_THE HARMSWORTH MAGAZINE._
[Illustration: A FAIR ANGLO-SAXON.
_From the Painting by A. Seifert._
_By Permission of the Berlin Photographic Co., Bond Street, W._]
THE
HARMSWORTH
MONTHLY PICTORIAL
MAGAZINE
VOLUME I.
1898-9. No. 1.
[Illustration]
_PUBLISHED BY_
HARMSWORTH BROS., LIMITED, LONDON, E.C.
INDEX TO VOL. I.
ARTICLES.
PAGE.
ALBUM, A FAMOUS WIGMAKER'S FAMOUS. By Gavin Macdonald.
Illustrated by Facsimiles 356
BALLOON JOURNEY, A GIRL'S, OVER LONDON. By Gertrude Bacon.
Illustrated by Photographs 400
BEAUTIES, IRISH. By Ignota.
Illustrated by Photographs 484
BLOODHOUNDS, A MAN HUNT WITH. By Alfred Arkas.
Illustrated by Photographs 383
CHESHIRE TOWN, IN A DISAPPEARING. By Percy L. Parker.
Illustrated by Photographs 166
"CHRYSANTHEMUMS CURLED HERE." A Chat with a Floral Barber.
By Alfred Arkas. Illustrated by Photographs 579
CRACKERS, COSTLY CHRISTMAS. The Romance of Christmas Presents.
Illustrated by Photographs 439
CRICKET AND CRICKETERS. Words by M. Randall Roberts.
Pictures by Mr. "Rip" 212
CRICKET MATCH, A VERY QUEER. Mr. Dan Leno's Eleven v. Camberwell
United C.C. By Gavin Macdonald. Illustrated by Photographs 323
CYCLIST, THE CLEVEREST AMATEUR, IN THE WORLD. Remarkable Trick
Riding by a Military Officer 493
DANGER SIGNALS, NATURE'S. A Study of the Faces of Murderers.
By J. Holt Schooling. Illustrated by special Photographs 656
DARLINGS, LITTLE. By Somers J. Summers.
Photographic Illustrations by W. J. Byrne 99
DOCUMENTS, INCRIMINATING.
With Facsimiles of Fatal Writings 304
DOOR-KNOCKERS, FAMOUS LONDON.
Illustrated by Photos specially taken. 216
DOUBLES IN REAL LIFE, NOTABLE.
With Photographic Evidence 5
ENGINE MATCH BETWEEN ENGLAND AND AMERICA, AN. By F. A. Talbot.
Illustrated by Photographs 651
EXCUSE, OUR, FOR THE ISSUE OF A SIXPENNY MAGAZINE
AT THREEPENCE 3
FIRE BRIGADE HEROES, TRAINING OUR. By Alfred Arkas.
Illustrated by Photographs 243
FIRES, SOME SENSATIONAL. By Frederick A. A. Talbot.
Illustrated by Photographs 529
FOOTBALL, MAKING A. An Essential Part of a Great Game.
Illustrated. 444
FORTRESS, THE MOST REMARKABLE, IN THE WORLD. By Percy L. Parker.
Illustrated by Photographs 274
MAN-OF-WAR, HOME LIFE ON BOARD A.
Illustrated by Photographs 86
MAN IS MADE OF WHAT? By T. F. Manning.
Illustrated by Photographs 339
MEDICAL DETECTIVE AND HIS WORK, THE. By T. F. Manning.
Illustrated by A. Morrow and by Diagrams 144
MICE WORTH THEIR WEIGHT IN GOLD. By Gavin Macdonald.
Illustrated by Photographs 631
MINIATURE CRAZE, THE MODERN. By H. M. Tindall.
Illustrated by Charming Examples 197
MONEY, STRANGE KINDS OF. By Robert Machray.
Illustrated by Photographs 639
MURDERS, LONDON'S UNDISCOVERED. By Lincoln Springfield.
Illustrated by Photographs 515
NEWSPAPER, MAKING A MODERN.
By Alfred C. Harmsworth 38
"PERPETUAL MOTION" SEEKERS.
With Illustrations of Machines recently invented 315
PHOTOGRAPHIC LIES. With Remarkable Photos, proving
the Uselessness of the Camera as a Witness 259
POISON DEVICES.
Illustrated 106
POSTAGE STAMPS WORTH FORTUNES.
Illustrated by Facsimiles of Valuable Stamps 327
RAILWAY SMASHES, FAMOUS. By Frederick A. Talbot.
Illustrated by Photographs 227
ROYALTIES, LITTLE.
Illustrated with Photographs by Speaight 590
ROYALTY, TATTOOED. By R. J. Stephen.
Illustrated by Photographs 472
SANDOW, HOW, MADE ME STRONG.
Illustrated with Photographs 23
SECRET CHAMBERS, REMARKABLE.
Written and illustrated by Allan Fea 416
SERMONS WITHOUT WORDS. A Marvellous Performance in Dumb Show.
By Alfred Arkas 67
SKELETONS, MODERN FAMILY. By Beatrice Knollys.
Illustrated by A. S. Hartrick 17
SLEIGHS FOR CHRISTMAS. By J. E. Whitby.
Illustrated by Photographs 558
SMOKER'S MUSEUM, FROM A. By T. C. Hepworth.
With Illustrations 370
SPORT, THE MOST CRUEL, IN THE WORLD. By Sidney Gowing.
Illustrated by Photographs 182
STATISTICS GONE MAD. By J. E. Grant.
Illustrated by Diagrams 609
TEA, HOME OF FOUR O'CLOCK, THE.
Illustrated by Photographs 605
TOY, A £10,000. Complete Working Railway in a Room.
By Robert Machray. Illustrated by Photographs 125
WEATHER, HOW WE GET OUR. By Gavin Macdonald.
Illustrated by Photographs 55
WHISTLER, THE WORLD'S CHAMPION.
Illustrated by Photographs and Musical Examples 546
WHITE "ZOO," A. Lord Alington's Hobby. By Alfred Arkas.
Illustrated by Photographs 154
WIVES, AMERICAN, OF ENGLISH HUSBANDS.
Illustrated by Portraits 289
1898. Your Everyday Life in the past Twelve Months.
By Alfred Arkas 455
3,000 MILES ON RAILWAY SLEEPERS. One Aspect of a Bicycle Tour
Round the World. By Edward Lunn. Illustrated by Photographs 619
STORIES.
BABY SANTA CLAUS, A. The Story of a Christmas Reconciliation.
By Marion Elliston. Illustrated by Harold Copping 521
BEHAVIOUR OF WARRINGTON, V.C., THE. By Percy E. Reinganum.
Illustrated by W. B. Wollen, R.I. 236
CHANCELLOR'S WARD, THE. By Richard Marsh.
Illustrated by F. H. Townsend 73
CHOLERA SHIP, THE. By Cutcliffe Hyne.
Illustrated by Richard Jack 159
CLEVER MRS. BLADON. By E. Burrowes.
Illustrated by Sydney Cowell 645
COUNT AND I, THE. The Story of a Stolen Letter.
By James Barratt. Illustrated by Robert Sauber 447
COURTSHIP BY PROXY. By H. A. Therrauld.
Illustrated by Fred Pegram 461
CROWDED HOUR, A. By Clarence Rook.
Illustrated by B. E. Minns 634
CURSE OF THE CATSEYE, THE. By Alfred Slade.
Illustrated by E. Prater 623
DAPHNE. By Walter E. Grogan.
Illustrated by Harold Copping 361
DESCENT OF REGINALD HAMPTON, THE. By Halliwell Sutcliffe.
Illustrated by W. Rainey, R.I. 189
DESPATCHES FOR GIBRALTAR, THE. By Gilbert Heron.
Illustrated by D. B. Waters 389
DESTINY, MY. A Wayside Romance. By C. K. Burrow.
Illustrated by Fred Pegram 347
EDITOR'S ESCAPADE, THE. By Archibald Eyre.
Illustrated by S. H. Vedder 405
FACE AT THE DOOR, THE. By Walter D. Dobell.
Illustrated by S. H. Vedder 373
FAIR NEIGHBOUR'S PIANO, MY, AND WHAT CAME OF IT.
By Henry Martley. Illustrated by F. H. Townsend 281
"FINDER WILL BE REWARDED, THE." A Bachelor's Romance.
By Gerald Brenan. Illustrated by Sydney Cowell 489
FIVE HUNDRED POUND PRIZE, THAT. By Richard Marsh.
Illustrated by John H. Bacon 172
GASCOYNE'S TERRIBLE REVENGE. A Story of the Indian Mutiny.
By J. F. Cornish. Illustrated by Vereker M. Hamilton. R.P.E. 265
GOLDEN CIRCLET, THE. By Charles Kennett Burrow.
Illustrated by Ralph Peacock 11
HER LETTER! By J. Harwood Panting.
Illustrated by W. B. Wollen, R.I. 61
HIS HIGHNESS THE RAJAH. The Quest of the Yellow Diamond.
By Beatrice Heron-Maxwell. Illustrated by E. J. Sullivan 549
HIS SOVEREIGN REMEDY. By Clarence Rook.
Illustrated by B. E. Minns 94
HOW THE BURGLAR HELPED AT CHRISTMAS. By Lucian Sorrel.
Illustrated by H. M. Brock 476
HOW THE MINISTER'S NOTES WERE RECOVERED.
By Beatrice Heron-Maxwell. Illustrated by Fred Pegram 250
IAN'S SACRIFICE. By Alick Munro.
Illustrated by Ralph Peacock 309
"KLONDYKE, OFF TO." By George A. Best.
Illustrated with Novel Life Photographs 583
LONDON'S LATEST LION. By Gilbert Dayle.
Illustrated by Fred Pegram 595
"MAN OVERBOARD!" An Episode of the Red Sea.
By Winston Spencer Churchill. Illustrated by Henry Austin 662
MISSING Q.C.'s, THE. By John Oxenham.
Illustrated by Frank Craig and T. Robinson 497
MOTOR-CAR ELOPEMENT, AND HOW IT ENDED, THEIR. By Edgar Jepson.
Illustrated by H. R. Millar 49
PRINCESS IN GREEN AND TAN, A. By Arthur Preston.
Illustrated by A. Rackham 611
SHORT MEMORY OF MR. JOSEPH SCORER, THE VERY.
By John Oxenham. Illustrated by H. M. Brock 131
STIR OUTSIDE THE CAFÉ ROYAL, THE. By Clarence Rook.
Illustrated by Hal Hurst, R.B.A. 319
STONE RIDER, THE. By Nellie K. Blissett.
Illustrated by Max Cowper 30
TELEGRAPH MYSTERY, A. By W. B. Northrop.
Illustrated by H. H. Flère. 539
TRAGEDY OF A THIRD SMOKER, THE. By Cutcliffe Hyne.
Illustrated by J. Finnemore. R.B.A. 297
TRAVELLING COMPANION, MY. By Catherine Childar.
Illustrated by Fred Pegram 115
FULL PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS.
"ANDRÉE, INDEED! I WAS THERE LONG AGO."
From the Painting by T.C. Hepworth 669
BURDEN OF LOVE, A.
From the Painting by N. Sichel 224
CHARLES I. ON HIS WAY TO EXECUTION.
From the Painting by Ernest Crofts, R.A. 331
CHRISTMAS, THE FIRST.
From the Painting of H. J. Sinkel 434
CUBAN BELLE, A.
From the Painting by Gabriel Ferrier 219
DAUGHTER OF CANADA, A.
Photographic Study 565
DECEMBER DAY IN THE OLDEN TIME, A.
From the Painting by A. Perez 568
DRAGON AND GEORGE, THE.
From the Painting by R. Holyoake 333
EMPTY CHAIR, THE.
From the Painting by Briton Rivière, R.A. 336
EVERYBODY'S FAVOURITE.
Photographic Study 561
FAVOURITE, THE.
From the Painting by Arthur J. Elsley 110
FOR DEAR LIFE.
From the Painting by Stanley Berkeley 329
GIRL OF THE PERIOD.
From the Painting by Heywood Hardy 668
GOOD NIGHT!
From the Painting by G. Hom 112
GORDONS AND GREYS TO THE FRONT.
From the Painting by Stanley Berkeley 430
GREEK GIRLS PLAYING BALL.
From the Painting by the late Lord Leighton 577
GREUZE'S MASTERPIECES, ONE OF.
Now in the National Gallery 425
HAPPY AS A KING.
Photographic Study 671
"HUSH!"
From the Painting by Maud Goodman 109
IN RUSSIA--THE TERROR OF THE PLAIN.
From the Painting by A. Von W. Kowalski 672
JOHN BULL FOR EVER--WHAT WE HAVE WE'LL HOLD.
From the Painting by Maud Earl 56
JUDITH.
From the Painting by N. Sichel 334
LAKE WINDERMERE IN THE WINTER OF 1885.
From a Photograph 564
LAST ELEVEN AT MAIWAND, THE.
From the Painting by Frank Feller 566
LAST MINUTE, THE. NOW OR NEVER.
From the Painting by T. M. Hemy 443
LITTLE DEAR, A.
Photographic Study 667
LIVE AND LET LIVE.
From the Painting by A. W. Strutt 332
MAKING A MARRIAGE IN THE OLDEN TIME.
From the Painting by A. T. Vernon 221
MANNERS AT TABLE.
From the Painting by A. J. Elsley 330
MEDITATION.
From the Painting by N. Sichel 111
MIRIAM THE PROPHETESS.
From the Painting by N. Sichel 574
MOTHER'S DARLING.
Photographic Study 569
NAPOLEON'S FLIGHT AFTER WATERLOO.
From the Painting by A. C. Gow, R.A. 666
OPPORTUNITY FOR FLATTERY, AN.
From the Painting by D. Hernandez 575
OVERTAKEN!
From the Painting by John A. Lomax 280
PETS, SOME COSTLY.
From Photographs 85
PRINCE, OUR.
From the Painting by A. Stuart Wortley 567
PUSHING FAMILY, A.
From the Painting by G. A. Holmes 428
RUSSIAN BELLE, A.
Photographic Study 571
SALMON POACHER, THE.
From the Painting by Douglas Adams 335
SON AND HEIR, THE.
From the Painting by L. Schmutzler 427
SPAIN, A FLOWER OF.
From the Painting by N. Sichel 108
SPAIN, A LITTLE MAID FROM.
Photographic Study 338
SPANISH PEACE COMMISSIONER, A.
From the Painting by Hal Hurst, R.B.A. 665
SUMMER.
From the Painting by W. Reynolds Stephens 220
SWEET AND TWENTY.
From the Painting by G. L. Seymour 2
TALLY HO!
From the Painting by Heywood Hardy 572
TIME TO GET UP.
From the Painting by A. J. Elsley 426
TURNER'S GREAT WORK--THE FIGHTING TEMERAIRE.
Now in the National Gallery 429
VERY OLD, OLD STORY, A.
From the Painting by L. Alma Tadema, R.A. 670
WAITS, THE.
From the Painting by W. H. Trood 570
WATER CARRIER, THE.
From the Painting by J. W. Godward 222
WHICH WINS?
From the Painting by Arthur J. Elsley 223
WHY NO. I. WAS SO POPULAR.
Head, from the Painting by A. Seifert 563
WHY THE ANTELOPES STAMPEDED.
From the Painting by William Strutt 226
WILL HE COME?
From the Painting by Marcus Stone, R.A. 114
YORKSHIRE LASS, A.
Photographic Study 573
POETRY.
BABY BELLE. By Bernard Malcolm Ramsay.
Illustrated by Harold Copping 482
BABY, IN PRAISE OF. By Barrington McGregor.
Illustrated by C. Robinson 661
GOLDEN HAIR AND CURLYHEAD. By Allan Upward.
Illustrated by J. H. Bacon 435
LITTLE MAID.
Illustrated by C. Robinson 258
ROGUEY MAN, THE.
Illustrated by H. H. Flère 346
ROSE AT LAST, A. By Clifton Bingham.
Illustrated by Harold Nelson 22
SAD FATE OF MISTRESS PRUE, THE.
Illustrated by Robert Sauber 399
SHOE, A TINY.
Illustrated by Archie Watkins 308
SUNSET, BEYOND THE. By Clifton Bingham.
Illustrated by Charles Robinson 235
THREE SCORE AND TEN.
Illustrated by T. Walter West 388
TO A BLANK SPACE. By the Rev. J. Hudson, M.A.
Illustrated by Robert Wallace 576
[Illustration: SWEET AND TWENTY.
_From the Painting by G. L. Seymour._] [Illustration]
OUR EXCUSE ...
FOR THE ISSUE OF A SIXPENNY MAGAZINE AT THREEPENCE.
... _SOME REASONS WHY_.
The beginning of a new Magazine, once an event, is now so much a
commonplace that the ancient excuse of the "long felt want" no longer
serves.
In the days of the Nabobs, the gentle shaking of the Pagoda tree
sufficed to bring great stores of wealth, but these be the times of
the fallen rupee. Your modern Anglo-Indian toils out his existence for
a bare pittance. And it is so in the making of Magazines. One hundred
and fifty years ago the mere issue of the "Gentleman's" stirred to
their depths the Coffee Houses and the Clubs, not only here in the Old
Country, but in our North American Colonies as well.
Times are changed, alas! "The Harmsworth Magazine," though, indeed, it
appeals to an English-speaking audience of over one hundred millions,
will at best provoke a little favourable comment in the train and
the library, for the Magazine field has been vastly exploited, and
especially of late. A modern buyer of periodical publications rises as
warily to a new lure as a twice-shot-over partridge to the gun.
The reader of Magazines has of late years been harried by a direct,
by an enfilading, and a ricochetting fire of new adventures, some
honestly and avowedly frivolous, others portentously literary, a few
loftily artistic. Every imaginable plan has been adopted whereby his
capture might be effected. Projectiles calculated to vanquish by size
and weight of paper have been hurled at him; there have even been
surreptitious and spy-like attempts to enter his domestic circle by
seeking the favour of his wife and daughters by means of "Women's
Departments," all frocks, furbelows, and complexion cures; and worse,
his very children have been attacked by page on page of "Nursery Chat"
and "Tiny Tales for Little Listeners."
Last straw of all, he has been patronised by the vast army of "Great
Authors" of the period. And if the chit-chat of the press is to
be believed there never were in Rome, in Athens, or in the days of
Elizabeth herself, so many distinguished litterateurs as at present.
The unfortunate victim has trembled at the solemn pomp of
"The editor of the 'Monster Magazine' has pleasure in
announcing he has been so fortunate as to secure the
masterpiece of Mr. ----."
or,
"It is rumoured that Mr. ---- has been induced to enter
into an agreement to contribute an important series of short
stories to the "Monster Magazine" during the Spring of 1905.
Mr. ---- is entirely occupied in the fulfilment of various
contracts until that time."
It is "right here," as our American kinsmen have it, that "The
Harmsworth Magazine" comes in.
Together with a great many other people, we came to the conclusion
long since that a good deal of the literary wares that are foisted on
the public by means of the ordinary advertising methods of personal
paragraphs and "interviews" is mainly rubbish. Frankly and openly
do we, therefore, declare that mere "names" will never command an
entrance to the pages of this Magazine. As with our "Daily Mail" and
our other journals, we shall rely on new writers. The public is weary
of the reiteration of the same contributors to each of the monthly
publications. He (and she) wants something new. It is our desire, for
the sake of the public, for the benefit of young artists and others,
and for our own profit, to avoid the productions of the professional
"ring" of much advertised mediocrity which most assuredly dominates
many of our Magazines to-day, though the work of really representative
men and women will always be secured, without regard to its cost.
In selecting the price at which "The Harmsworth Magazine" should be
issued to the British, Canadian, Australasian, South African, and
Anglo-Indian public, we choose that of the two most distinguished
journals in our language, "The Times" and "Punch."
Can such a publication as this be sold for 3d.? Provided we reach
a gigantic circulation, we can do it. We are enabled to issue a
threepenny Magazine containing more expensive literary matter, more
numerous pictures, and more pages than the sixpenny Magazines of a few
months back, at so ridiculous a price, because this Magazine is only a
small incident in an organization controlling four daily journals and
nearly thirty weekly periodicals; because we already possess and are
now building printing machinery of an entirely novel and labour-saving
nature.
The Magazine will be cheap as to price only. In every respect, save,
perhaps, mere bulk, "The Harmsworth Magazine" will compete frankly,
and without reserve, with older friends in the same field.
The experiment, largely due to a devoted band of workers, headed by my
brother Cecil, is at least an interesting one. Will it succeed? Much
depends upon the good word of those who read it. If it meets with
your approval, if you consider that the enterprise is worthy of
commendation, will you make our effort known to your circle?
ALFRED C. HARMSWORTH.
[Illustration: WE ARE FIVE.]
NOTABLE DOUBLES IN REAL LIFE.
_With Photographic Evidence._
[Illustration: _Elliot & Fry, photo._
THE DUKE OF NORFOLK.]
[Illustration: _Elliot & Fry, photo._
MR. G. MANVILLE FENN.]
It is pretty generally believed that the Czars of Russia are in the
habit of employing understudies to personate them when some more than
usually hazardous public appearance has to be made. Whether or not
this is true we cannot take upon ourselves to say, but it is very
clear that if Nicholas II. were in need of a "double," he would not
require to go outside the circle of his own relatives to find an
almost exact replica of himself in our Duke of York. The two Princes
are first cousins, but the facial resemblance existing between them
is far more remarkable than is ordinarily the case between near
relations. It is true, of course, that the Duke of York is a
better-looking man than his cousin, but any make-up artist, by
the employment of a few pencilled lines round the eyes, and by
re-arranging the hair, could transform H.R.H. into an exact likeness
of the Czar.
[Illustration: _W & D Downey, photo, Ebury Street._
H.I.M. THE CZAR AND H.R.H. THE DUKE OF YORK.]
More noteworthy still, because of the absence of relationship between
them, is the likeness of the present Postmaster-General, the Duke of
Norfolk, and the veteran novelist, Mr. George Manville Fenn. Looking
upon the two portraits, it is not easy to believe that Mr. Fenn is
sixteen years the senior of the head of the great house of Howard.
Another curious feature in connection with the two cases before us is
the fact that, although the Duke of Norfolk is almost as much like Mr.
George Manville Fenn as one pea resembles another, his resemblance
to certain portraits of the great Charles Dickens is rather remote,
whereas Mr. Fenn's is very close.
It should here be mentioned that in the case of most of our doubles
the likeness is even more pronounced in actual life than it appears
from the photographs. In many instances the gestures, the walk, and
the little mannerisms of the personages here portrayed are practically
identical. The writer recalls to mind the example of a gentleman
well-known in the West end of London who resembles the present Duke of
Devonshire as closely as the Duke of York resembles the Czar. The
Duke of Devonshire's imitator--if he be such--not only wears his hat
pressed down over his eyes in the well-known fashion of the Duke,
but assumes almost as inimitably that intensely bored look that has
deceived so many people as to the true character of the head of the
Liberal Unionist party. Mere photographs would inevitably fail to do
justice to a case of this kind.
[Illustration: _Russell & Sons, photo._
THE RT. HON. J. CHAMBERLAIN, M.P.]
[Illustration: _London Stereoscopic Co., photo._
MR. AUSTEN CHAMBERLAIN, M.P.]
In regard to the adjoining portraits of Mr. Austen Chamberlain and
that of his scarcely less distinguished father, it is noticeable that
in addition to the striking facial resemblance, there is the same
defect in the sight of the right eye occasioning the use of the
monocle. Even if we take it for granted that Mr. Joseph Chamberlain
has indulged in the harmless foible of dressing his hair and arranging
the cast of his countenance to accentuate his likeness to the member
for East Worcestershire, it cannot be gainsaid that the similarity
between the son and the father is real enough to merit illustration in
this gallery of "doubles."
Jesting apart, those who have studied Mr. Austen Chamberlain in the
House and on the platform, prophesy for him a very remarkable career.
He has much of the readiness and all the imperturbability that have
made his father the ablest "parliamentary hand" since the retirement
of Mr. Gladstone. It is interesting to note that the disbelief of Mr.
Chamberlain _père_ in exercise, as a means of recruiting the health,
is not shared by Mr. C. _fils_, who is an enthusiastic cyclist.
[Illustration: _London Stereoscopic Co., photo._
MR. L. ALMA-TADEMA, R.A.]
[Illustration: _Elliott & Fry, photo._
THE LATE MR. GEO. DU MAURIER.]
The late Mr. Du Maurier was of French extraction, while Mr.
Alma-Tadema was born at Dronryp, in Holland, yet they might have been
twin brothers, so strangely alike were they. If Mr. Du Maurier had
worn his hair a little longer and parted it in the middle, the most
intimate mutual friends of the two distinguished artists must have
found it difficult to tell which was which. An amusing story is told
illustrating this point. Mr. Du Maurier, dining at a friend's house
one evening, was placed next to a lady whom he did not recollect to
have met before. A brief dialogue, something to this purpose, ensued:
Lady: "You know, Mr. Alma-Tadema, that you are supposed to resemble
Mr. du Maurier very closely. For my part, I do not see how the most
superficial observer could be deceived in the matter!"
Mr. Du Maurier: "Pardon me, but I am Mr. Du Maurier!"
Some people tell the story the other way round--with Mr. Alma-Tadema
as the second party in the dialogue--with equal effect.
[Illustration: _Elliott & Fry, photo._
PROFESSOR STUART, M.P.]
[Illustration: _Elliott & Fry, photo._
MR. STANLEY J. WEYMAN.]
These are portraits of Professor Stuart, M.P. for Hackney, and Mr.
Stanley J. Weyman, the novelist. If Mr. Weyman ever becomes a member
of Parliament it is to be hoped that he will not relinquish his
eyeglass. Were he to do so he would run a great risk of merging
his identity in that of the Professor. He might not object to this,
however, nor would Professor Stuart protest very indignantly we may be
sure, were he to find himself suddenly credited with the authorship
of Mr. Weyman's fascinating romances. Let us hope that Mr. Weyman will
not enter the political arena, bestowing on Westminster the gifts that
were meant for mankind.
[Illustration: _Elliott & Fry, photo._
MR. EDWARD GERMAN.]
[Illustration: _Elliott & Fry, photo._
MR. ANTHONY HOPE.]
Most of us have forgotten that Mr. Anthony Hope contested a seat in
Parliament in 1892, but few of us are sorry that the gifted author
failed to get in. Mr. Anthony Hope Hawkins, to give him his full
name, is an excellent speaker, but even that gift is not so useful
in Parliament as consistent and unquestioning voting-power, and until
members are allowed to read their speeches the gift of authorship
will remain at a discount there. A good many of us, perhaps, could cut
tolerable figures at Westminster, but our Anthony Hopes and Stanley
Weymans are few and far between, and we would wish to keep them to
their proper work of literature. Mr. Edward German, Mr. Anthony Hope's
double, is a young composer who has done very well already, and may be
expected to do better in the future.
[Illustration: _Elliott & Fry, photo._
THE RT. HON. CECIL J. RHODES.]
[Illustration: _Hills & Saunders, photo._
SIR J. STAINER.]
A close examination of the portraits of the Rt. Hon. Cecil John Rhodes
and of Sir John Stainer, the Professor of Music at Oxford, should
well repay the expert physiognomist. At first blush it seems hardly
probable that the man of action, the empire builder, should have much
in common with the scholarly musician--though indeed Mr. Rhodes has
"faced the music" right manfully more than once in the course of his
splendid career. Examine carefully the mouths of our two celebrities,
and take note of the well-defined lines leading downwards from the
corner of the nose. The eyes, too, and the contours of the two faces
are strangely similar. There is a dimple in Mr. Rhodes' cheeks that
proves conclusively, if we had no other evidence, that Mr. Rhodes is
a man of humour, nor are similar indications wanting in the adjoined
portrait of Sir John Stainer. If Sir John had taken himself off to
South Africa in early youth it might have been his fate to add another
empire to the Queen's dominions; if Mr. Rhodes had stayed on at Oriel
College, Oxford, and devoted his vast abilities to the study of music,
he might now be occupying the professional chair in that art at his
Alma Mater.
[Illustration: _London Stereoscopic Co., photo._
MR. JOHN HARE.]
[Illustration: _London Stereoscopic Co., photo._
MR. ARTHUR ROBERTS.]
There is a distinct style of theatrical face that we all recognise
directly we see it. For instance, the heavy tragedian with the blue
chin and luxuriant hair, à la Sir Henry Irving, is known wherever he
is seen, and quite a number of pages of our Magazine might be filled
with his doubles. But Mr. John Hare and Mr. Arthur Roberts whose
portraits we give side by side are comedians (of widely different
styles), and are not particularly theatrical in appearance. Off the
stage Mr. Hare might be taken for an eminent Q.C., while "Arthur"
might be supposed to move exclusively in turf circles. Mr. Hare, whose
real name is Fairs, is, of course, the best "old man" actor we have.
In connection with this fact he himself tells a rather good story.
He was in a carriage on the Underground Railway when he met an old
school-fellow. Gradually the conversation turned to theatres. "Are you
fond of the stage?" Mr. Hare was asked by his friend. When the reply
was "Yes," he presumed that Mr. Hare had seen a certain play at the
Prince of Wales's.
"No," said Mr. Hare, "I can't say I have seen it!"
"Then you should go at once," said his friend. "It's a capital play,
and a devilish clever old man acts in it--a fellow named Hare!"
[Illustration: _A. Sachs, photo, Bradford._
MR. MARK OLDROYD, M.P.]
[Illustration: _London Stereoscopic Co., photo._
LORD BALFOUR OF BURLEIGH.]
[Illustration: _Elliott & Fry, photo._
SIR THOS. ESMONDE, M.P.]
[Illustration: _Russell & Sons, photo._
SIR E. GREY, M.P.]
Lord Balfour of Burleigh, the Secretary for Scotland, and Mr. Mark
Oldroyd, M.P. for Dewsbury, are an interesting pair of political
doubles. Lord Balfour (whose title by the way was attainted in 1716
and only restored to the present peer in 1869) is one of the hard
workers in the House of Lords, and knows more about education, water
supplies, and Sunday closing, than an omnibus-full of average members
of the Lower House. When not actively engaged, in his Secretarial
capacity, in looking after the interests of the Northern Kingdom, Lord
Balfour is wont to put in a little light work as chairman of a factory
or rating committee. Mr. Mark Oldroyd divides his time between his
political duties and his business, as a woollen manufacturer, in
Dewsbury. He has been mayor of the famous Yorkshire town, and is as
proud of his native place as his townsfolk are proud of him.
Two youthful baronets and Members of Parliament now claim our
attention. Sir Edward Grey is almost as distinguished in Parliament
as he is in the world of athletics--he is once more tennis (not
lawn-tennis) champion for England. As Under-Secretary for Foreign
Affairs in the last Government, he was a pronounced success--his
manner being voted only less superior than that of the extremely
superior person, the Hon. George Curzon, who ornaments the same office
at the present time. Sir Thomas Esmonde, born in the same year (1862)
as Sir Edward Grey, should have a splendid parliamentary future before
him, for he is a descendant of no less a celebrity than the great
Henry Grattan.
[Illustration: _Elliott & Fry, photo._
RT. HON. LORD ROSEBERY.]
[Illustration: _Elliott & Fry, photo._
HON. PHILIP STANHOPE, M.P.]
[Illustration: _London Stereoscopic Co., photo._
RT. HON. ARNOLD MORLEY, M.P.]
Lord Rosebery has at least two doubles among public men. This is not
to be wondered at when one considers how popular a man is the last
Liberal Prime Minister.
When the Duke of Wellington was living, it was the pride of many a
private citizen to be thought like the great Duke; and Disraeli had
many doubles, the late Sir James Stansfeld being one of them. In
Germany, at the present moment, we may meet passable duplicates of
Bismarck in every town. Who does not recollect the perfect army of
Randolph Churchills that invaded society when that brilliant young
statesman's fame was at its greatest? It is surely a harmless conceit
that causes an inoffensive private person, if he in any way resembles
a great man of whom everybody is talking, to accentuate the likeness
by every means in his power.
But in the case of Lord Rosebery's doubles it is somewhat different.
Both Mr. Arnold Morley and Mr. Philip Stanhope are distinguished men
themselves, and we may be quite sure that they do not spend much of
their time dressing up to the likeness of their political leader.
Mr. Philip Stanhope is a near relative of Lord Rosebery's, and is of
exactly the same age. Mr. Arnold Morley is two years younger than Lord
Rosebery (having been born in 1849), was Postmaster-General in the
last Liberal Administration, and may some day be Prime Minister.
[Illustration: _Valentine & Sons, photo._
THE LATE RT. HON. W. E. GLADSTONE.]
[Illustration: _Westfield, photo, Walmer._
MR. H. PAGE, J.P.]
With doubles of Mr. Gladstone we might easily fill several pages
of this magazine. Mr. Henry Page, J.P., of Deal, is an almost exact
replica of the venerable statesman, and has been the recipient of
attentions really meant for Mr. Gladstone on more than one occasion.
It is a singular fact that Mr. Page's father bore a remarkable
likeness to the Duke of Wellington.
The reader will have noticed already that the greater number of our
doubles is to be found in the ranks of the politicians. It is really
quite astonishing to contemplate how many doubles are to be found in
the House of Commons itself.
[Illustration: _Elliott & Fry, photo._
MR. H. O. ARNOLD FORSTER, M.P.]
[Illustration: _Elliott & Fry, photo._
MR. E. F. G. HATCH, M.P.]
Mr. H. O. Arnold Forster and Mr. E. F. G. Hatch, M.P. for the Gorton
Division of South-West Lancs, for instance, it is said grow more like
one another every day.
The difficulty experienced by the Speaker in attaching the right name
to these gentlemen when they rise to "catch his eye" must be very
considerable.
[Illustration: _Russell & Sons, photo._
MR. J. ROCHE, M.P.]
[Illustration: _Elliott & Fry, photo._
RT. HON. LORD GEORGE HAMILTON, M.P.]
Lord George Hamilton, who, with Mr. J. Roche, M.P., makes up the
last pair of our doubles, is an excellent example of the immense
disadvantage attaching to a public man whose features do not lend
themselves to caricature. Had Lord George overcome his natural
deficiencies in this respect by the adoption of an eyeglass, an
orchid, or an eccentric brand of waistcoat, he might ere now have been
ranked among our Prime Ministers, for it is an undoubted fact that
these details are better remembered by the public at large than years
of devoted hard work.
Disraeli's cork-screw curl on the forehead is less likely to be
forgotten than his splendid services to the Empire, while it may be
asserted with confidence that Mr. Chamberlain's eyeglass and orchid
will linger in the public mind long after his personal sacrifices
for the principle of Unionism are familiar to none but the student of
history.
When at the General Election of 1868 Lord George captured the seat
for the County of Middlesex--then regarded as an impregnable Liberal
stronghold--a dazzling future was prophesied for him. If these
prophecies have not been realised to the full extent it is not, as
we believe, because Lord George has not lived up to his earlier
reputation, but simply because Nature has not gifted him with
a remarkable personal appearance, nor art with a satisfactory
substitute. However, a Statesman even of the first rank who has
occupied with distinction such important offices as First Lord of
the Admiralty and Secretary of State for India, has no reason to be
dissatisfied with himself. No doubt each reader of this article will
be able to add considerably to our gallery of "doubles," but we have
done enough if we have opened up an amusing and interesting train of
ideas.
THE GOLDEN CIRCLET.
A COMPLETE STORY BY CHARLES KENNETT BURROW.
_Illustrated by Ralph Peacock._
[Illustration: "HE VENTURED TO GLANCE OUT."]
Annesley walked past the main entrance to the Century Theatre in the
curious condition of one who is able partly to regard himself from
the outside. The boards were placarded with the announcement of a new
play, to be produced that day week, "The Golden Circlet," by Conrad
Howe. Now Annesley and Conrad Howe were the same person; but it was
difficult to convince the former, who had worked so deadly hard and
failed so often, that the latter was now within sight of what might
prove a great success. Annesley saw people stop to look at the
announcement and read his other name, with a feeling that he was
almost guilty of a serious misdemeanour; he was taking them, as it
were, at a disadvantage; he was almost inclined to tap one elderly
gentleman on the shoulder and assure him that no harm was intended to
him or any one else.
The secret of the authorship of "The Golden Circlet" had been well
kept. Only three people were in the know, and not one of these was
a woman. Annesley therefore felt safe. He had assumed the other name
because his own had brought him no luck; he imagined people shrugging
shoulders and wagging wise heads; he could hear the murmur,--"What!
Annesley still writing plays? If he hadn't wasted his time over that,
he might have had some money left. What a fool the man is!" Annesley
had therefore put down the pen and Conrad Howe had taken it up.
Moreover, Conrad Howe had actually written a play which seemed to
have in it the elements of popularity; hence newspaper paragraphs,
discussions as to identity, and finally the fixing of the first night
and the appearance of the posters.
"The Golden Circlet" represented six months' grinding work. He
had practically shut himself away from the world. He had declined
invitations, paid no calls, risked everything on a last throw. When
the thing was finished it seemed like coming into fresh air again; he
remembered people whose names he had almost forgotten, and above all a
girl whom he had told himself it might be wiser to forget; and, while
his passionate working fit was on, he had almost succeeded, seeing
her only as a possibility at the beginning of success. It is wonderful
what hard work may do for a man, for a time. But when the pause comes
human nature must always have its backward glance, its old heart
searchings, its reviving pains.
Annesley, then, stood watching the entrance to the Century Theatre,
and, as he stood there, suddenly his heart commenced a wild stampede.
He slipped into the doorway of a shop just in time to escape the
eyes of a girl who was walking quickly up the Strand. He waited for a
moment; she did not pass. After a time he ventured to glance out; she
had left the theatre, and was disappearing in the crowd.
His first impulse was to overtake her and make a clean breast of
everything, but a moment's reflection convinced him that, having
restrained himself so far, it would be folly to make a doubtful step
then. Connie Bolitho had probably no idea that Conrad Howe was a cloak
for Herbert Annesley, and he saw an opportunity for a little comedy
not to be neglected. Since his position had grown stronger he felt
free to indulge his humours; a year before life had seemed all
tragedy, with a diminishing banking account, and a sheaf of unpaid
bills. He walked carelessly up to the box-office.
"Did a lady take seats a moment ago; a lady with a red hat and
fur-trimmed cloak?"
"Pretty?" asked the clerk.
"Very pretty," said Annesley.
"Yes,--two stalls."
"Two!" said Annesley, with an inner question in the word. "Are the
next seats engaged--the ones, I mean, on either side of those two?"
The man looked at the plan.
"No," he said.
"Book them to me, please."
[Illustration: "'YOU ARE FORGIVEN,' SHE SAID, SWEETLY."]
The clerk smiled benignly as he handed the tickets to Annesley; the
life in a box-office is dull during business hours.
Annesley walked away with his tickets, feeling that he had done a
good morning's work. He had at any rate made sure of a seat near Miss
Bolitho; if her companion were a man he must brace himself to eclipse
that fortunate individual; if a woman, it did not matter. He would
prefer the woman, for in six months a great deal might have happened.
Miss Bolitho was not bound to him in any way; they had seemed to
understand each other, but a struggling writer with only debts to his
credit, had not dared to lay those debts and a doubtful future at his
lady's feet.
During the next week Annesley's time was fully occupied, but when the
great day came and the final rehearsal was over he had a few hours
in which to feel that almost unendurable excitement which precedes an
ordeal the result of which is not in our own hands. His part of the
work was over, but would the actors rise to theirs? He believed they
would, but belief is a poor support when so much depends upon it. His
excitement was also doubled by the prospect of watching the effect of
his work on Miss Bolitho.
Annesley reached the theatre five minutes before the curtain rose. The
house was full; the gallery seethed like a hive, people were already
standing at the back of the pit. A glance showed him that Miss Bolitho
was there, with a man whom he had never seen before at her side. He
made his way quickly to his seat and was there before she had observed
him.
"You are as interested in plays as ever?" he asked.
"Mr. Annesley!" she cried. He was sure that the hand she gave him
trembled a little.
"May I ask you to forgive me for the past six months? I've been
working terribly hard, almost night and day."
"At a play?"
"Yes,--at a play."
"You are forgiven," she said sweetly, "because you are brave and stick
to your ideals."
"I am rewarded," he murmured. A glance at her face assured him that
her beauty was not less; that, at any rate, had remained unchanged.
"Do you know who this Mr. Conrad Howe is?"
"No one seems to know; his identity has been kept secret most
successfully."
"Do you suppose it is not his real name?"
"I have an idea it isn't; it sounds assumed, doesn't it?"
"I'm not sure. What do you think, Tom? Let me introduce you to Mr.
Annesley,--my cousin, Captain Bolitho, who is just home from India."
They bowed severely to each other.
"We were discussing," said Connie, cheerfully, "whether Conrad Howe
was a real or a pen name. What do you think?"
"I don't know anything about these writing Johnnies. I don't see why
they shouldn't use their own names unless they're ashamed of them."
"Perhaps you don't quite understand, Tom," Miss Bolitho suggested.
"Perhaps I don't!" said Tom.
"The climate of India is so trying," Miss Bolitho whispered to
Annesley.
"It must be," he said, smiling.
The orchestra glided into a slow movement and the curtain rose. I
need not tell you the story of the play; it was simple, but intensely
human, having in it the philosophy learnt in years of struggle, but
always with hope and faith in the ultimate good beyond. It presented
no problem of the gutter raised to drawing-room standard by
meretricious gilding; it had the singular distinction of being
perfectly clean and also entirely dramatic. As Annesley saw his
work develop before his eyes, and felt how it was taking hold of a
breathless audience, he did not grudge the experience that had gone
to its making or regret that he had kept his ideals unsoiled. When the
curtain fell upon the first act the clamour of applause was the true
expression of genuine emotion aroused by legitimate means. Annesley
felt weak and almost sick. He realised vividly what it all meant to
him; he realised, above all, of what little value it would be if he
failed in the greater matter of his love. Connie leaned towards him;
she had tears in her eyes.
[Illustration: "THE MANAGER WAS SIMMERING WITH JOY."]
"This is the kind of thing we've been waiting for," she said. "This is
quite true and human. Conrad Howe should be a happy man to-night."
"If he is in the house."
"I hope he is; there's sure to be a call." Annesley's heart thumped.
"That must be awfully trying to a man," he said.
"Why don't you write plays of this kind?"
"It's rather the sort of thing I've been aiming at."
"Go on aiming at it, then, and you'll succeed."
"With your encouragement I feel I could do anything."
"This isn't a bad play, is it?" asked Captain Bolitho.
"It's splendid," said Connie.
"The fellow knows something, too. There's not all that confounded
footle that leads you nowhere. The girl's ripping."
"She is," said Annesley. As a matter of fact she was a careful study
of Miss Bolitho; for that reason Miss Bolitho appeared entirely
unconscious of it.
"There are only three acts, too," said the Captain; "that's sensible.
Five acts, with long waits between, are killing. I call it taking your
money on false pretences. You don't come to a theatre to hear the band
play."
When the curtain rose again the house instantly settled into silence,
a sure sign that things were going well. Connie leaned forward with
something of the eagerness of a child; even Captain Bolitho unhinged
himself, as it were, and indicated interest by a slightly curved back.
Annesley began to feel master of himself again; part of the future,
at least, was now safe; how much that means to a man who steps from
poverty to the security of a decent income can only be realised by
those who have been in a like case; the mere fact of being able to pay
a debt with promptitude is capable of affording a very exquisite joy.
But, now that so much was within his grasp, he longed for all; the
horizon of desire, like the horizon of the actual world, always
recedes as we advance; since a few months before he had travelled
innumerable miles towards success; that being reached, there was still
an infinite distance beyond.
[Illustration: BEFORE THE CURTAIN.]
In the second act there was a simple love-scene that appeared to
take the audience by surprise; it was direct, touching, convincing.
Annesley noticed that no one laughed, a thing almost unprecedented in
a London theatre when sentiment attitudinises upon the boards. This
gave him a glow of well-earned triumph; he had mentally decided
beforehand that that was the crucial point of the play; when it was
passed he dropped back and closed his eyes.
"You didn't see all that act," Connie said to him in the interval;
"are you tired,--were you asleep?"
"I'm neither tired nor sleepy, I heard everything."
"Didn't you think the love-scene beautiful?"
"Yes," he said, blushing at his own candour.
"I didn't think much of that," said Captain Bolitho, "I suppose
because I can't see myself saying pretty things to a girl. It's not
in my line, you know. I feel 'em, but can't express 'em. My notion is
that the girl should make love to me."
"But you must begin, surely," Connie said.
"That's just the deuce of it," said the Captain, "I can't."
Annesley rose. "I must go now," he said, "to another part of the
house. When it's over will you remain here till I come? I've an idea
that I can find out who this Conrad Howe is. May I bring him to see
you if I'm right?"
"Do, I'll wait for you." He went out into the Strand and lit a
cigarette. The aspect of the world had changed for him; he even saw
cabs and busses with different eyes. Every passenger upon the pavement
seemed a friend, the roar of traffic had new music in it,--the stars
above the housetops looked down with kindly eyes. The cool air put
fresh courage into him, soothed his pulse, made his hope seem real.
Inside the theatre it had been altogether difficult to understand
substantial facts; but out there in the hurry of the street it was
easy enough. There was no doubt about "The Golden Circlet," or Connie
Bolitho, or about himself; they all existed, they all were of the
world. The name of Conrad Howe stared at him from the placards; he
even touched the letters with his fingers to make quite sure. Ten
minutes later he re-entered the theatre by the stage door.
He met the manager in the wings. That gentleman was simmering with
joy, his congratulations were overwhelming. Annesley bore them with
resignation.
"There's sure to be a call for 'Author,'" said the manager; "you'll go
to the front, won't you? It's always better; pleases them, you know.
Do you feel nervous? Come to my room and have some champagne. This is
a howling success, Mr. Howe--nothing like it for years. Just listen to
that applause? You've fetched 'em, no doubt about it. Come along and
have that champagne." Annesley went readily enough; the atmosphere of
the theatre was getting on his nerves again.
When the last curtain fell the pit and gallery got upon their feet and
cheered; the rest of the house was equally decisive if more discreet;
"The Golden Circlet" was a success. And in the midst of the hubbub
Annesley found himself before the curtain, bowing, dazzled by the
footlights and straining his eyes to see one face. And, as though in
obedience to his call, it rose before him, flushed, glowing, with eyes
from which the delight and astonishment had hardly died, and with
lips whose smile seemed tremulous with coming tears. That was the true
moment of his triumph.
As soon as he could escape he found his way into the empty stalls; one
figure remained. As he approached Connie raised her head. The colour
had died out of her face; she was as pale as Annesley was himself. He
held out his hand.
"I have brought Conrad Howe to see you," he said.
"Why didn't you tell me before? It was cruel of you."
"Perhaps it was because I thought that if I failed I could not bear
that you should know it."
"That was not true friendship."
"Did I ever profess friendship for you?"
She hesitated, and played with her fan. A little wave of colour flowed
back into her cheeks.
"You see," he went on, "I was pretty much alone in the world, and had
to make my mark in my own way. A few months ago things were very black
with me. I shut myself up and worked."
"It must have been hard for you," she said, "to cut yourself off from
everything like that."
"It was hard, I'm not going to pretend it wasn't. But I had hope--not
very bright, perhaps, but still it was enough to keep me from going
under."
"You had faith in yourself and in your own work."
"I had more than that. Can you guess what it was?" Their voices
sounded curiously hollow in the empty theatre,--the attendants were
already putting up and covering the seats.
[Illustration: "'I WISHED TO WIN YOUR LOVE.'"]
"You hoped to get fame and money?"
"Yes, but more than either I wished to win your love. Don't kill my
illusion, don't ring down the curtain on my romance, Connie, and leave
me in the dark. Everything I did was for you. You inspired whatever
was good in 'The Golden Circlet.' The thought of you kept my head
above water. I can come to you now without feeling ashamed."
"You might have come before. You need never have been ashamed. I could
have helped you, oh, so much!"
"But now that the dark days are over, you won't turn your back on me
and say I don't need your help? I need it more than ever. My love, the
golden circlet is yours if you will take it from me."
She, gave him both her hands and lifted her face to his.
"I am your's always," she said, "but I think, perhaps, I loved you
better when you were quite poor, but you never asked me then to love
you. Think of what you've lost!"
Annesley took her in his arms in spite of a watchful attendant. "Never
mind," he said, "everything's in the future for both of us, never mind
the past. They may even damn my play now if they like."