn next!" solicit the
"favour of not being forgotten" in his next batch of "subjects."
[Illustration]
It may be a revelation to many of my readers, but I can assure them it
is a fact, that it is only in very exceptional cases that artists object
to having their pictures caricatured. Indeed, many of the leading
painters have given me to understand that the omission of their work
from my sketches would be anything but agreeable to them, although, when
the desired travesties of their pictures appear, they may pretend to be
highly indignant. There is one Royal Academician of my acquaintance who
has so keen an appreciation of humour that he never loses an opportunity
of giving me a hint when his magnifying glass has detected the slightest
element of the grotesque in a fellow artist's work. And that most
amiable of men, the late Frank Holl, could never refrain, when occasion
offered, from directing my attention to the humorous points of his
sitters, although I need hardly add that no trace of his having
perceived them was ever apparent in any of his works. Do artists object?
Well, in _Punch_, May, 1889, du Maurier touches this point:
"What our artist (the awfully funny one) has to put up with: _Brown_: 'I
say, look here! What the deuce do you mean by caricaturing my
pictures--hay?' _Jones_: 'Yes, confound you! and _not caricaturing
mine_!'"
I have even known artists so anxious to be parodied that, if they
happened to have a vein of humour in their pencils, they would actually
send me caricatures of their own pictures. Even poor Fred Barnard once
sent me an admirable sketch, caricaturing an excellent portrait of his
three children which he had painted for the Royal Academy, where it duly
appeared. Others less humorously imaginative perhaps have written to me
assuring me of the great pleasure which would have been theirs had they
themselves conceived the idea which my caricature of their work
supplied.
Although, however, there are so few artists who object to having their
pictures caricatured, there is, of course, another side to the question.
It is indeed most true that nothing kills like ridicule, and in the
course of my experience I have found it is just as easy unconsciously to
inflict an injury with my pen and Indian ink as it is to do good. Let us
suppose, for instance, that a great painter has just finished a very
sentimental work--a picture so brimful of beauty and pathos that it
appeals to everybody, myself included. As I stand before it, and admire,
it is impossible perhaps for me to restrain a sympathetic tear from
making its appearance in, at all events, one of my eyes. But how about
the other? Ah! with regard to that other eye, I must confess it is very
differently employed, and, superior to my control, is searching the
canvas high and low for that "something ridiculous" which, except in the
case of the very greatest masters, is always there. Now what ensues? The
purchaser of that picture, who, mark you, unlike myself, regarded it and
admired it with _both_ of his eyes, congratulates himself upon its
acquisition. I have known it for a fact, however--to my regret--that
after the publication of the caricature the purchaser was never able to
look at his picture again through his own glasses, and bitterly
regretted his outlay.
[Illustration: THE GREAT BACCARAT CASE. MY SKETCH IN PENCIL MADE IN
COURT, AND CONGRATULATORY NOTE FROM THE EDITOR OF _PUNCH_.]
An art publisher with whom I was acquainted agreed to pay a heavy sum
for the copyright of a work of a well-known and popular painter, and
after the caricature had appeared in _Punch_ he resolved to forego the
publication of the engraving from it by which he had hoped to recoup his
expenditure, because he considered that the sobriety of the work was so
completely destroyed as to preclude the possibility of sale; and an
eminent sculptor, who was responsible for a well-known statue which I
caricatured some years ago when it appeared in the Royal Academy, has
told me, since it was put up in the Metropolis, that he has actually
meditated replacing it by another piece, owing to the ludicrous
suggestion affixed to it.
On the other hand, the caricature of an important work is sometimes
received in the proper spirit. Here is a letter from Professor Herkomer,
with reference to my caricature of the work of our greatest art genius,
Alfred Gilbert, R.A.:
[Illustration]
Of course, the caricaturing of pictures has its seamy as well as its
smooth side. Among the annoyances to which an artist engaged on this
description of work is exposed I am inclined to give a prominent place
to the fussy and vexatious regulations imposed upon him by the
authorities at Burlington House. One would have supposed, for instance,
that anyone like myself, who is well-known as merely taking notes for
caricature, would have been allowed to consult his own convenience to
some extent in making his sketches. But not a bit of it. The penalty is
something too dreadful if you are found making the slightest note of a
picture at the Royal Academy at any other time than on the one appointed
day. The object of this regulation is, of course, to protect the
copyright of the pictures--a very proper and legitimate precaution; but
I submit that a better instance of the spirit of Red Tapeism which is so
rampant at Burlington House, and which I am always endeavouring to
expose, could not be adduced than the inability of the officials to
discriminate between the accredited representative of a paper and the
piratical sketcher who is taking notes for an illegitimate purpose. I
need hardly say that this regulation is peculiar to the Royal Academy.
At the Grosvenor Gallery, which, alas! is no more, the officials about
the place understood these matters better, and at all times were pleased
to give every facility to the representative of the Press. The polite
secretary would give up his chair to me any day I liked to look in, and
would often point out to me some comical feature in the surrounding
canvases which his sly humour had detected.
[Illustration: A PRISONER.]
Equal praise must indeed be accorded to the management of the New
Gallery and all the other Exhibitions with which I have been brought in
contact in the course of my professional duties. Personally, as I have
always made my notes at the Royal Academy on the authorised occasion, I
have had nothing to fear from those who preside there. But my friend
Linley Sambourne, who wished upon one occasion to caricature a picture
of Burne-Jones' for a political cartoon in _Punch_ (of course altering
the figures and indeed everything else, so as not in any way to trench
upon the great artist's copyright) was dogged by a detective, arrested,
and finally thrown into the darkest dungeon beneath the Burlington House
moat! Protest was useless. What his terror must have been my pen fails
to describe. Visions of the thumbscrew, the rack, and all the tortures
conceivable rose in the fertile imagination of my colleague, and beads
of perspiration made their appearance upon his massive brow. After weary
hours, when lunch-time without the lunch had come and gone, and the
pangs of hunger began to be added to his other miseries, when he was
reflecting that his week's work for _Punch_ was yet unfinished, that the
engravers would be in despair at not having it in time, and that at that
moment his editor was probably telegraphing to him all over London and
instituting a search for his person all over his club, suddenly the
bolts of his prison-chamber were withdrawn and his gaoler, the
blood-thirsty tyrant Red Tape, allowed the genial artist to return to
the bosom of his wife and family--not, however, without leaving a
hostage behind him. The sketch--the guilty sketch--the cause of all his
troubles, was detained. In vain the harassed artist explained to his
grim Cerberus that the work was wanted for the next week's issue of
_Punch_, and although as a matter of fact it duly appeared at the
appointed time, Mr. Sambourne had to trust to his memory instead of to
the courtesy and common sense of Burlington House for the reproduction
of his skit.
I remember another incident which will serve to illustrate the trials
and misfortunes of the caricaturist when pursuing his vocation outside
the walls of his studio. It was the opening day of the New Gallery, and
as I draw my sketches of the pictures with an ordinary pen and liquid
Indian ink direct, and have them afterwards, like all my drawings,
photographed on wood and engraved--of late years they are reproduced by
process engraving--I was holding my bottle of ink and my sketch-book in
one hand, while my pen was busy with the other. Upon arriving very early
in the morning I thought I must have made a mistake, and that I had
entered a manufactory of hats, for the hall was almost entirely taken up
with hat-boxes. Upon enquiry, however, I learned that these merely
contained the new hats in which the directors would, later on, receive
their visitors. When the hall began to fill, and the fashionable crowd
was pouring in, I was standing in the central lobby, sketching away with
a will, when my friend Sir William Agnew, always early to arrive on such
occasions, happened to come up and soon interested me in conversation
about the genius of Millais and the beauties of Burne-Jones. In my
energetic manner I was debating a matter of some little interest when my
eye caught that of Mr. Comyns-Carr, who, with his newly-selected hat on,
was standing close by and regarding me with an expression of
indescribable horror. "What is the matter with Carr?" I observed to
Agnew; "surely Sargent should be here and hand down that expression to
posterity." But when I followed his eyes as they passed sternly from
mine to the floor, my hat nearly sprang off my head at the sight which I
beheld! Forgetting that I held the bottle of ink in the hand with which
I had been suiting the action to the word in my animated harangue to Sir
William, I had splashed the virgin marble on which we were standing in
all directions with hideous stains of the blackest of liquids. In my
consternation I did not stay to see the incongruous figure of the
charwoman and bucket who was immediately introduced amid the _elite_ of
fashionable London, but fled incontinently from the gallery and, rushing
in where angels fear to tread, sought sanctuary in my accustomed haunt,
the Gallery of the House of Commons. There at least I thought I should
be safe. Presently, when I had somewhat recovered from my agitation, I
was making my way out of the House when I encountered a friend in the
Central Lobby. I was explaining to him the unfortunate _contretemps_
which had occurred at the New Gallery, and utterly forgot that I still
held the bottle of ink in my hand, and on the sacred floor we stood upon
I had perpetrated the offence again!
My only consolation for this chapter of accidents was that the
particular ink in my bottle is different from the ordinary writing
fluid, and leaves no stain behind it. It is in fact merely paint, and is
innocent of gall. There are inks, as there are other forms of
journalism, whose consequences are not so easily effaced or so harmless;
but like the caricaturist's work itself, the material with which it is
accomplished often looks blacker than it really is.
[Illustration: ORIGINAL IDEA AS SENT TO ME.
MY DRAWING OF IT IN _PUNCH_.]
Fortunately all this happened previous to the introduction of the ink I
use now, known as _Waterproof_ ink--ink that will not _run_ when washed
over with water. The manufacturers of this article sent me a specimen
bottle to experiment with, and asked me for my opinion of it. In
replying, I sent the following note. The sketch was touched in to amuse
my youngest boy, who was puzzled by the meaning of Waterproof ink. The
makers, in acknowledging the note, asked me to mention the sum I would
accept if, with my permission, they used the note and sketch I sent as
an advertisement. I replied that they were welcome to use my note, but
that I could not accept payment. However I received in a few days a
large parcel of artists' materials: paints, sketch-books, brushes,
pencils, &c.
[Illustration]
This is more than I ever received for a better known advertisement: "I
used your soap two years ago." I was never offered so much as a cake of
soap from those who used my _Punch_ sketch so freely! Permission was
given for its use by the proprietors of _Punch_, not knowing I had any
objection, and at the time I was ill with fever and unable to protest.
The firm certainly paid me some years afterwards for the publication of
the same advertisement for two insertions in a periodical I was
starting, but only at the ordinary rate. I mention this fact as I have
heard from friends all over the world that I received untold gold for
the use of it, and as it has interested so many perhaps I may at the
same time clear up another fallacy, which I did not know existed until
I read Mr. Spielmann's "History of _Punch_." In that he refers to the
very "oft-quoted drawing (lately used as an advertisement), the idea of
which reached him from an anonymous correspondent. It is that of a
grimy, unshaven, unwashed, mangy-looking tramp, who sits down to write,
with a broken quill, a testimonial for a firm of soap-makers. A further
point of interest about this famous sketch was that Charles Keene was
deeply offended by it at first, in the groundless belief that it was
intended as a skit upon himself. It must at least be admitted that the
head is not unlike what one might have expected to belong to a
dissipated and dilapidated Charles Keene." Poor Keene! How sorry I was
to read this when too late to explain to him that he was never in my
mind for a moment when I was drawing it! But, strange to say, the
original who sat for it was a brother artist, another Charles, quite as
delightful as Keene, equally clever in his own way, and my greatest
friend--Charles Burton Barber, the animal painter, in appearance rather
like Charles Keene, but nothing of the Bohemian about him, and a
non-smoker! Still I am always being told that I had So-and-so in my eye
when drawing the figure. I might in truth quote Sir John Tenniel's
remark _a propos_ of being accused of caricaturing his late comrade,
Horace Mayhew, as the "White Knight" in "Alice in Wonderland": "The
resemblance was purely accidental, a mere unintentional caricature,
which his _friends_, of course, were only too delighted to make the most
of." Ah, those _friends_ are at the bottom of all these
misunderstandings. I could a tale, or two, unfold, but that--that's
another volume.
[Illustration: I SIT FOR JOHN BROWN.]
Yes, poor Barber sat for the tramp, and I in return sat to him for a
figure quite as incongruous in my case as the tramp was in his. I sat
for John Brown for the picture Queen Victoria had commissioned of Mr.
Brown surrounded by her pet dogs, which she had in her private room. She
was so delighted with the picture that she had a replica made of it, and
placed it in the passage outside, so that it was the first picture she
looked at as she left her room. Barber's animals and children were
delightful, but he was weak with his men, and was in trouble over John
Brown's calves,--it was then that I posed for the "brawny Scott," but
only for the portion here mentioned.
[Illustration: A CRIB BY AN AMERICAN ADVERTISER.]
This figure of the tramp in my sketch of "I used your soap two years
ago" has in fact been mistaken for myself. A relative of my own, who has
been living in the Cape for many years, paid a visit to London, and on
his return informed his children that he had seen me and brought my
portrait back with him. "Oh, we have Cousin Harry's portrait in our
nursery for some time: one he has signed too." It was the Punch-Pears
production in colour! I am sure I do not know how ridiculous stories are
received as true, that I got a fabulous sum for the use of this one;
that such-and-such a member of the staff gets a huge retaining fee, &c.,
and other inventions--one in particular. If I have met one, I have met a
score of people at different times of my life who positively declared
that they actually sent that ever famous line: "Punch's advice to those
about to marry--Don't!" and received immediately remuneration in sums
varying from L5 to L500. That joke was probably conceived and thrown in
at the last moment, at the critical point when the editor is "making up"
the paper.
As I am writing these disjointed notes for family reading, it may
perhaps not be out of place just to refer to the domestic relations of
the staff of _Punch_. Our wives and families were invited to meet on the
occasion of the Lord Mayor's procession, when they may have been
observed upon the roof of the publishing office--till recently it was in
Fleet Street--from which coign of vantage they had an excellent view of
the civic show, afterwards having a capital lunch in a room on the first
floor. Yet how much men who live on their wits owe to their domestic
happiness! It is a pleasant fact to be able to chronicle that--I believe
at all times--the domestic lives of the _Punch_ staff have been most
happy. It is rather curious that all of them have made the same kind of
matrimonial selection--they have married "sensible wives," women who
have all been sympathetic, devoted, bright, and domesticated. The wit at
the dinner-table, the humorous writer or the caricaturist in the pages
you read, is a very different dog at home. It must naturally be so. It
is the reaction, and it is to such men that the woman possessed of tact
and cheerfulness is invaluable. In truth, Punch's advice to those about
to marry, "Don't!" has been disregarded by the majority of his members,
in every case with the utmost satisfaction to themselves.
[Illustration: BRADBURY, AGNEW, & CO. LD., PRINTERS, LONDON AND
TONBRIDGE.]