The Confessions of a Caricaturist, Vol. 2
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Title: The Confessions of a Caricaturist, Vol. 2
Author: Harry Furniss
Release date: September 20, 2007 [eBook #22689]
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/22689
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CONFESSIONS OF A CARICATURIST, VOL. 2 ***
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[Illustration: AN ARTISTIC JOKE.
_A London Slum. My Parody of the Venetian School._]
THE CONFESSIONS OF A CARICATURIST
BY
HARRY FURNISS
_ILLUSTRATED_
VOLUME II
[Illustration]
NEW YORK AND LONDON:
HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS.
1902.
BRADBURY, AGNEW, & CO. LD., PRINTERS,
LONDON AND TONBRIDGE.
_All rights reserved._
December, 1901.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE ARTISTIC JOKE.
The First Idea--How it was Made--"Fire!"--I am a Somnambulist--My
Workshop--My Business "Partner"--Not by Gainsborough--Lord Leighton--The
Private View--The Catalogue--Sold Out--How the R.A.'s Took It--How a
Critic Took It--Curious Offers--Mr. Sambourne as a Company Promoter--A
One-man Show--_Punch's_ Mistake--A Joke within a Joke--My Offer to the
Nation
_pp._ 1--25
CHAPTER IX.
CONFESSIONS OF A COLUMBUS.
The Cause of my Cruise--No Work--The Atlantic Greyhound--Irish
Ship--Irish Doctor--Irish Visitors--Queenstown--A
Surprise--Fiddles--Edward Lloyd--Lib--Chess--The Syren--The American
Pilot--Real and Ideal--Red Tape--Bribery--Liberty--The Floating Flower
Show--The Bouquet--A Bath and a Bishop--"Beastly Healthy"--Entertainment
for Shipwrecked Sailors--Passengers--Superstition.
AMERICA IN A HURRY--Harry Columbus Furniss--The Inky Inquisition--First
Impressions--Trilby--Tempting Offers--Kidnapped--Major
Pond--Sarony--Ice--James B. Brown--Fire!--An Explanation.
WASHINGTON--Mr. French of Nowhere--Sold--Interviewed--The Sporting
Editor--Hot Stuff--The Capitol--Congress--House of Representatives--The
Page Boys--The Agent--Filibuster--The "Reccard"--A
Pandemonium--Interviewing the President.
CHICAGO--The Windy City--Blowers--Niagara--Water and Wood--Darkness to
Light--My Vis-a-Vis--Mr. Punch--My Driver--It Grows upon
Me--Inspiration--Harnessing Niagara--The Three Sisters--Incline
Railway--Captain Webb.
TRAVELLING--Tickets--Thirst--Sancho Panza--Proclaimed States--"The
Amurrican Gurl"--A Lady Interviewer--The English Girl--A Hair
Restorer--Twelfth Night Club Reception at a Ladies' Club--The Great
Presidential Election--Sound Money _v._ Free Silver--Slumland--Detective
O'Flaherty.
_pp._ 26--130
CHAPTER X.
AUSTRALIA.
Quarantined--The Receiver-General of Australia--An Australian
Guide-book--A Death Trap--A Death Story--The New Chum--Commercial
Confessions--Mad Melbourne--Hydrophobia--Madness--A Land Boom--A Paper
Panic--Ruin.
SYDNEY--The Confessions of a Legislator--Federation--Patrick Francis
Moran.
ADELAIDE--Wanted, a Harbour--Wanted, an
Expression--Zoological--Guinea-pigs--Paradise!--Types--Hell Fire
Jack--The Horse--The Wrong Room! _pp._ 131--153
CHAPTER XI.
PLATFORM CONFESSIONS.
Lectures and Lecturers--The Boy's Idea--How to Deliver It--The
Professor--The Actors--My First Platform--Smoke--Cards--On the
Table--Nurses--Some Unrehearsed Effects--Dress--A Struggle with a
Shirt--A Struggle with a Bluebottle--Sir William Harcourt Goes out--My
Lanternists Go Out--Chairmen--The Absent Chairman--The Ideal
Chairman--The Political Chairman--The Ignorant
Chairman--Chestnuts--Misunderstood--Advice to Those about to Lecture--I
am Overworked--"'Arry to Harry." _pp._ 154-189
CHAPTER XII.
MY CONFESSIONS AS A "REFORMER."
Portraiture Past and Present--The National Portrait Gallery
Scandal--Fashionable Portraiture--The Price of an Autograph--Marquis
Tseng--"So That's My Father!"--Sala Attacks Me--My Retort--Du Maurier's
Little Joke--My Speech--What I Said and What I Did Not Say--Fury of
Sala--The Great Six-Toe Trial--Lockwood Serious--My Little
Joke--Nottingham Again--Prince of Journalists--Royal Academy Antics--An
Earnest Confession--My Object--My Lady
Oil--Congratulations--Confirmations--The Tate Gallery--The Proposed
Banquet--The P.R.A. and Modern Art--My Confessions in the Central
Criminal Court--Cricket in the Park--Reform!--All About that Snake--The
Discovery--The Capture--Safe--The Press--Mystery--Evasive--Experts--I
Retaliate--The _Westminster Gazette_--The Schoolboy--The
Scare--Sensation--Death--Matters Zoological--Modern Inconveniences--Do
Women Fail in Art?--Wanted a Wife _pp._ 190-234
CHAPTER XIII.
THE CONFESSIONS OF A DINER.
My FirstCity Dinner--A Minnow against the Stream--Those Table Plans--Chaos
--The City Alderman, Past and Present--Whistler's Lollipops--Odd
Volumes--Exchanging Names--Ye Red Lyon Clubbe--The Pointed
Beard--Baltimore Oysters--The Sound Money Dinner--To Meet General
Boulanger--A Lunch at Washington--No Speeches.
THE THIRTEEN CLUB--What it was--How it was Boomed--Gruesome
Details--Squint-Eyed Waiters--Superstitious Absentees--My Reasons for
being Present--'Arry of _Punch_--The Lost "Vocal" Chords--The
Undergraduate and the Undertaker--Model Speeches--Albert Smith--An
Atlantic Contradiction--The White Horse--The White Feather--Exit 13
_pp._ 235-271
CHAPTER XIV.
THE CONFESSIONS OF AN EDITOR.
Editors--Publishers--An Offer--Why I Refused it--The _Pall Mall Budget_
--_Lika Joko_--The _New Budget_--The Truth about my Enterprises--
_Au Revoir!_ _pp._ 272-280
[Illustration: HARRY FURNISS'S (EGYPTIAN STYLE). _From "Punch."_]
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
PAGE
An Artistic Joke. A London Slum. My Parody of the
Venetian School. _Frontispiece._
My Studio during the Progress of "An Artistic Joke" 1
Harry Furniss's Royal Academy 3
Throwing myself into it 5
Fire! 6
The Pictures by R. Macbeth:
Potato Gang in the Fens;
Twitch-burning in the Fens;
A Flood in the Fens 8
Macbeth in the Fens 9
Letter from the President of the Royal Academy 11
"An Artistic Joke" 15
Mr. Sambourne's Prospectus 18
Cover of "How he did it" 20
Initial "T" 20
My Portrait. Frontispiece for "How he did it" 21
Harry Furniss and his "Lay Figure" 22
Letter from the President of the Royal Academy 25
Initial "I" 26
A "T--Tonic" 27
An Atlantic "Greyhound." 28
The Saloon of the _Teutonic_. The First Morning at Breakfast 30
At Queenstown--A Reminiscence 33
Bog-Oak Souvenirs 34
The Captain's Table 36
Not up in a Balloon 38
Chess 40
Mr. Lloyd and the Lady. "If you will sing, _I_ will!" 42
The American Pilot--Ideal 43
The American Pilot--Real 43
The Health Officer comes on Board 45
Just in Time 46
"A Floating Flower Show" 47
The Bath Steward and the Bishop. "Your Time, Sir! Your Time!" 48
Americans and English on Deck 49
American Interviewing--Imaginary 52
American Interviewing--Real 53
"Sandy." 55
Chiropody 57
"New Trilby." 58
"Amiable Mr. Harry Furniss" 59
Major Pond 59
The Great Sarony 61
James B. Brown 63
Fire! 65
The Alarm 67
The Throne in the Senate 72
The Throne, House of Representatives 73
Initial "T" 74
The House of Representatives 75
An ex-Speaker 77
An ex-Minister 80
Anglophobia 82
The President--Ideal 83
The President--Real 83
Initial "A" 84
A Buffalo Girl 84
President Harrison's Reply 85
Mr. Punch at Niagara 86
Hebe 86
My Driver 87
Fra' Huddersfield 87
Niagara growing upon Me 88
I admire the great Horseshoe Fall 89
Jonathan harnessing Niagara 90
"The Three Sisters." 91
Inclined Railway, Niagara 92
Where Captain Webb was Killed 93
Tourists 94
American Travelling. Nothing to Eat 96
American Travelling. Nothing to Drink 97
Sleep(!) 100
A Washington Lady 102
A Lady Interviewer 104
A Sketch at "Del's" 105
Young America 106
An American Menu 107
My Portrait--_in the Future_ 108
I am Entertained at the Twelfth Night Club 110
Reception at a Ladies' Club 112
Wife and Husband 113
A Dream of the White House 114
The Political Quartette 116
After the Great Parade: "Am I to sit on an ordinary seat to-night?" 120
Italians 123
Where the Deed was done! 125
"A Youth with a Crutch" 127
In an Opium Joint 128
"In His Own Black Art" 128
"Hitting the Pipe" 129
"Good-bye" 130
Initial "W" 131
Coaling 132
Quarantine 133
Initial "T" 134
Sleepy Hollow 135
Prospectors 138
Quarantine Island 141
I am invited to present myself 143
Landing at Adelaide 148
Pondicherry Vultures 150
The Maid of the Inn 150
The Way into Paradise 151
Paradise 151
Adam and Eve 152
A Type 153
Queen's Hall, London. I was the first to speak from the Platform 154
"Parliament by Day" 156
"Parliament by Night" 157
Miss Mary Anderson 159
Initial "By" 159
Giving My "Humours of Parliament" to the Nurses 162
Speaker Brand, afterwards Viscount Hampden 164
The Surprise Shirt 166
Discovered! 168
The Fly in the Camera 169
Late Arrivals 171
Reserved Seats 172
Chairman No. 1 174
Chairman No. 2 177
The Pumpkin--a Chestnut 178
In "The Humours of Parliament." Ballyhooley Pathetic 181
Harry Furniss as a Pictorial Entertainer 182
"Grandolph ad Leones." Reduction of a Page Drawing for _Punch_ made by
me whilst travelling by Train 185
Down with Dryasdust 189
From a Photo by Debenham and Gould 190
G. A. Sala 195
"Art Critic of the _Daily Telegraph_" 199
Counsel for the Plaintiff 200
Mr. F. C. Gould's Sketch in the _Westminster_, which Sala
maintained was mine 200
Defendant 202
My Hat 202
The Plaintiff 203
The Editor of _Punch_ supports me 203
Sir F. Lockwood and Myself 204
"Six Toes" Signature 205
The Sequel--I Distribute the Prizes at Nottingham 205
Initial "T" 206
The See-Saw Antic 207
The first P.R.A. 209
No Water-Colour or Black-and-White need apply 210
A National Academy 211
The Central Criminal Court. From _Punch_ 215
"Thank Y-o-o-u!" 216
Regent's Park as it was. From _Punch_. A Rough Sketch on Wood 217
The Late Mr Bartlett 220
Sketch by Mr. F. C. Gould 223
The Lady and Her Snakes 226
Do Women fail in Art--The Chrysalis 228
The Butterfly 230
Early Victorian Art 232
Young Lady's Portrait of her Brother 233
Waiting 234
Initial "P" 235
Menu of the Dinner given to me by the Lotos Club, New York 237
Alderman--Ideal. Real 239
J. Whistler, after a City Dinner (Drawn with my Left Hand) 241
An Odd Volume 241
My Design for Sette of Odd Volumes 242
My Design (reduced) for the Dinner of Ye Red Lyon Clubbe 243
A Distinguished "Lyon" 243
Headpiece and Initial "S" 245
A Sound Money Dinner 249
A Sketch of Boulanger 251
Address of Boulanger's Retreat 252
A Note on My Menu 253
Remarkable and much-talked-of Lunch to me at Washington.
The Autographs on back of Menu 254
Mr. Punch and his Dog Toby 256
A Memorandum in Pencil 258
Thirteen Club Banquet. The Table Decorations 259
Mr. W. H. Blanch 260
The Broken Looking-Glass 261
The Badge 261
Squint-Eyed Waiter 263
Coffins, Sir! 266
"The Chairman will be Pleased to Spill Salt with You."
From the _St. James's Budget_ 267
A Knife I was Presented with 268
Tailpiece 271
"Au Revoir" 280
CONFESSIONS OF A CARICATURIST.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE ARTISTIC JOKE.
[Illustration: MY STUDIO DURING THE PROGRESS OF "AN ARTISTIC JOKE."]
The First Idea--How it was Made--"Fire!"--I am a Somnambulist--My
Workshop--My Business "Partner"--Not by Gainsborough--Lord
Leighton--The Private View--The Catalogue--Sold Out--How the R.A.'s
Took It--How a Critic Took It--Curious Offers--Mr. Sambourne as a
Company Promoter--A One-man Show--_Punch's_ Mistake--A Joke within
a Joke--My Offer to the Nation.
"_In the year 1887 he startled the town and made a Society sensation by
means of an exceedingly original enterprise which any man of less
audacious and prodigious power of work would have shrunk from in its
very inception. For years this Titanic task was in hand. This was his
celebrated 'artistic joke,' the name given by the 'Times' to a bold
parody on a large scale of an average Royal Academy Exhibition. This
great show was held at the Gainsborough Gallery, New Bond Street, and
consisted of some eighty-seven pictures of considerable size, executed
in monochrome, and presenting to a marvelling public travesties--some
excruciatingly humorous and daringly satirical, others really exquisite
in their rendering of physical traits and landscape features--of the
styles, techniques, and peculiar choice of subjects of a number of the
leading artists, R.A.'s and others, who annually exhibit at Burlington
House. It was a surprise, even to his intimate friends, who, with one or
two exceptions, knew nothing about it until the announcement that Mr.
Furniss had his own private Royal Academy appeared in the 'Times.' He
worked in secret at intervals, under a heavy strain, to get the
Exhibition ready, particularly as he had to manage the whole of the
business part; for the show at the Gainsborough Gallery was entirely his
own speculation. Granted that the experiment was daring, yet the
audacity of the artist fascinated people. Nor did the Academicians, whom
some thought would have been annoyed at the fun, as a body resent it.
They were not so silly, though a minority muttered. Most of them saw
that Mr. Furniss was not animated by any desire to hold them up to
contempt, but his parodies were perfectly good-natured, that he had
served all alike, and that he had only sought the advancement of English
art. During the whole season the gallery was crushed to overflowing, the
coldest critics were dazzled, the public charmed, and literally all
London laughed. It furnished the journalistic critics of the country
with material for reams of descriptive articles and showers of personal
paragraphs, and whether relished or disrelished by particular members of
the artistic profession, at least proved to them, as to the world at
large, the varied powers (in some phases hitherto unsuspected) and
exuberant energies of the Harry Furniss whose name was now on the tongue
and whose bold signature was familiar to the eyes of that not easily
impressed entity, the General Public._
_"In fact, London had never seen anything so original as Harry Furniss's
Royal Academy. The work of one man, and that man one of the busiest
professional men in town. Indeed it might be thought that at the age of
thirty, with all the foremost magazines and journals waiting on his
leisure, with a handsome income and an enviable social position assured,
ambition could hardly live in the bosom of an artist in black and white.
Unlike Alexander, our hero did not sit down and weep that no kingdom
remained to conquer, but set quietly to work to create a new realm all
his own. His Royal Academy, although presented by himself to the public
as an 'artistic joke,' showed that he could not only use the brush on a
large scale, but that he could compose to perfection, and after the
exuberant humour of the show, nothing delighted and surprised the
public more than the artistic quality and finished technique in much of
the work, a finish far and away above the work of any caricaturist of
our time."_
[Illustration]
The idea first occurred to me at a friend's house, when my host after
dinner took me into the picture gallery to show me a portrait of his
wife just completed by Mr. Slapdash, R.A. It stood at the end of the
gallery, the massive frame draped with artistic care, while attendants
stood obsequiously round, holding lights so as to display the _chef
d'[oe]uvre_ to the utmost advantage. As I beheld the picture for the
first time I was simply struck dumb by the excessively bad work which it
contained. The dictates of courtesy of course required that I should say
all the civil things I could about it, but I could hardly repress a
smile when I heard someone else pronounce the portrait to be charming.
However, as my host seemed to think that perhaps I was too near, and
that the work might gain in enchantment if I gave it a little distance,
we moved towards the other end of the gallery and, at his suggestion,
looked into an antiquated mirror, where I got in the half light what
seemed a reflection of it. The improvement was obvious, and I told my
friend so. I told him that the effect was now so lifelike that the
figure seemed to be moving; but when he in turn gazed into the glass he
explained somewhat testily that I was not looking at his wife's portrait
at all, but at the white parrot in the cage hard by. The moral of this
incident is that if patrons of art in their pursuit of eccentricities
will pay large sums to an artist for placing a poor portrait in a
massive frame with drapery hanging round it in the most approved modern
style, and be satisfied with such a result, they must not be surprised
if a parrot should be mistaken for a framed type of beauty. I was,
however, not satisfied until I had examined the picture in question
closely and honestly in the full light of day, when I saw that Mr.
Slapdash, R.A., had sold his autograph and a soiled canvas in lieu of a
portrait to my rich but too easily pleased friend.
As I walked back into the drawing-room, one of the musical humorists of
the day was cleverly taking off the weak points of his brother
musicians, and bringing out into strong light their peculiarities and
faults of style. The entertainment, however, did not tend to raise my
drooping spirits, for I was sad to think how low our modern art had
sunk, and with a heavy heart and a sigh for the profession I pursue, I
went sadly home. Of course my pent-up feelings had to find relief, so my
poor wife had to listen to an extempore lecture which I then and there
delivered to her on portraiture past and present--a lecture which I fear
would hardly commend itself to the Association for the Advancement of
British Art. Further, I asked myself why should I not take a leaf out of
the musical humorist's book and like him expose the tricks and
eccentricities of British art in the present day?
The following morning, being a man of action as well as of word, I
started my "Artistic Joke." I was determined to keep the matter secret,
so I worked with my studio doors closed, and as each picture was
finished it was placed behind some heavy curtains, secure from
observation, and I kept my secret for three years, until the work was
complete.
I soon found that I had set myself a task of no little magnitude. Before
I could really make a start I had to examine each artist's work
thoroughly. I studied specimens of the work of each at various periods
of his or her career. I had to discover their mannerisms, their
idiosyncrasies and ideas, if they had any, their tricks of brushwork,
and all the technicalities of their art. Then I designed a picture
myself in imitation of each artist. In a very few instances only did I
parody an actual work. This fact was generally lost sight of by those
who visited the Exhibition. The public imagined that I simply took a
certain picture of a particular artist and burlesqued it. I did this
certainly in the case of Millais' "Cinderella" and one or two others;
but in the vast majority of the works exhibited, even in Marcus Stone's
"Rejected Addresses," which appeared to so many as if it must have been
a direct copy of some picture of his, the idea was entirely evolved out
of my own imagination. In thinking out the various pictures I devoted
the greatest care to accuracy of detail. I was particular as to the
shape of each, and even went so far as to obtain frames in keeping with
those used by the different artists. Of course it was out of the
question for me to do the pictures in colour, which would have required
a lifetime, and probably tempted me to break faith with my idea; not to
mention the fact that I should in that case most likely have sent the
collection to the Academy, of which obtuse body, if there is any justice
in it, I must then naturally have been elected a full-blown member.
[Illustration: THROWING MYSELF INTO IT.]
In order to get the Exhibition finished in time, I often had to work far
into the night, and on one occasion when I was thus secretly engaged in
my studio upon these large pictures until the small hours, I remember a
catastrophe very nearly happened which would have put a finishing touch
of a very different kind to that which I intended, not only to the
picture, but to the artist himself. It happened thus. About three
o'clock in the morning, long after the household had retired to rest, I
became conscious of a smell of burning. I made a minute search round the
studio, but could not discover the slightest indication of an incipient
conflagration. Then a dreadful thought occurred to me. Beneath the
studio is a vault, access to which is gained by a trap-door in the
floor. Could it be that the secret of my "Artistic Joke" had become
common property in the artistic world, and that some vindictive
Academician, bent upon preventing the impending caricature of his _chef
d'[oe]uvre_, was even now, like another Guy Fawkes, concealed below, and
in the dead of night was already commencing his diabolical attempt to
roast me alive in the midst of my caricatures? Up went the trap-door,
and with candle in hand I explored the vault. The result was to calm my
apprehensions upon this score, for there was no one there. Still
mystified as to where the smell of fire, now distinctly perceptible,
came from, I next walked round the outside of my studio, exciting
evident suspicion in the mind of the policeman on his beat. No, there
was not a spark to be seen; no keg of gunpowder, no black leather bag,
no dynamite, no infernal machine. I returned into the house and went
upstairs, roused all my family and servants, who, after a close
examination, returned to their beds, assuring me that all was safe
there, and half wondering whether the persistent pursuit of caricaturing
does not produce an enfeebling effect upon the mind. Consoled by their
assurances, I returned once more to my studio, where the burning smell
grew worse and worse. However, concluding that it was due to some fire
in the neighbourhood, I settled down to work once more; but hardly had I
taken my brush in hand when showers of sparks and particles of
smouldering wood began to descend upon my head and shoulders, and cover
the work I was engaged on. I started up, and looking up at my big
sunlight, saw to my horror that I had wound up my easel, which is twelve
feet high, and more nearly resembles a guillotine than anything else, so
far that the top of it was in immediate contact with the gas, and
actually alight!
[Illustration: FIRE!]
The _Times_ took the unusual course of giving, a month in advance of its
opening on April 23rd, 1887, a preliminary notice of this Exhibition.
It said: "A novel Exhibition, for which we venture to prophesy no
little success, is being prepared by Harry Furniss of _Punch_ celebrity.
As everyone knows, Mr. Furniss has long adorned the columns of our
contemporary with pictorial parodies of the chief pictures of the Royal
Academy, the Grosvenor, and other shows, and it has now occurred to him
to develop this idea and to have a humorous Royal Academy of his own. He
has taken the Gainsborough Gallery in Old Bond Street, which he will
fill some time before the opening of Burlington House with a display of
elaborate travesties of the works of all the best known artists of the
day. There will be seventy pictures in black and white, many of them
large size, turning into good-natured ridicule the works of every
painter, good and bad, whose pictures are familiar to the public," etc.,
etc. This gives a very fair idea of the nature and objects of my "Royal
Academy." My aim was to burlesque not so much individual works as
general style, not so much specific performances as habitual manner. As
an example I take the work of that clever decorative painter and etcher,
Mr. R. W. Macbeth, A.R.A. By his permission I here reproduce reductions
in black and white of three of his well-known pictures, and side by side
I show my parody of his style and composition--not, as you will observe,
a caricature of any _one_ picture, but a boiling down of _all_ into an
original picture of my own in which I emphasise his mannerisms.
Furthermore, in my catalogue I parodied the same artist's mannerism in
drawing in black and white, and with one or two exceptions this applies
to all the works I exhibited. I hit upon a new idea for the illustrated
catalogue. The illustrations, with few exceptions, did not convey any
idea of the composition of the pictures, and in many cases they were
designed to further the idea and object of the Exhibition by reference
to pictures not included therein. My joke was that the Exhibition could
not be understood by anyone without a catalogue, and the catalogue could
not be understood by anyone without seeing the Exhibition. Therefore
everyone visiting the Exhibition had to buy a catalogue, and everyone
seeing the catalogue had to visit the Exhibition. _Q.E.D.!_ The idea,
the catalogue, and everything connected with this "Artistic Joke"
were my own, with the exception of the title, which was so happily
supplied by Mr. Humphry Ward as the heading to the preliminary notice he
wrote for the _Times_. _At the last moment_ I called in my fellow-worker
on _Punch_, Mr. E. J. Milliken, to assist me with some of the
letterpress of the catalogue and write the verses for it. I had all but
a small portion of the catalogue written before he so kindly gave this
assistance, but at the suggestion of a mutual friend I gave him half the
profits of the catalogue, which amounted to several hundred pounds. I am
obliged to make this point clear, as to my astonishment it was reported
that the whole Exhibition was a joint affair, no doubt originated by Mr.
Punch in a few lines: "When two of Mr. Punch's young men put their heads
together to produce so excellent a literary and artistic a joke as that
now on view at the Gainsborough Gallery----" This was accepted as a
matter of fact by many, not knowing that this "joke," my work of years,
was a secret in the _Punch_ circle as outside it. The false impression
which Mr. Punch had originated he corrected in his Happy Thought way:
"_The Artistic Jubilee Jocademy in Bond Street._--The fire insurances on
the building will be uncommonly heavy because there is to be a show of
Furniss's constantly going on inside. Why not call it 'Furniss Abbey
Thoughts?'"
[Illustration: POTATO GANG IN THE FENS.
TWITCH-BURNING IN THE FENS.
A FLOOD IN THE FENS.
THE PICTURES BY R. MACBETH.
_Reproduced by permission of the Artist._]
[Illustration: MACBETH IN THE FENS.
_My parody in "An Artistic Joke" of Mr. Macbeth's composition and style
of work, showing that in my "Academy" I did not parody one subject, but
designed a picture embodying all the characteristics of the Artist._]
The following brief correspondence passed between the President of the
Royal Academy and myself:--
"Mr. Harry Furniss presents his compliments to Sir Frederick
Leighton and trusts he will forgive being bothered with the
following little matter.
"Sir Frederick is no doubt aware of Mr. Furniss's intention to have
a little Exhibition in Bond Street this spring,--a good-natured
parody on the Royal Academy. The title settled upon--the only one
that explains its object--is
"HARRY FURNISS'S
"ROYAL ACADEMY,
"'AN ARTISTIC JOKE.'"
"In this particular case the authorities (Mr. Furniss is informed)
see no objection to the use of the word _Royal_ pure and simple,
but as a matter of etiquette he thinks it right to ask the question
of Sir Frederick Leighton also.
"_March 11th, 1887._"
[Illustration: LETTER FROM THE PRESIDENT OF THE ROYAL ACADEMY.]
A word or two may not be out of place here on the practical difficulties
which beset an artist who opens an Exhibition on his own account, and is
forced by circumstances to become his own "exploiteur." Men may have
worked with a more ambitious object, but certainly no man can ever have
worked harder than I did at this period. Outside work was pouring in, my
current _Punch_ work seemed to be increasing, but I never allowed
"Furniss's Folly" (as some good-natured friend called my Exhibition at
the moment) to interfere with it. I had only arranged with a "business
man" to take the actual "running" of the show off my hands, and he was
to have half the profits if there should happen to be any. At the
critical moment, when I was working night and day at my easel, when in
fact the "murther was out" and the date actually settled for the
"cracking" of my joke--in short, when I fondly imagined that all the
arrangements were made, I received a letter from my "business" friend
backing out of the affair, "as he doubted its success." Half-an-hour
after the receipt of this staggerer (I have never had time to reply to
it) I was dashing into Bond Street, where I quickly made all
arrangements for the hire of a gallery and the necessary printing,
engaged an advertising agent and staff, and myself saw after the
thousand and one things indispensable to an undertaking of this kind.
And all this extraneous worry continued to hamper my studio work until
the Exhibition was actually opened. Of course I had to make hurried
engagements at any price, and consequently bad ones for me. Every
householder is aware that should he change his abode he is surrounded in
his new home by a swarm of local tradespeople and others anxious to get
something out of him. Well, my experience upon entering the world of
"business," hitherto strange to me, was precisely the same. All sorts of
parasites try to fasten themselves on to you. Business houses regard you
as an amateur, and consequently you pay dearly for your experience. You
are not up to the tricks of the trade, and although you may not
generally be written down an ass, you must in your new vocation pay your
footing. It is therefore incumbent upon anyone entering the world of
trade for the first time to keep his wits very much about him.
The local habitation for my Exhibition, which upon the spur of the
moment I was fortunate enough to find in Bond Street, was called for
some inexplicable reason the Gainsborough Gallery, and thereby hangs a
tale. One afternoon there arrived a venerable dowager in a gorgeous
canary-coloured chariot, attended by her two colossal footmen. She
sailed into the gallery, which, fortunately for the old and scant of
breath, was on the ground floor, and slightly raising the pince-nez on
her aristocratic nose, looked about her with an air of bewilderment.
Then going up to my secretary she said, "Surely! these are not by
Gainsborough?"
"No, madam," was the reply. "This is the Gainsborough Gallery, but the
pictures are by Harry Furniss."
Almost fainting on the spot, the old lady called for her salts, her
stick, and her attendants three, and was rapidly driven away from the
scene of her lamentable mistake.
The public attendance at the "The Artistic Joke" was prodigious from the
first. Even upon the private view day, when I introduced a novelty, and
instead of inviting everybody who is somebody to pay a gratuitous visit
to the show, raised the entrance fee to half-a-crown, the fashionable
crowd besieged the doors from an early hour, and made a very
considerable addition to my treasury. Those of my readers, however, who
did not pay a visit to the Gainsborough will be better able to realise
the amount of patronage we received, notwithstanding the numerous
attractions of the "Jubilee" London season, if I relate an incident
which occurred on the Saturday after we opened. It was the "private
view" of the Grosvenor Gallery, and the crowd was immense. Indeed, many
ladies and gentlemen were returning to their carriages without going
through the rooms, not, like my patron the dowager, because they were
disappointed at not finding the work of the old masters, but because the
visitors were too numerous and the atmosphere too oppressive. As I
passed through the people I heard a lady who was stepping into her
carriage say to a friend, "I have just come from 'The Artistic Joke,'
and the crowd is even worse there. They have had to close the doors
because the supply of catalogues was exhausted." This soon caused me to
quicken my pace, and hastening down the street to my own Exhibition, I
found the police standing at the doors and the people being turned away.
The simple explanation of this was that so great had been the public
demand that the stock of catalogues furnished by the printers was
exhausted early in the afternoon, and as it was quite impossible to
understand the caricatures without a catalogue, there was no alternative
but to close the doors until some more were forthcoming.
Finding the telephone was no use, I was soon in a hansom bound for the
City, intending by hook or by crook to bring back with me the
much-needed catalogues, or the body of the printer dead or alive. Upon
arriving in the City, however, to my chagrin I found his place of
business closed, though the caretaker, with a touch of fiendish
malignity, showed me through a window whole piles of my non-delivered
catalogues. Not to be beaten, I hastened back to the West End and
despatched a very long and explicit telegram to the printer at his
private house (of course he would not be back in the City until Monday),
requiring him, under pain of various severe penalties, to yield up my
catalogues instanter. As I stood in the post office of Burlington House
anxiously penning this message, and harassed into a state of almost
feverish excitement, the sounds of martial music and the tramp of armed
men in the adjacent courtyard fell upon my distracted ear. With a sickly
and sardonic smile upon my face I laid down the pen and peeped through
the door.
"Yes! I see it all now," I muttered. "The whole thing is a plant. The
printer was bribed, and, _coute que coute_, the Academy has decided to
take my body! Hence the presence of the military; and see, those
cooks--what are they doing here in their white caps? My body! Ha! then
nothing short of cannibalism is intended!"
This frightful thought almost precipitated me into the very ranks of the
soldiery, when I discovered that the corps was none other than that of
the Artist Volunteers, which contains several of my friends. Seizing one
of those whom I chanced to recognise, I hurriedly whispered in his ear
the thoughts of impending butchery which were passing in my terrified
mind. But he only laughed. "You will disturb their digestions, my dear
Furniss, some other way," he said, "than by providing them with a _piece
de resistance_. Make your mind easy, for we are only here to do honour
to the guests. This is the banqueting night of the Royal Academy."
From what I heard, some amusing incidents occurred in the house at my
"Royal Academy."
[Illustration: "AN ARTISTIC JOKE."
_A portion of my parody of the work of Sir Alma Tadema, R.A._]
It was no uncommon sight to see the friends and relatives, even the sons
and daughters, of certain well-known Academicians standing opposite the
parody of a particular picture, and hugely enjoying it at the expense of
the parent or friend who had painted the original. Other R.A.'s, who
went about pooh-poohing the whole affair, and saying that they intended
to ignore it altogether, turned up nevertheless in due time at the
Gainsborough, where, it is true, they did not generally remain very
long. They had not come to see the Exhibition, but only their own
pictures. One glance was usually enough, and then they vanished. The
critics (and their friends) of course remained longer. Even Mr. Sala
went in one day and seemed to be immensely tickled by what he saw.
Strange to relate, however, when he had passed through about one-third
of the show, he was observed to stop abruptly, turn himself round, and
flee away incontinently, never to be seen there again. I was much
puzzled to discover a reason for this remarkable man[oe]uvre, the more
so as at that time I had not wounded his _amour propre_ by indulging in
an "Artistic Joke" of much more diminutive proportions at his expense,
or, as it subsequently turned out, at my own. Since, however, the
world-famous trial of _Sala_ v. _Furniss_ I have looked carefully over
all the pictures in my Royal Academy, with a view to throwing some light
upon the critic's abrupt departure. I remain, nevertheless, in the dark,
for the most rigid scrutiny has failed to reveal to me one single
feature in the show, not even a Grecian nose, or a foot with six toes,
which could have jarred upon the refined taste of the most sensitive of
journalists. I shall return to Mr. Sala in another portion of these
confessions, but am more concerned now with the parasites, the artistic
failures, the common showmen, the traffickers in various wares, and
other specimens of more or less impecunious humanity, who applied to me
to let them participate in the profits of a success which I had toiled
so hard to achieve. In imitation of Barnum, I might have had, if I had
been so inclined, a series of side shows, ranging in kind from the big
diamond which a well-known firm in Bond Street asked me to let them
exhibit, to the "Queen's Bears" and a curious waxwork of a bald old man
which by means of electricity showed the gradual alterations of tint
produced by the growth of intemperance. One of these applications I was
for a moment inclined to entertain. It has more than once been proposed
that to enable the British public to take its annual bolus at Burlington
House with less nausea, the Royal Academy should introduce a band of
some sort, so that under the influence of its inspiriting strains the
masterpieces might be robbed of a little of their tameness, the portrait
of My Lord Knoshoo might seem less out of place in a public Exhibition,
and the insanities of certain demented colourists might be made less
obtrusive monopolists of one's attention. Therefore, when "a musical
lady and her daughters" applied to me for permission to give "Soirees
Musicales" at the Gainsborough, it struck me for a moment that it would
be effective to forestall the action of the Academy; but on second
thoughts I reflected that as the Burlington House band would probably be
of the same quality as the pictures, it would be adhering more closely
to the spirit of my "Artistic Joke" if I gave my patrons a barrel organ
or a hurdy-gurdy which should play the "Old Hundredth" by steam.
Although one would have thought that a single visit of a few hours'
duration would have sufficed to go through a humorous Exhibition of this
kind, I found that several people became _habitues_ of the place, and
paid many visits; but it is of course possible to have too much of a
good thing, and a joke loses its point when you have too much of it. No
better illustration of this can be afforded than in the case of my own
secretary at the time, who had sat in the Exhibition for many months.
One day, when the plates were being prepared for an album which I
published as a souvenir of the show, the engraver arrived with a proof.
[Illustration: MR. SAMBOURNE'S PROSPECTUS.]
"But there is some mistake here," said my secretary. "We have no such
picture as that on the premises."
The engraver was puzzled, and as he seemed rather sceptical upon the
point, he was allowed to look round, and speedily found the picture he
had copied. It had actually been close at my secretary's elbow since the
"Artistic Joke" was opened to the public, but as the pictures were all
under glass, I suppose he had only seen his own reflection when gazing
at them. It was this perhaps which caused another gentleman whom I have
before mentioned to beat so hasty a retreat. Both of them may have been
frightened by what they saw.
The suggestion that I should be run as a public company emanated from
the fertile brain of my friend Mr. Linley Sambourne. This is his rough
idea of the prospectus:
This Company has been formed to acquire the sole exclusive
concession of the marvellous and rapid power of production of the
above-mentioned Managing Director, and to take over the same as a
going concern.
These productions have been in continual flow for many years past,
and are too well known to need any assurance of the possibility of
a failure of supply. It is therefore with the utmost confidence
that this sure and certain investment is now offered to the public
with an absolute guarantee of a percentage for Fifteen Years of
Forty-five per cent.
Mr. Furniss can be seen at work with the regularity of a threshing
machine and the variety of a kaleidoscope any day from 8 o'c. a.m.
to 8 o'c. p.m. on presentation of visiting card.
BANKERS,
Close, Gatherum & Co., Lombard Street.
SOLICITORS,
Black, White & Co., Tube Court.
SECRETARY, _pro tem._
Earl M----,
Arrystone Grange.
_The Subscription List will close on or before Monday, April 1st,
1887._
* * * * *
Messrs. C. White & Greyon Grey invite subscriptions for the
undermentioned Share Capital and Debentures of the
HARRY FURNISS PARODY CARTOON COMPANY
(Unlimited).
Incorporated under the Joint Stock Companies Acts, 1862 and 1883.
Share Capital L4,000,000.
Divided as follows:
450,000 Ordinary Shares of L5 each L2,250,000
175,000 7 p.c. Cumulative Preference Shares
of L10 each 1,750,000
DIRECTORS.
Chairman: H. V---- W----, Esq., Regent Street, photographer.
Sir John S---- V----, Kt., Pine Court, Kent.
H---- F----, Esq., Draughtsman and Designer, 45, Drury Lane.
HARRY FURNISS, ESQ., R.R.A., R.R.I., &c.,
will join the Board as Managing Director on allotment.
A JOKE WITHIN A JOKE.
[Illustration]
A showman, particularly with some attraction of the passing hour, must
"boom his show for all it's worth," as the Americans say; so I "boomed"
my "Artistic Joke" with an advertising joke, and at the same time
parodied another branch of art--the art of advertising the artists, by a
special number of a magazine devoted to the work of an Academician. The
special numbers, generally published at Christmas, are familiar and
interesting to us all. Still, from any point of view they are fair game.
They are of course merely non-critical, eulogistic accounts of the
artist and his work. So
"_How he Did It--The Story of my 'Artistic Joke,'_" duly appeared,
written by my Lay-figure.
"PREFACE.
[Illustration]
"The fact of my being only an artist's lay-figure will account for any
stiffness or angularity in my literary style. Whilst conscious of my
deficiencies in this respect, I am comforted by the consideration that a
lay-figure attempting literature cannot by any possibility perpetrate
greater absurdities than are committed by many a ready writer who
indulges in those glowing and gushing descriptions of artists and their
work which it is now the fashion to publish, in some such shape as the
present, for the delectation (and delusion) of a gossip-loving public."
This, the origin of "The Artistic Joke," is a fair specimen of the
absurdity I published as an advertisement, though many bought it and
read it as a "true and authentic account" of the confessions of a
caricaturist's lay-figure:
[Illustration: MY PORTRAIT. FRONTISPIECE FOR 'HOW HE DID IT.']
"As many would be interested in knowing how this extraordinary idea of
an Academy _pour rire_ first occurred to this artist, I hasten to
gratify their natural curiosity. It was before little Harry reached the
age of seven, and while watching with fellow-feeling the house-painters
at work in his father's house. One day, at lunchtime, when the men had
left their ladders and paraphernalia near the picture-gallery (a long
room containing choice works of all the great masters), he seized his
opportunity: with herculean strength and Buffalo-Billish agility, our
hero dragged all the ladders, paints and brushes into the gallery, and
soon was at work 'touching up' the pictures, to gratify his boyish love
of mischief. Truth to tell, his performance was but on a par,
artistically, with that usually shown when mischievous boys get hold of
brushes and paint and a picture to restore."
[Illustration:
25, Old Bond Street,
LONDON, W.
Jubilee Day 1887
I have been favoured--if that is the proper word--with a sight of an
advance copy of this perpetration.
I feel that the Easy confidence which has hitherto existed between an
artist and his Lay Figure is for ever broken and fled. If I had only
known that wine was taking advantage of her exceptional opportunities to
betray my misplaced confidence in this popular but pestilent fashion, I
would have made firewood of her long ago.
It is now too late. The temptation is turn Graphic Gusher and
confidential Trotter-out, has proved too much for a wee docile and
discreet Lay Figure. I am one more victim at unsuspected hands, to the
revolting rage for "Revelations."
I am bound to admit, however, that whilst the taste of the whole "Story"
is execrable, the facts upon which it is founded are undisputable.
The Tale is an o'er true one, though it has been compiled without the
knowledge, and is published exactly against the desire of
Harry Furniss]
"Before Harry had finished touching-up the valuable family portraits,
his father came in, glanced round, and fell onto a couch in roars of
laughter. 'It's the best Artistic Joke I've ever seen, my boy, and
here's a shilling for you!' A happy thought struck Harry at the moment.
He kept it to himself for over twenty-five years; and now, standing high
upon an allegorical ladder, he repeats the Joke daily, from nine to
seven, admission one shilling."
This book of sixty pages sold extremely well, and, strange to say, I
made more money out of this joking advertisement--the work of a few
days--than I did out of my elaborate album of seventy photogravure
plates which occupied two years to produce and cost me L2,000.
The following lines from _Fun_ give the origin of my Joke's peculiar and
ingenious turn:
"The fact is the Forty were sad in their mind
(Unfortunate _Aca_demicians!)
Associates also were troubled in kind,
With jeers at their works and positions,
Till one who was younger and bolder than all
Declared 'doleful dumps' to be folly,
'Come--away to the club, and for supper let's call,
And try to be decently jolly.'
"So they fed with good will on the viands prepared
(Pork chops were the principal portion),
Then retiring to bed, with their dreams they were scared,
And spent half the night in contortion;
Then rose in their sleep and came down to this room,
And, instead of a purposeless pawing,
They painted these pictures, then fled in the gloom,
And Furniss has touched up the drawing!"
Having parodied the artists' work, the R.A. catalogue, and the
publishers' R.A. special numbers, I went one step further. I parodied
"Art Patrons." At that time there was a great stir in art circles in
consequence of the authorities of the National Gallery dallying with Mr.
Tate's offer of his pictures to the nation; so to emulate him, and Mr.
Alexander, and Mr. Watts, and other public benefactors in the world of
art, I sent the following letter to the Directors of the National
Gallery:
"Mr. Harry Furniss presents his compliments to the Trustees of the
National Gallery and begs to congratulate them upon the munificent
gifts lately made to them, particularly Mr. Henry Tate's, which
provides the nation with an excellent sample of current art. At the
same time Mr. Harry Furniss feels that having it in his power to
provide a more complete collection of our modern English school, he
is inspired by the generous offers of others to humbly imitate this
good example, and will therefore willingly give his 'Royal Academy'
(parodies on modern painters), better known as 'The Artistic Joke,'
which caused such a sensation in 1887, to the National Gallery if
the Trustees will honour him by accepting the collection."
Yet it was not believed, at least not in Aberdeen, for the leading paper
of the Granite City published the following:
"Someone has played a joke on Mr. Harry Furniss. An announcement
appears this morning to the effect that 'animated by the generosity
of Mr. Henry Tate and other benefactors of the National Gallery,
Mr. Harry Furniss has offered to the Trustees his collection of
illustrations of the work of modern artists recently on view in
Bond Street,' and that he 'has received a communication to the
effect that his offer is under consideration.' I believe no one was
more surprised by this communication than Mr. Furniss. He never
made the offer except possibly in jest to some Member of
Parliament, and naturally he was much surprised to learn that his
offer was 'under consideration.' The illustrations in question
could scarcely be dispensed with by Mr. Furniss, as they are to him
a sort of stock-in-trade."
Not only in Aberdeen but I found generally my seriousness was doubted,
so I reproduce on the opposite page in facsimile the graceful reply of
the authorities of our National Gallery:
The "Artistic Joke" was never intended as an attack on the Royal Academy
at all, as a clear-headed critic wrote:
"It would be more just to regard it as an attempt on Mr. Furniss's
part to show the Academicians the possibilities of real beauty, and
wonder, and pleasure that lie hidden in their work.... On the
whole, the Royal Academicians have never appeared under more
favourable conditions than in this pleasant gallery. Mr. Furniss
has shown that the one thing lacking in them is sense of humour,
and that, if they would not take themselves so seriously, they
might produce work that would be a joy, and not a weariness to the
world. Whether or not they will profit by the lessons it is
difficult to say, for dulness has become the basis of
respectability, and seriousness the only refuge of the shallow."
[Illustration: The Artistic Joke.]
CHAPTER IX.
CONFESSIONS OF A COLUMBUS.
The Cause of my Cruise--No Work--The Atlantic Greyhound--Irish
Ship--Irish Doctor--Irish Visitors--Queenstown--A
Surprise--Fiddles--Edward Lloyd--Lib--Chess--The Syren--The
American Pilot--Real and Ideal--Red Tape--Bribery--Liberty--The
Floating Flower Show--The Bouquet--A Bath and a Bishop--"Beastly
Healthy"--Entertainment for Shipwrecked
Sailors--Passengers--Superstition.
AMERICA IN A HURRY--Harry Columbus Furniss--The Inky
Inquisition--First Impressions--Trilby--Tempting
Offers--Kidnapped--Major Pond--Sarony--Ice--James B.
Brown--Fire!--An Explanation.
WASHINGTON--Mr. French of Nowhere--Sold--Interviewed--The Sporting
Editor--Hot Stuff--The Capitol--Congress--House of
Representatives--The Page Boys--The Agent--Filibuster--The
"Reccard"--A Pandemonium--Interviewing the President.
CHICAGO--The Windy City--Blowers--Niagara--Water and Wood--Darkness
to Light--My Vis-a-Vis--Mr. Punch--My Driver--It Grows upon
Me--Inspiration--Harnessing Niagara--The Three Sisters--Incline
Railway--Captain Webb.
[Illustration]
TRAVELLING--Tickets--Thirst--Sancho Panza--Proclaimed States--"The
Amurrican Gurl"--A Lady Interviewer--The English Girl--A Hair
Restorer--Twelfth Night Club Reception at a Ladies' Club--The Great
Presidential Election--Sound Money _v._ Free
Silver--Slumland--Detective O'Flaherty.
I never felt better in my life, but my friends all assured me that I
looked ill. If I wasn't ill, I ought to be. I must be overworked and
break down. I had "burnt the candle at both ends and in the middle as
well," and it was a duty I owed to humanity to collapse. For years I
had done the work of three men with the constitution of one, so one day
it came to pass that I was forced by my friends into the consulting-room
of a celebrated physician, labelled "Ill. To be returned to Dead Letter
Office, or to be sent by foreign mail to some distant land, or to be
cremated on the spot," anything but to leave me free to return to my mad
disease, the worst mania of all--the mania for work.
My good physician stripped me, pommelled me, stethoscoped me, made me
say "99" when he had squeezed all the breath out of me (why "99"? Why
not "98" or "4"?--he was testing internal rebellion), flashed a
reflector under my eyes, seized a drumstick and hammered me under my
knee-joints, sat upon me literally and figuratively, and told me to give
up all food, drink, pleasure, and work for two months, which I did. My
balance at the bankers' and my balance on the scales were both reduced
considerably. I lost a good many pounds in weight and money.
* * * * *
[Illustration]
My friends all assured me that I looked well, but I never felt so ill in
all my life. If I was not ill, I ought to be. I tried to work, but broke
down. I was idle in the mornings, in the evenings, and in the middle of
the day as well, and it was a duty I owed to my doctor to collapse. So
one day I forced myself into his consulting-room before a hundred
patients waiting their turn, labelled "Well again." I pushed him into
his chair, pommelled him 99 times, flashed my cane under his eyes,
seized the poker and hammered him under his knee-joints, and told him I
would get him six months' hard labour if he did not pronounce me
sound,--he did.
"You only want a tonic now, my dear fellow--a sea-trip!"
"A _Teutonic_," I replied _Majestic_ally. "The very thing--sails
to-morrow--a new berth--I'll be born again under a White Star--_au
revoir_!"
"Your prescription!" he called after me. "Take it, and if you value your
life act up to it to the letter."
It contained two words and no hieroglyphics. Those two words were--"No
Work!"
How I acted up to it the following pages will show.
* * * * *
[Illustration: AN ATLANTIC "GREYHOUND."]
In strong contrast to the crowd and bustle at leaving in the afternoon
is the quietude late in the evening. Many promenade up and down the
beautiful deck under the electrically-lighted roof, and gaze upon the
lights of many craft flitting to and fro in the gentle breeze like
will-o'-the-wisps, postponing retiring, as they are not yet accustomed
to the vibration of the Atlantic greyhound, which trembles underneath
them as if, like the real greyhound in full cry after a hare, it is
literally straining every muscle to beat the record from the Old World
to the New.
What a difference has taken place since those "good old days" of those
good old wooden ships, with their good old slow passages and their good
old uncomfortable berths! Now the state cabin is an apartment perfectly
ventilated, gorgeously furnished, equipped with every modern
improvement, and electrically lighted; the switches close to the bed
(not berth) enable one to turn the light on or off at will. The
ever-watchful attendant comes in, wishes me good-night, after folding my
clothes, and departs. Leaving the incandescent light burning over my
head, I open the book dealing with the wonders of America which I have
taken from the well-stocked library, and read of great Americans, from
Washington to the man who has brought this very light to such
perfection, turning over page after page of well-nigh incredible
description of the country which has raised the system of "booming" to a
high art, till my brain reels with an Arabian Nightish flavour of
exaggeration, and turning off the electric current, I am gradually
lulled to sleep by the rhythmical vibrations of the steamer, the sole
reminder that I am in reality sleeping upon a ship and about to enjoy a
thorough week's rest.
I awoke from the dreams in which I had pictured myself a veritable
Columbus, and drawing aside the blind of my porthole, I looked out into
the morning light, and was, perhaps, for a second surprised to see land.
"Sandy Hook already! Can it be?" Well, hardly, just at present. Though
who can tell but that in another fifty years it may be possible in the
time? It is in reality the "Ould Counthry," and we are nearing
Queenstown.
There is a good muster at breakfast, and everyone is smiling, having had
at least one good night's rest on the voyage. The waters skirting the
Irish coast sometimes outdo the fury of the broad Atlantic, and are
generally just as troubled and combatant as the fiery political elements
on the little island; but so far we have had a perfect passage, and the
beautiful bay of Queenstown looks more charming than ever as the engines
stop for a short period before their five days' incessant activity to
follow.
Not only the ship, but the doctor, comes from the Emerald Isle. Who
crossing the Atlantic does not know the witty Dr.----? "Ah, shure, me
darlin', and isn't it himself that's a broth av a bhoy?" And so he is,
simply bubbling over with humour and good-nature. Presiding at one end
of the long table, I have to pass him as I leave the saloon. Having
sketched Irish scenery and Irish character in my youth, I am not tempted
to open my forbidden sketch-book; but somehow or other I find myself
making a rapid sketch of the Doctor as he rises from his seat at the end
of the table to wish the "top of the mornin'" to a lady who sits on his
right. My excuse is to send it to his friend, my doctor in London. Then,
without thinking, I sketch in a few other passengers, and instinctively
make a note of the surroundings. I confess I am already guilty of
breaking my pledge! And, therefore, make my escape on deck.
The huge steamer seems to act as a sort of magnet on the small fry of
the harbour, for they rush out to her from the land in all their sorts
and sizes, in a desperate race for supremacy. Prominent among this fleet
is a long, ungainly rowing-boat propelled by a tough Hibernian, and
seated in the stern are his women folk, surrounded by baskets, who, in
strong Milesian vernacular, urge the rower on in his endeavours to reach
the ship first. Looked down upon them from your floating tower, they
strongly resemble a swarm of centipedes. Harder and harder pull the
"bhoys," and louder and louder comes the haranguing of the females as
they approach us. I have my eye on the lady in the stern of the first
boat. She is fair, fat, and forty, possessed of really massive
proportions, most powerful lungs, and a true Irish physiognomy--a cast
of countenance in which it always strikes me that Nature had originally
forgotten the nasal organ, and then returning to complete the work had
taken between finger and thumb a piece of flesh and pinched it, thus
forming the nose rather high up on the face, while the waste of material
below goes to make the upper lip.
[Illustration: THE SALOON OF THE _TEUTONIC_. THE FIRST MORNING AT
BREAKFAST.]
The puller of the stroke oar is probably her husband, two others are
wielded evidently by her two sons, and the bow is taken by her strapping
daughter. One of her arms encircles the merchandise she intends to
dispose of on board our vessel, while the other vigorously helps to
propel the oar held by her brawny husband. All the while she is urging
on her crew in her native language, with what may be commands,
exhortations, or even blessings, but sounding to the unaccustomed Saxon
ear very much like curses, which chase one another out of her capacious
mouth with a rapidity unequalled by even an irritated monkey at the Zoo.
[Illustration: AT QUEENSTOWN--A REMINISCENCE.]
Their lumbering craft is the first to touch the side of the _Teutonic_.
Standing up in the boat, the good old lady exerts her vocal powers on
the crew on the lower deck, with the result that a rope fully fifty feet
long is thrown in her direction, having a loop on the end of it, by
which she is lassoed. With an agility only acquired after years of
practice, she adjusts the loop rapidly round her, and calls on the crew
to hoist away. The boat heels over to one side as she vigorously pushes
herself away from it, and souse the old dame goes up to her waist in the
water; the good-natured sailors give an extra jerk, and up she comes,
with baskets tied round her waist, and her feet acting as fenders
against the side of the ship. Fortunately the _Teutonic_ is bulky enough
to resist heeling over under this extra weight on the starboard side.
She is shipped like a bale of goods, and is immediately engaged in
discharging some more of her loquacity in directing the acrobatic
performances of her daughter, who is the next to ascend.
This scene caused much laughter, and I was induced to make a sketch of
the lady's acrobatic performance.
The other maritime vendors are hauled up in similar unceremonious
fashion, and they take possession of both decks. The pretty daughter of
Erin lays out with no little artistic taste her bog-oak ornaments, and
'Arry (for the _genus_ cad is to be encountered even on board such
aristocratic ships as these) attempts to be rampantly facetious at her
expense. But the damsel with the unkempt auburn locks flowing about her
comely face, lit up by a pair of blue Irish eyes under their dark
lashes, takes the cad's vulgarity together with his money, like the pill
with the jam, giving in return the valueless pieces of carved wood,
until her little stock is exhausted and a good morning's work is done.
[Illustration: BOG-OAK SOUVENIRS.]
On the lower deck trade is brisker. The emigrants (principally by this
line Scandinavians, in their picturesque peasant dress, the Germans of
course preferring to go by their own line, the North German Lloyd) are
fitting on Tam o' Shanters of the crudest colours, scarves of hues that
would cause the steamer's danger signals to turn pale, and eatables of
all descriptions--I ought to say of all the worst descriptions.
Unhealthy-looking cakes in which the currants are as scarce as Loyalists
in the part of the country in which they are made, tinned meats and
fruits that look suspiciously like condemned provisions or unsavoury
salvage; in fact the only really genuine article of diet was that
contained in the milk-pails. I may here remark that these alien steerage
passengers don't really care for wholesome food. Nothing could be better
than the excellent food prepared by the ship's steward, but these
emigrants prefer to bring with them provisions that beggar description.
All the time the Irish purveyors are emptying their baskets and filling
their pockets, and rowing back to the shore enriched and delighted;
their brothers and sisters are flowing up the gangway in a continual
stream, with weeping eyes and breaking hearts at the thought of leaving
their country perhaps for ever; and as soon as they are all on board,
together with the mails, which have come overland to Queenstown, we up
anchor, steam past Fastnet Rock, and soon the Old World is out of sight
behind us.
But all this is a thing of the past. Ladies are not now pulled up on to
the deck, nor is the promenade turned into a miniature Irish fair. When
last the boat stopped as usual in Queenstown bay I sadly missed the
familiar scene, and having nothing better to do I went on shore. As a
number of us strolled off the tender on which the mails were to return I
noticed two men in ordinary dress standing some distance off, looking on
at the scene. They were both fine specimens of humanity, each of them
about six feet high. "Detectives," I whispered to one of my friends. And
as we approached these gentlemen, I said to one of them, "Looking for
anyone this morning?"
"Not for you, Mr. Furniss."
Considering I had never been in Queenstown in my life, that I had never
been in the grip of these "sleuth-hounds" of the police, I must admit
that the British detective is not so stupid as we generally imagine, for
no doubt these men knew by telegraph the name of everybody on board and
amused themselves by placing us as I had amused myself by placing them.
The Captain generally has some voyager under his special care, and my
vis-a-vis, his protegee upon this trip, was a most charming and
delightful young lady on her way to rejoin her family in the Far West.
The skipper's seat is vacant at breakfast time, and should the weather
be rough, at the other meals also. If the elements are very boisterous,
the "fiddles" are screwed on to the tables, and on them a lively tune
is played by the jingling glasses and rattling cutlery to the erratic
beating of the Atlantic wave. The Captain's right and left hand
neighbours are exempt from the use of these appliances, and the small
area caused by this is the only space in the yards and yards of table
unencumbered by the "fiddles." The Captain scorns the aid of such
mechanical contrivances, and chatters away unconcerned, gracefully
balancing his soup-plate in his hands the while. I followed his example
as one to the manner born, but had I not been a bit of an amateur
conjuror I am afraid that I should not have been so successful. The
Captain challenged me, however, to make a sketch with the same ease as I
ate my dinner--and again I was forced to break my pledge!
[Illustration: THE CAPTAIN'S TABLE.]
It was amusing to listen to the petty jealousies and the little
grumblings of those not satisfied with their lot at table. One lady
stated as an excuse for having her meals in her cabin that her
neighbour, a bagman--or "drummer," as Americans would call him--made a
noise with his mouth while eating; and another lady elected to dine in
her stateroom in solitude because in the saloon she had her back to a
Bishop instead of her face!
It was my good fortune to meet on board that most genial and gifted of
men, "England's greatest tenor," Mr. Edward Lloyd, who under the
management of that equally genial and energetic impresario, Mr. Vert,
was on his way to charm the ears of our cousins on the other side. Then
we had one of the greatest favourites in the sporting world, who was
popping over, as he had been continually doing from his earliest youth,
to look after his estates in his native country. From the Captain down
to the under stokers he had been with all a familiar figure for many
years, and he had a pleasant word and a shake of the hands for
everybody. He could give you the straight tip for the Derby, was a fund
of information anent the latest weights for the big handicaps, and on
our arrival in the States it was with general satisfaction that we
learnt that one of his horses had won a race while its owner was
crossing the "Herring Pond."
We had yet another celebrity on board in the person of the bright little
Italian whose clever caricatures, especially those of Newmarket and
Newmarket celebrities, so delight us in the pages of _Vanity Fair_ over
the _nom de crayon_ "Lib." I think he caused us as much amusement as his
sketches, caricaturing everybody on board, not even excepting himself,
whom he most truthfully depicted as a common or barn owl. Or was it I
who drew him as the owl? I forget. But I do know that he looked
uncommonly like one as a rule, for he used to lie wrapped in his
Inverness upon a deck chair, his face only visible, with pallid cheeks
and distended eyes, and I did more than one caricature of him for his
fair admirers. That was on the rough days, for like a great many
foreigners, and English people too for the matter of that, he was a bad
sailor. Fortunately for me, I am a hardened sailor, and as such cannot
feel the amount of consideration I should otherwise do for those less
lucky than myself.
When the weather was calm I used to notice my Italian friend seated,
surrounded by the ladies, with an air of triumph and a smile upon his
intelligent visage. He was having his revenge! When he was not
sketching, he was playing chess with the Captain.
Now this commander was a captain from the top of his head to the soles
of his feet. A stern disciplinarian, erect, handsome, uncommunicative,
not a better officer ever stood on the bridge of an Atlantic or any
other liner. He had a contempt for the "Herring Pond," and manipulated
one of these floating hotels with as much ease as one would handle a toy
boat. "When a navigator's duty's to be done," he was _par excellence_ a
modern Caesar, but despite his sternness he had a sense of humour, and
his unbending moments struck one with an emphasised surprise.
[Illustration: NOT UP IN A BALLOON.]
He could not bear a bore. Those fussy landlubbers who are always tapping
the barometers, asking questions of every member of the crew, testing,
sounding, and finding fault with the weather chart, had better steer
clear of the worthy Captain, as with hands thrust deep in his pockets he
strides from one end of the deck to the other during the course of his
constitutional. It is on record that one of these fussy individuals,
edging up to a well-known Captain as he was going on to the bridge when
a mist was gathering, and the siren was about to blow as customary when
entering on an Atlantic fog, remarked:
"Captain, Captain, can't you see that it is quite clear overhead?"
The Captain turned on his heel to ascend to the bridge, and scornfully
rejoined:
"Yes, sir, yes, sir; but can't you see that I am not navigating a
balloon?"
On one occasion the Captain had been through a terribly stormy afternoon
and night, and had not quitted his post on the bridge for one minute,
the weather being awful. Fogs, icebergs, and the elements all combined
to make it a most anxious time for the one man in charge of the valuable
vessel and her cargo of 1,700 souls, and during the whole period the
unflinching skipper had not tasted a mouthful of food. The Captain's
boy, feeling for his master, had from time to time endeavoured with some
succulent morsel to make him break his long fast; but the firm face of
the Captain was set, his eyes were fixed straight ahead, and his ears
were deaf to the lad's appeal. It was breakfast time when the boy once
more ventured to ask the Captain if he could bring him something to eat.
This time he got an answer.
"Yes," growled the Captain, "bring me two larks' livers on toast!"
These Atlantic Captains of the older school were a hardened and humorous
lot of navigators, and many a story of their eccentricity survives them:
one in particular of an old Captain seeing the terror of the junior
officer during that nervous ordeal of treading the bridge for the first
time with him. This particular old salt, after a painful silence, turned
on the young man and said, "I like you. I'm very much impressed by you.
I've heard a lot about you--in fact, my dear sir, I should like to have
your photograph. You skip down and get it."
The nervous and delighted youth rushed off to his cabin, and informed
his brother officers of the compliment the old man had just paid him. He
was in luck's way, and running gaily up on to the bridge, presented his
photograph, blushing modestly, to the old salt.
"'Umph! Got a pin with you?"
"Ye--es, sir."
"Ah, see! I pin you up on the canvas here. I can look at you there and
admire you. You can go, sir; your photograph is just as valuable as you
appear to be on the bridge. Good morning."
The Captain of the ship I was on had his chessmen pegged, and holes in
the board into which to place them, so that despite any oscillations of
the ship they would remain in their places; but the unfortunate part of
the business was that although he could provide sea-legs for his
chessmen it was more than he could do for his opponent, and it was as
good as a play to see Signor "Lib" hiding from the Captain when the
weather was not all it might be, and he in consequence felt anything but
well. One mate after another would be despatched with the strictest
orders from the Captain to search for the cheerless chessite; but after
a time the Captain's patience would be exhausted, his strident voice
could be heard calling upon the caricaturist to come forth and show
himself, and eventually he might be seen _en route_ to his cabin with
the box of chessmen under one arm and his opponent under the other.
[Illustration: CHESS.]
I was cruel enough on more than one occasion to follow them and witness
the sequel.
"Your move, now--your move!"
"Ah, Captain! I do veel zo ill! Ze ship it do go up and down, up and
down, until I do not know vich is ze bishop and vich is ze queen!"
"Nonsense, sir, nonsense! Your move--look sharp, and I'll soon have you
mated!"
The poor artist _did_ move, and quickly too, but it was to the outside
of the cabin!
The Captain was triumphant at table, telling us of his victory, but his
poor opponent could only point to his untouched plate and to the waves
dashing against the portholes, and with that shrug of the shoulders, so
suggestive to witness but so difficult to describe, would thus in dumb
show explain the cause of his defeat.
I remember well on one beautiful afternoon, the sky bright and the sea
calm, just before the pilot came on board when we were nearing the
States, Signor Prosperi (for that was his name) came up to me, his face
the very embodiment of triumph:
"Ah, I have beaten ze Captain at last--_but ze sea is smooth_!"
On the outward voyage, as I said before, we had a host in Mr. Edward
Lloyd, but he was under contract not to warble until a certain day which
had been fixed in New York, and no doubt his presence had a deterrent
effect upon the amateur talent, with the exception of one lady, who came
up to Mr. Lloyd and said:
"You really _must_ sing;--you really _must_!"
"I am very sorry, madam, but I really can't--I am not my own master in
this matter."
"Oh, but you must," she rejoined. "I have promised that if you will
sing, _I_ will!"
An American who had "made his pile," as the Yankees say, remarked to the
hard-worked vocalist:
"I think, sir, that as you are endowed with such a beautiful voice you
ought by it to benefit such a deserving entertainment as this."
"Certainly," replied the world-famed tenor. "My fee for singing is fifty
guineas, and I will be pleased to oblige the company if you will pay a
cheque for that amount into the sailors' fund."
[Illustration: MR. LLOYD AND THE LADY. "IF YOU WILL SING, _I_ WILL!"]
And, in my opinion, a right good answer too. These middle-men and their
wives and daughters are always pestering professional men to give their
services to charities for nothing, but in cases like the one I have just
cited they take very good care that they do not unloosen their own
purse-strings to help the cause along and equalise the obligation.
However the concert took place, and I, unable to resist the flattering
request to "do something," and not being prohibited from taking part--as
Mr. Lloyd was--made several sketches, just to keep my hand in, and they
were raffled for.
All goes well and smoothly on the voyage until one night you are
awakened by a harsh, grating, shrieking sound. You start from your
slumbers, and for a moment imagine that in reality you are in the
interior of some fearsome ocean monster, who is bellowing either in rage
or fear, for the sound is unique in its wild hideousness, half a screech
and half a wail, aggressive and yet mournful. Your ears have just
recovered from the first shock when they are assaulted by another, and
yet another, at intervals of about a minute. It is the voice of the
siren. Was ever a more inappropriate name bestowed upon the steam
whistle of an Atlantic liner? It conveys to me the news that we are
passing through an Atlantic fog, and I defy anyone, be they in the most
perfect ship, under the safest of commanders, to feel comfortable in
such circumstances. The siren still wails, and like Ulysses and his
companions I feel very much inclined to stuff my ears with wax. Indeed,
peering out of my porthole through the mist, I almost seem to see the
figures of the mythological voyager and his companions carved in ice, no
doubt beguiled by the treacherous music of the siren. These are in
reality our main terrors, the icebergs.
[Illustration: THE AMERICAN PILOT--IDEAL.]
It is a relief when we have left them behind and evaded the clutches of
the demon fog, and the fresh breeze and the glorious sun lend a new
beauty to the sparkling water, showing us in the distance white specks
skimming over the waves like gulls, the first sign that we are
approaching land--the white gleaming wings of the pilot yachts.
[Illustration: THE AMERICAN PILOT--REAL.]
Signals are exchanged, and one of these boats comes nearer and nearer to
us, tacking to perfection. Through our glasses we already seem to see
the stalwart figure of the pilot standing in the stern. On his brow he
wears a storm-defying cap, the badge of the warrior of the waves; the
loose shirt, the top boots, and the weather-beaten jacket all combine to
make up a picturesque figure, and I sketched what seemed to me to be the
figure of the man who was coming on board to guide us to the Hook of
Sandy. As the little vessel approaches us the intervening sail hides
from my view the figure of the one man I want to see. A boat is lowered
from the side of the pilot boat, into which two sailors descend. Who on
earth is this who steps in after them and takes the rudder lines? He
sports a top hat, kid gloves, and patent shoes. Is he a commercial
traveller? He looks it. He is rowed to the side of the steamer, and then
the fun begins. A rope ladder is lowered from the deck, which is
immediately clutched by one of the oarsmen in the boat, and this
commonplace commercial scrambles towards it. Just then a wave breaks
over him, and more like a drowned excursionist than an American pilot
this little man is hauled on board.
I think a great deal of the Atlantic, but I am sorely disappointed with
the American pilot.
The Americans pride themselves upon their independence, and surely a
more independent race never existed. The brow-beaten Britisher is not
long in finding this out, and in my case it was most clearly
demonstrated to me at the first stoppage of the steamer after leaving
Queenstown. After our headlong race across the broad Atlantic, after
every nut and screw in the vessel has been strained to save every
particle of time, and every moment watched and calculated, here at the
mouth of the Hudson, in sight of the colossal statue of Liberty, we are
kept waiting under a broiling sun on a beautiful day for an
unconscionable time whilst forsooth the health officer or his
subordinate is enjoying his lunch. Fancy 1,700 foreigners being kept
waiting because a paid official--paid by the shipowners of
England--wishes to satisfy his selfish greediness!
I watched for this gentleman as he crawled on board, having come across
eventually from his riparian villa. There were no apologies (Americans
never apologise). I don't know the gentleman's name, but here I show you
his face. His check I have described already.
Now that I have touched on America itself, I wish it to be understood
that it is not my intention to look out for and comment upon the faults
of our American cousins, but rather in describing my all too brief
visits to a charming people in a charming country to deal with their
merits. But it is proverbial that first impressions are everything, and
the first I received of official America, in the person of this
particular individual, was the only instance I saw which would not
compare favourably with the red-tapeism of our own country. And I must
say, from what I was told even by Americans themselves, that the worst
side of their countrymen is to be seen where the official department is
concerned, and to illustrate this I shall still stick to the official
(or his representative, whichever it was) that I have just been
describing.
[Illustration: THE HEALTH OFFICER COMES ON BOARD.]
The ship which followed that in which I came over brought from England
some persons who were at the time the talk of American society. They had
been connected with some gigantic scandal, and the interviewers,
scenting copy from afar, were ready to spring upon them. Of course, it
was known that it was to the interest of the reporters (and they were
only doing their duty) to get on board at Sandy Hook, and to frustrate
them a special steamer was sent down with instructions to the captain of
the liner that no one was to accompany the officer of health on board.
The medical officer came in his tug with the whole batch of reporters,
and declared that he would not permit the vessel to proceed into port
unless his friends were allowed on board. The almighty dollar had
polluted officialism, and disclosed to the incoming strangers that the
huge statue of Liberty before them, which held on high the torch of
advancement and enlightenment, was really a snare and a delusion, at any
rate as far as red-tapeism was concerned.
And so I arrived after a week's thorough rest, with my sketch-book full!
I could not help breaking my pledge; it was my first trip across the
Atlantic, and everything was therefore new and interesting. In fact, so
was all I saw in the States, and my pencil was always busy. I was
looking forward to a genuine rest on my return journey, but it happened
to be in the crowded season, and the ship was so full I was asked, as a
particular favour to "a very distinguished cleric," to share my cabin
with him.
[Illustration: JUST IN TIME!]
The departure of an Atlantic liner has a great attraction on both sides
of the "Herring Pond," but there is a difference. Passengers leaving
England are surrounded with cheap and vulgar literature, newspapers,
guide-books, sticks, and umbrellas. Leaving America, the liner is turned
into a floating flower show. Most beautiful bouquets labelled with the
names of the lady passengers are on view in the saloon. Just as the last
gangway is drawn on to the shore, amid cries of "Clear away!" we hear
suddenly "Hold hard!" There is a commotion. Someone has not yet arrived;
we lean over the side of the ship to see who is coming. Perhaps it is an
important emissary of the Government, or even the President himself. We
all push forward; the stalwart New York police keep back the crowd; the
crew of the good ship _Majestic_ hold the gangway in its place as the
centre of attraction trips gaily up it. It is a diminutive nigger
messenger from a florist's, with a huge bouquet of flowers. I imagine I
see my own name on the label, so I modestly seclude myself in my own
cabin, whence I only emerge after we have passed Bartholdi's colossal
figure, just to have one last peep at the country in which I have stored
up such pleasant memories.
[Illustration: "A FLOATING FLOWER SHOW."]
By this time the bouquets of the flower show had been transferred to the
cabins of their owners. I may mention, by the way, that the cynical lady
on board, who wore a solitary bunch of faded violets in her dress,
informed me that most of the ladies paid for the bouquets themselves,
and had them sent on board with their names attached. I don't wish to
seem egotistical, but I know that when I went back to my own cabin I
found the greatest difficulty in forcing the door open. There was a huge
bundle of something or other pressing against it. A fragrant scent was
wafted through the opening, which sent a thrill through me. It must be
the big bouquet! I gave one final shove, burst the door open, and
discovered the bouquet to be a bishop, who was scenting his handkerchief
at the time with otto of roses. It was worth the journey to America to
have the honour of sharing a cabin with a bishop on the return journey.
But what a contrast between us! What a theme for W. S. Gilbert! _Punch_
and the pulpit rocked together in the cradle of the deep!
When I first came on board I made arrangements at once with the bath
steward, and, being rather an early bird, I fixed my time to be called
at seven o'clock. When I retired to the cabin I found the worthy bishop
(he is now Lord Primate of Ireland) looking plaintively at his berth.
Like all on board it was roomy and comfortable, but probably Sir Edward
Harland had not taken the portly prelate (who, by the way, is almost a
neighbour of his) as a gauge for the size of the berths. Mine was, if
anything, a trifle larger, so I respectfully invited the bishop to
change with me.
[Illustration: THE BATH STEWARD AND THE BISHOP. "YOUR TIME, SIR! YOUR
TIME!"]
I was awakened next morning by assault and battery being committed on
the poor bishop, of which I was the innocent cause. An athletic-looking
man, with a white jacket, and sleeves rolled up to his elbows, was
shaking the very life out of my clerical friend and shouting "Seven
o'clock! Your time, sir! Seven o'clock! Your time!" The bishop looked
something like a criminal sentenced to death must do when the hangman
awakes him on the fatal morning, and I had to explain to the bath
steward that we had changed berths, and that in future No. 2 was to be
awakened instead of No. 1.
Perhaps it is not generally known that suicide is nearly as prevalent as
_mal de mer_ amongst these Americans who are rushing over for a few
weeks' repose. They work at such a fearful rate, slaves to that
insatiable god the almighty dollar, that eventually they either have to
fly to a lunatic asylum or an Atlantic liner. After a day or two on the
latter the calm and repose and the vast sea around them prove too much
of an antidote; the overtaxed brain gives way, and overboard they go.
An Englishman is too fond of exercise to allow high pressure to get the
better of him in this way, and the difference between English and
American people on these liners is most marked. Directly an American
family comes on board they select places for their deck chairs, which,
except for meals, they never leave. From early morning until late at
night, much to the astonishment of the Americans, the English
passengers--men, women, and children--pace the deck as if it were a
go-as-you-please contest for immense prizes. Being a good sailor but a
bad sleeper, I think I fairly qualified for first prize. Morning, noon,
and night, round and round those magnificent decks I went, to the
disgust and envy of those who could not move off their deck chairs, and
who loathed the very sight of me.
[Illustration: AMERICANS AND ENGLISH ON DECK.]
It so happened that together with a few other privileged passengers I
dined a little later than the rest, so I had an opportunity of observing
the weak ones suffering on deck whilst others were struggling with their
meals below, and I promenaded round that deck, battling with the
elements to get an extra edge on my excellent appetite. I remember that
when passing some ladies on my way down to dinner, they feebly
endeavouring to eat a biscuit or two and drink a glass of champagne, one
turned her pallid face to another and murmured, "I _am_ so glad that
energetic little man has been obliged to give in at last!"
They ought to have seen me at the table half-an-hour afterwards, that's
all!
That reminds me of my friend poor Alfred Cellier, who was wintering in
the South once at the same time as we were there for my wife's health. I
was returning from a meet one day, hot and mud-bespattered, when I met
the talented musician walking feebly along in the sun with his furs on.
He called to me to stop, which I did, and his dreamy, good-natured face
assumed a most malevolent expression as he hissed at me, "I hate you! I
hate you! _You look so beastly healthy._"
Even on board ship the American still clings to his iced water, but some
think it is time to train for the European habit of taking wine at
dinner. I noticed a Westerner who with his wife was sitting down for
probably the first time to _table d'hote_. He took up the wine list, and
went right through the sherries, hocks, clarets, champagnes, and even
liqueurs. Now at the end of the wine lists on these vessels there is
appended a list of various mineral waters. The names of these (or was it
the price?) seemed to take the fancy of the American. "I guess this
_Hunyadi Janos_ sounds well--I calculate if you put a bottle of that on
ice it'll do us just right."
Sailors are superstitious. Some will, or used to, rob themselves of the
necessities of life to purchase a baby's "caul," and wear it around
their neck as a charm.
To sail out of harbour on a Friday was unheard of. In these days of
science, days in which steam has driven the old frigate-rigged sailing
ships from the seas, one would have thought that superstition would have
vanished with the old hulks, and that in the floating palaces crossing
the Atlantic, in which longshoremen take the place of old-time sea-dogs,
charms and omens would have lost their power. Yet sailor superstitions
are as hard to kill even in these gorgeous up-to-date liners as it is to
exterminate the rats in the hold or the cockroaches in the larder.
The last journey I made to America was in the favourite liner the
_Germanic_. I was chatting to one of the crew, an old salt, the day we
left Queenstown; he was looking out to sea; his brow was clouded, and he
shook his head mournfully.
"Are we in for a bad passage?" I asked.
"Don't know yet, sir; aren't seen all them on board yet. We had a
terrible passage the week afore last goin' East, but I expected it. We
'ad an Archbishop on board!"
I informed him that on the present journey we had two priests on board,
and two professional atheists--"so what kind of passage were we to
expect?"
After a moment's serious thought the mariner replied, "I think, sir, we
may reckon we shall have an average." And curious to relate we did.
The two Freethinkers who thus balanced the ecclesiastics were Messrs.
Foote and Watts, who were on a mission to America to induce Colonel
Robert G. Ingersoll to visit England.
The stranger in America, if he be a public man in his own country, is
treated like a suspected criminal. Every movement is watched, every
action reported, and as he passes from city to city a description and
report precedes him, and there is an eye, or rather a couple of dozen
eyes, to mark his coming and grow keener when he comes.
But he is watched by friends, not by detectives, and his actions are
reported in public prints, not in private ledgers. It is not the arm of
the law, but the hand of friendship, that shadows him, and those
stereotyped passports to friendship, letters of introduction from
friends at home, are as needless to introduce him as a life-preserver or
a Colt's revolver to protect him. He had better amuse himself while in
mid-ocean by presenting them to the porpoises that dive and splutter
round the ship, for the only object they will accomplish will be the
filling of his waste-paper basket on his return home.
[Illustration: AMERICAN INTERVIEWING--IMAGINARY.]
[Illustration: AMERICAN INTERVIEWING--REAL.]
Major Hospitality arrested me the moment I arrived, and handed me over
to the Inky Inquisition--eight gentlemen of the Press--who placed me on
the interviewer's rack at the demand of insatiable modern journalism. I
scraped through the ordeal as well as could be expected in the
circumstances, considering I hadn't yet acquired my land-legs. The
raging waves may roar their loudest, and the stormy winds may blow their
hardest, but they don't affect me. It is only when I find myself on
_terra firma_ once more that I feel any effects from an ocean trip. For
the benefit of those who are subject to _mal de mer_ I will disclose my
prescription to act as a reliable safeguard, and that is to mesmerise
yourself so that once on board no sensations seem to you strange or
unwonted. The only drawback is that I have not yet discovered how to
unmesmerise myself, although my theory worked splendidly when on board,
so that when I get on shore I feel as if I were still on the sea. I am
always ducking breakers, descending companion ladders, and I roll across
the street as if it were the deck of a liner. Every building I enter
seems to be rocking up and down, up and down, and as on the occasion I
refer to I sat before the knights of the quill to be cross-examined, I
felt as if I were in the cabin of a ship rather than in my own room at
the hotel, and that the books on the table were in reality fiddles to
keep the glasses and other things from falling off.
It is, therefore, not to be wondered at that the next day I find myself
described as "not a well man," although "his face is ruddy," and "his
blue eyes have a tired look and his hand is not so steady as it might
be." I would like to know whose hand would be steady if, after six days
of Atlantic travel, he was landed to find himself suddenly confronted
with eight talented gentlemen, cross-questioning him _ad lib._,
measuring the length of his foot, counting the buttons on his coat, and
the hairs on his head, and if, after his tiring journey, he happened to
yawn, looking to see whether he had false teeth or not!
And then to be handed a bad pen and worse paper, and have to draw
pictures in pen and ink, in the space of five minutes, for the eight
gentlemen who were watching to see "how it's done"! I have sketched
crowned heads on their thrones, bishops in their pulpits, thieves in
their dens, and beauties in their drawing-rooms; but I never felt such
nervousness as I did when I had to caricature myself on the occasion of
my first experience of American interviewing.
In my seeing America in a hurry, I addressed the reporters somewhat in
this fashion:
"I am not disappointed with anything I have seen. I was told that I
would find the worst-paved streets in the world. I have found them. I
was told that I would see unsightly, old-fashioned telegraph-poles
sticking up in the streets. I have seen them. I was told that I would
have to pay a small fortune for my cab from the docks to my hotel. I
have paid it. I was told that a newspaper reporter would ask me what I
thought of America as soon as I landed. I am asked that question by
eight gentlemen of the Press; indeed, I was interrogated upon that point
by the representative of a leading American paper before I left the
shores of England. I was told that I would find the most charming and
best-dressed women in the world. That promise is more than realised.
[Illustration: "SANDY."]
"I find New York as bright as Paris, as busy as London, as interesting
as Rome, and, in fact, I am so delighted and bewildered with everybody
and everything that, like the old lady's parrot, I don't say much, but I
think a deal; and now my difficulty is to convey those thoughts to the
public through the medium of your valuable papers."
Scores of Columbuses arrive at Sandy Hook every week to discover America
for themselves, from Charles Columbus Dickens to Rudyard Columbus
Kipling, to say nothing of Tom, Dick, Harry Columbus Brown, Jones,
Robinson. It is hardly fair to say that they go over with their pockets
full of letters of introduction to their American cousins, who receive
them with open arms and unlimited hospitality, and then that these Toms,
Dicks, and Harrys bring back in exchange notes for columns of ridicule
and abuse of their Transatlantic friends. If our Americans _have_ a
fault, it is a very slight one. They are too sensitive. They seem to
forget that they receive and honour some of our countrymen as critics
and satirists, but they expect that on leaving their shores their late
guests will wash off the critical and satirical sides of their natures
just as an actor removes his paint and make-up on leaving the boards.
Americans, both publicly and privately, are incessantly interviewing the
stranger: "What do you think of our great country? What do you think of
ourselves?" They live in a glass house filled with forced young plants,
from out of which house they may throw stones at the stranger, but woe
betide the critic who has the temerity to cast one in return. He gets
his impressions from the hothouse society snobs reared in the hotels of
the cities, the dollar worshipper, the vulgar millionaire, made more
obnoxious by the newer European importation, happily a plant not true to
the American soil. We strangers too often see but the cut flowers,
showy, glaring, to-day; jaded, gone to-morrow. We do not see the
cultured orchid or the natural wild flowers of America, for the simple
reason we do not look for them in seeing that wonderful country in a
hurry.
My first impression of New York was that of a faded back-cloth in a
melodrama; but when you get upon the stage, or, in other words, into the
streets, you find yourself amid a transformation scene of wonderful
activity and brilliancy. Some of the streets, in fact most of them in
which business is transacted, resemble strongly the shop scenes in
harlequinades, for the Americans have carried advertising so far that
their streets of shops, and especially those in New York, are simply
museums of grotesque advertisement.
Gigantic hands advertising gloves, huge hats, boots, and animals form a
heterogeneous collection of anything but beautiful models, gilded and
painted in all the most flaming colours, piled on top of each other on
every house from street level to attic, each tradesman vieing with the
other in screeching to the public to "Buy! buy!! buy!!!" by means of the
curiosities and monstrosities of the advertiser's art.
A few years ago a celebrated Continental authoress came to London for
the first time, in the height of the season, to stay a week in order to
get her impressions for a book she was writing, in which the heroine had
flown to London for that period of time. She went everywhere and saw
everything; just before she left London I asked her what had impressed
her most of all she had seen. In reply she said, "The fact that the
drivers of public vehicles never cracked their whips!"
If I were asked what impressed me most about New York, I should not say
Brooklyn Bridge, or Wall Street, or the Elevated Railway, but the number
of chiropodists' advertisements! They confront you at every turn; these
huge gilded models of feet outside the chiropodists' establishments,
some painted realistically and many adorned with bunions, are destined
to meet your eye as you stroll through the streets. Should you look up,
you will see them suspended from the first floor window, or painted on
canvas on the front of the house. Avoid the shops altogether, and you
are bound to knock up against some gentleman in the gutter encased in a
long white waterproof, on which is portrayed the inevitable foot and the
name and address of the chiropodist.
[Illustration: CHIROPODY.]
Now why is this? The Americans have pretty feet and small hands, both
men and women. Is it vanity, and do they squeeze their feet into boots
too small for them, or are their pedal coverings badly made, or does the
secret lie in the rough pavements of their thoroughfares? I am glad to
say that I never required the services of a foot doctor, but I know that
my feet have ached many and many a time after promenading the New York
pathways.
New York ought to be called New Trilby.
I was offered more than once an open cheque which I might fill in to
cover all my expenses from the time I left England until I reached the
shores of the Old Country again if I would supply a journal with _one
page_ of impressions of America illustrated. A suggestion of this sort
in an English newspaper office would have just about the same effect as
a big canister of dynamite! I didn't accept any of these tempting
offers. I didn't go to the States on my first visit to paint glaring
pictures, or to make up stories, or to marry an American heiress, nor
did I go in search of the almighty dollar. I simply went as a tourist in
search of health, and with the desire of shaking hands with my many
friends on the other side.
[Illustration: "NEW TRILBY."]
I was therefore extremely annoyed on my arrival to find the
irrepressible lecture agent, Major Pond, had coolly announced that I was
going over to him, and he had actually taken rooms for me at the Everett
House! Of course I informed the interviewers that I was not going to
tour with Pond or to make money in any way. I was merely a bird of
passage, a _rara avis_, a visitor without an eye on the almighty dollar.
After I returned to England an irresponsible paragraphist informed the
American public that I went home determined to give it to them hot. This
contradiction of mine appeared, and was sent to me by the Major. Note in
it I contradict his report that I went over in his interests.
[Illustration: AMIABLE MR. HENRY FURNISS.
The London Punch Cartoonist Denies Certain
Unfriendly Reports.
To the Editor of The Sun--Sir: Paragraphs
have appeared in some American papers to the
effect that I "went home determined to give
it to New York and the Americans hot." I can
only suppose that this is invented for the purpose
of firing off a very feeble joke upon my
name at the sacrifice of the truth, for I had a
most pleasant time in America, and have
brought back with me most agreeable reminiscences,
which I intend to publish.
Will you be kind enough to contradict this
unfair insinuation, and also the incorrect surmise
that I went to the States to the interest
of any paper or person? I simply made the
journey in search of health, and not interest
of the almighty dollar.
By the way, before the end of the year I may
contribute to London Punch a few pages from
my well-stocked American sketch book. Faithfully
yours,
Harry Furniss.
Garrick Club, London, July, 1892.]
Major Pond is a typical American, hospitable, kind, with an eye for
business, but I do not appear in his entertaining book, nor was I ever
on his business books either. He sat for me on the shoeblack's street
chair outside his office when I made a sketch of him, and he was so
obliging I believe he would have stood on his head if I had asked him.
He managed to get me to stand in front of the camera, but not in front
of an audience.
Some day I shall write a paper entitled "Photographers I Have Met," for
few people have faced the fire of the camera oftener than I. I am not a
fashionable beauty, nor much of a celebrity, neither am I honestly a
vain man--I shrink from the rays of the too truthful lens--but I have
been dragged into the line of fire and held there until the deed is
done, like an unwilling convict. In nearly every town I have visited
have I undergone this operation, and the result is a collection of
criminal-looking, contorted countenances of a description seldom seen
outside the museum of a police station.
[Illustration: MAJOR POND.]
I was therefore determined not to incur this risk in America.
Photographers sent their cards, but they saw me not (perhaps if they
had they would have repented of their invitation). However, one day I
was secured by stratagem.
I was walking along Union Square with Major Pond, whose martial bearing
impressed me as much as his 'cuteness fascinated me. He had that morning
heard of my determination not to be photographed, and as he walked along
he suddenly stepped into a doorway, his arm in mine, touched a button in
a side panel, down rushed an elevator, the door was flung open, and I
was flung in. "Sarony," said the Major, and up, up, up we flew.
"The photographer?" I asked hurriedly.
"The artist," the Major replied; "one of the greatest flesh drawers"
(nude studies) "we have in this gr--e--a--t country, sir. Here he is,
deaf to everything but art, and to everyone but artists."
Who can say photography is not high art when you have to go up seven
stories to it?
I now stood before the greatest photographer in the world--and the
smallest. I stood--he danced. He talked--I listened.
"Come here," he cried; "you are an artist--you can understand
genius--you can appreciate my work."
And he produced from a portfolio a quantity of studies, or, as the Major
would call them, "flesh drawings," prettily touched in with the stump
and chalk with a _chic_ familiar to those who know the facility of the
French school. He patted me on the shoulder, kissed his hand to his
work, and fell into raptures over the human form divine with an
earnestness which showed him to be a true artist. With his sitter in
front of him he was even more enthusiastic, placing you into position,
and striking attitudes in front of you till you felt inclined to dance
"Ta ra ra boom de ay" instead of remaining rigid. I pointed out to him
that my hair being of an auburn hue, that on my chin and the remnant on
my head came out black.
"Ah, we shall alter that," he said, and he powdered my head. "And now to
counteract that--here goes!" and with some soot or charcoal he touched
over the scanty parts on my "dome of thought." During this process I
noticed that his own luxurious head of hair was not a fixture. He wore a
fez, and as he paused and pirouetted and struck attitudes, he would
pull the fez over one eye coquettishly, or over the other one
ferociously, and with it went his hair, parting and all. It is no wonder
this energetic photographer was so successful with the instantaneous
process, or that he so cleverly caught in the lens theatrical dancers
and others in motion to perfection. Of the most successful of his photos
that I saw was that of a row of comedians dancing together, and although
I was not present at the moment the photograph was taken, I have no
doubt, from the pleasant smile of their faces and their artistic poses,
that all credit was due to the late Sarony.
[Illustration: THE GREAT SARONY.]
The Major had his "Bureau" in Everett House. There he arranged for his
"stars," and there under false pretences he decoyed me, and there for
the first time initiated me into the obnoxious habit of drinking iced
water.
Most people are aware that in Nicaragua there dwell a tribe who
gradually kill themselves by an extraordinary predilection for eating a
certain kind of clay. These people are of the lowest order, and may
therefore be pardoned for their foolishness in turning themselves into
plaster casts; but why the enlightened Americans choose to convert
themselves into walking icebergs through drinking so much iced water is
unaccountable to the alien. They certainly do play havoc with their
digestions. They eat rapidly and recklessly, and swallow with startling
rapidity, for having all the dishes placed before them at once they have
no waiting in between the courses to assist digestion, and almost before
they have swallowed their food they freeze it with draughts of iced
water.
At this hotel in New York there lived for some years an Italian singer,
who was a great favourite in the city, and whose horror of iced water
was a terror to all the waiters. They knew that it was as much as their
lives were worth, and certainly as much as the glass was worth, to set a
drink of this concoction before him. If any new or forgetful waiter
offered the obnoxious liquid to the foreigner, it was soon thrown at his
head or to the other end of the room. Americans seldom show their
feelings, but anything they resent they will harbour in their minds, and
never forget.
In due course this singer died. The weather was hot at the time, and the
body in the shell was surrounded by ice until the time came to carry it
out of the hotel. As it passed through the hall the manager, who had had
many and many an upbraiding from the excitable Italian after the latter
had been proffered the hateful iced water, rushed out and triumphantly
exclaimed:
"'Guess, sir, you've got plenty of ice now, whether you like it or
not!'"
I was told that kindness would be showered upon me in America. I lived
in a perfect blizzard of hospitality, the force of which was too much
for me to stand up against. The poet asks, "What's in a name?" I don't
know, I'm sure, but I know what's not in a name, and that's something by
which you can identify the owner of it.
You are introduced to a man, his name being given you as Mr. James B.
Brown. You could never forget his face as long as you live, but there is
nothing in the name of James B. Brown to fix it in your memory. Indians
are more practical--they adopt nicknames. Amongst them the gentleman in
question would probably be known as "Cherrybeak," "Bleary Eye," or some
such descriptive cognomen.
I felt the want of this common-sense system when in America terribly.
While there I lived at the highest pressure of hospitality. Breakfasts,
luncheons, teas, dinners, suppers, receptions and all sorts of
gatherings, sometimes two or three of them in one day. At each of them I
was introduced to most interesting people, names perfectly familiar to
me but faces unknown. I was bewildered beyond description. I made many
friends, and as a natural consequence I made many blunders. The worst
of these latter I really must record, and pray that should this
confession meet the eye of my hospitable friend I trust he will forgive
me--indeed I know he will, for he is one of the best and cleverest of
men.
I was invited to an excellent dinner by a well-known man of letters I
had never met before. I accepted the invitation on condition I should be
allowed to leave early, as I had engagements two or three deep for that
evening. I came away with the best impression of my host and all his
friends. I saw their jokes and their faces, and knew I would recollect
both, but their names! how to recollect them was the puzzle. That
evening I met more distinguished people at the second house I visited,
more at the third, and still more at the fourth. I shall never forget
their kindness, but I gave up all hopes of trying to recollect hundreds
of names, all new to me in one evening. The problem was hopeless. The
following morning callers began early, and more invitations poured in.
At breakfast one of my new acquaintances called.
[Illustration: JAMES B. BROWN!]
"Tell me, Mr. Furniss, have you met our great literary man and renowned
humorist, Mr. James B. Brown?"
"Brown, Brown!" I repeated (that was not the name of course, but it will
do). "Well, no. I know his name so well, but I don't think I have yet
had the pleasure of making his acquaintance."
"Not know James B. Brown? Well, you must straightaway. Now let me
reckon. You leave New York at four this afternoon--you must lunch first.
Why not with me at the ---- Club? I'll get James B. Brown there or I'll
swallow Bartholdi's statue!"
I found refusals were of no avail, so I agreed. At one I entered the
club, at two minutes past one James B. Brown entered, and we met. He was
my first host of the previous evening!
We were formally introduced. I smiled--James B. Brown didn't. James B.
Brown pulled himself up to his full height--about double mine--I never
felt so small before. I shook his hand (he didn't shake mine) and said:
"This is a great honour and pleasant surprise," and I pulled the
dismayed celebrity gently to my side, when getting on tip-toes I
telephoned up the string of his eye-glass:
"Keep up the joke, Mr. Brown, keep it up. Fact is, I was so delighted at
meeting you last night and so charmed with you that when I was asked if
I had met you before I said 'No,' so that I might have the pleasure of
meeting you again. Forgive me!"
James B. Brown shook my hand warmly, and telephoned down:
"Sir, this is the greatest compliment I have ever received. Your sin
will be forgiven for your sincere flattery of so humble an admirer as
myself."
Americans claim to be superior to us in respect of three things--their
facility in travelling, their fire system, and their after-dinner
speaking. One of these I will not question, and that is the Fire
Brigade. It is necessary for America to excel in this respect, for with
their huge warehouses and stores overstocked with inflammable goods fire
would destroy their cities as Chicago was destroyed, were they not so
wonderfully prompt and efficient with their engines and appliances.
When I arrived in the States I only presented two of the very numerous
letters of introduction with which I was supplied. One was to the Chief
of Police in New York, and the other was to the Captain of the Fire
Brigade. The latter I met, when I arrived at the station at which he is
located, just coming out in ordinary clothes, for it was his night off;
but such is the pride taken by the Fire Brigade in their work that
whatever engagement he was going to keep was abandoned, and he was at my
service until I had seen everything it was possible to see in connection
with the famous Fire Brigade.
[Illustration: FIRE!]
As I was speaking to the Captain in the engine-room I noticed a couple
of horses standing there. One of them was a grey mare with a most
cunning look, and as the Captain was informing me that "she had done
continuous work here for some years," she gave me an artful wink of
confirmation. Just at that moment the alarm bell suddenly vibrated, and
before you could say Jack Robinson (even if you wanted to), seemingly by
magic but in reality by electricity, the halters fell from the horses'
heads, and to my surprise, without any one being near them they rushed
to their places at either side of the shaft of the engine. There were
manholes in the ceiling, through which brass rods were suspended
vertically. Down these slid half-dressed men, who seemed to turn a
somersault into their clothes during the descent on to the engine, the
harness suspended above the horses dropped on to their backs, and in an
instant they were in the street, the engine manned, its fire ablaze, and
the horses alive to the stiff job they had before them of reaching the
fire in an incredibly short space of time. But hardly had they taken the
first leap from one of the boulders over the cavities with which New
York streets abound to another, than a whistle from the Captain stopped
them. It was a false alarm given for my edification. Before they could
get back into the engine-house I was conducted by the Captain into the
dormitory, where I concealed myself under a bed. Without a grumble the
men came up and literally walked out of their clothes, for boots, pants
and everything are all one piece. They opened these carefully and laid
them ready by the side of their beds, and in a few minutes were all
snoring fast asleep.
The Captain gave a slight tap on the floor as a signal for another false
alarm. At the first sound of the bell, with one bound the men were out
of bed, in another into their combinations, and in a third they were
going head over heels down the holes in the floor, just as mice would
disappear down theirs at the sight of a cat, and in a second or two I
heard again the rumbling of the engine over the pavement.
We escaped before the men were back again to bed, but hardly had I been
shown the completeness of everything, and gone into details which I need
not repeat here, and had another wink from the old grey mare, which
plainly said, "Ah, I knew those alarms were false," when her two ears
went up like a flash as she sprang under her harness once more, the
other animal as quickly by her side. The third alarm was a genuine one,
and she knew it. The Captain and I, as soon as the alarm was given,
rushed in the direction of the fire, but we had not got to the first
corner before the old mare and her companion flew past, and I just had
time to notice that the men were completing their toilet as they were
hurled by. Quickly followed the officer of the night in his one-horse
trap, and by the time we got to the fire, which was only round a block
of buildings, an exhibition of fire engines and appliances was collected
there which beggars description. The water tower, a huge affair seventy
or eighty feet high, built up like a crane, which shoots water on to
the top of the burning building; so also are the hook and ladder
brigade, the men with the jumping net--in fact, everything is at hand.
This is accounted for by the fact that a policeman at any corner, when
giving the alarm of a fire, touches an electric button or turns a
handle, which gives the signal at every fire station, unloosing the
horses and putting everything into motion at once.
[Illustration: THE ALARM.]
The one weak point in the whole system is that the alarms are not
isolated, which means that every signal of fire in the big city of New
York disturbs every man and horse at every station, some of them nine
miles away from the scene of the conflagration, for so anxious are the
men to be up to time that they are often in the street, harnessed,
equipped and ready, before the second signal comes to acquaint them
with the locality and extent of the fire. At least that was then the
system.
When I returned to England I stopped once as I was passing a fire
station and told the men of the wonders I had seen in America. A very
athletic, sailor-looking fireman, who had listened attentively to all I
had to say, chimed in with "Yes, sir, what you've said is quite true,
for I've been in America myself, and seen them at work; but though they
may possibly get to the fire a few seconds quicker than we, when we _do_
get there we put it out. That's more than they do generally."
"Well, perhaps so," I rejoined; "but then you haven't the wonderful
electric apparatus for dropping the harness on to the horses' backs!"
"No," said he, "we go a step further than that; the harness is on the
horses' backs beforehand!"
This youth's visit to America had evidently had a sharpening effect upon
him, for he was a bit too wideawake for me.
Being on a trip for rest and health, I found the gaiety of New York too
much for me, so having whispered to my friends that I was going to study
culture and eat bacon and beans in Boston, I quietly slipped off to
study Congress and to feast my eyes on the beautiful city of Washington.
Not being clean-shaven I could not wear a false beard, so I took a false
name. "Mr. Harry Furniss of London _Punch_" went in the spirit to Boston
(for had I stayed much longer in New York my used-up body would have
been returned in spirits to England); "Mr. French of Nowhere" went in
the flesh to Washington.
On arriving at my hotel I signed "Mr. French of Nowhere." Reporters who
scan the hotel list did not think "Mr. French of Nowhere" a subject
worthy of dissection, so for a few days I thought I should enjoy perfect
peace with profit. A "stocky little Englishman" taking notes _en
passant_ with an amateurish fervency was probably what most people would
think who cared to think at all of the stranger in their midst.
But it so happened that in going down by train from New York I sat
opposite to a very delightful American gentleman, and we chatted away
in the most friendly fashion. We parted on arriving at the city. Next
day I happened to "strike" him in the street.
"I've been on the look-out for you everywhere, Mr. French" (I had given
him my assumed name in the train). "I am very anxious to show you all
over this beautiful city, and my brother the Judge is also anxious that
you should dine at his house."
I thanked him most cordially, and accepted his kind offer, saying that I
should be ready for him at my hotel at 9 o'clock the next morning. We
parted, but my conscience pricked me for giving him a false name, so I
hurried back after him and explained to him the whole circumstance. It
was flattering to me to see that he took a greater interest than ever in
being my guide. The next morning Mr. French (to all but my new
acquaintance) was in the hall of the "Arlington" at the appointed time.
I waited and waited, but my guide did not put in an appearance.
Presently a strange gentleman came up to me, and boldly addressed me by
my proper name. I saw at once I was in the clutches of an interviewer,
so I point-blank contradicted him, and asserted that my name was French.
"That won't do for me," he said.
"Then you won't do for me," I said, and turned upon my heel.
However, I rather liked the look of the man, and didn't like to
disappoint him altogether, being a journalist myself.
"I am waiting for a gentleman," I said. "I expect him every minute, and
then I must be off."
"You may wait, but I guess that gentleman won't arrive," said the
journalist, "and I want a column out of you for our evening paper."
A frightful thought flashed across my mind.
"Have I been sold?"
I had, and I thought more of the gentleman of the Press (all the
Pressmen were very kind to me in Washington, and, indeed, all over
America) than I did of my newly-made erratic acquaintance.
When I paid my second and professional visit to Washington years
afterwards, of course it was a different matter. My representative had
for business reasons to invite the Press to "boom" me. I was rated a
good subject for interviewers, being only too pleased to do my best for
our mutual benefit. One day a representative of the important Washington
family paper called. We lunched and chatted, and subsequently over a
cigar he informed me that he knew nothing about art or artists or
politics, nor had he any object in common with me--in fact, he was the
sporting editor. The interview appeared--two long columns on prize
fighting! I was the innocent "peg" upon which the sporting writer hung
his own ideas. He discussed "a rendezvous in the Rockies," remote from
the centre of civilisation, as surely an appropriate locale for a
train-scuttling speciality or a fight to a death finish between Roaring
Gore and Wild Whiskers. A pair of athletes, scienced to the tips of
their vibrating digits, compelled to appeal to the courtesy of a wild
and well-whiskered Legislature, would doubtless appear inconsistent to
gentlemen of the National Sporting Club of London, who were anxious to
have the big fight settled within earshot of Bow Bells, in the luxurious
rooms of the London National Sporting Club. One combatant, I declared,
"swallowed the gruel rammed at him as if it were mother's milk," the
lads "had enough blood on tap to run a sizeable slaughterhouse"; then a
British fighter "swallowing a lobster salad on top of a whiskey sour,
with a dose of prussic acid by way of dessert"; and references to my
knowledge of the "Freds," "Toms," or "Dicks" of the Sporting Press of
London, and to my familiarity with "Charlies," "Fitzs," and "Jims" of
the "Magic Circle," were astounding.
My manager rushed into my rooms with the paper in question. "This will
ruin your prospects here! We depend on the women folk; they will never
come to hear you after reading this!" And so it was. In spite of other
interviewers at Washington writing of me as "an English good fellow,
rich and juicy, and genial in flavour, like other hot stuffs of that
remarkable country"; and another,
"Harry Furniss' eclipse of the gayety of John Bull, with facile
pencil and brilliant tongue, attracted a cultured assemblage to the
Columbia Theatre. Furniss, a plump lump of a man, all curves from
pumps to poll, in gesture and in the breezy flourish of his
sentences, genially cynical like Voltaire, cuts an engaging figure
in his black coat that he wears with the inborn grace of a
well-dined Londoner, a bon vivant, whose worldly shaft tickles and
never bites, for he is a gentleman whose wit wins and never wounds.
Furniss is Thackeray in the satirist's mellow moments, and there is
no little of the Thackerian spirit radiating in the pictures of
this rotund and quaint little caricaturist."
I did very bad business in Washington, largely due to bad management.
Five o'clock teas had become the rage of Washington Society, and my
appearances in the theatre were between 4.15 and 6 o'clock in the
afternoon. Alluding to this a critic wrote in the _Morning Times_: "It
may help Mr. Furniss to forgive the small audiences here in Washington
if he is informed that during this season none of his English friends
have made a very glittering success; nearly all of them have lost money
or made very little. We seem to be somewhat down on Englishmen this
year."
As Washington is the capital of America, so the Capitol, where Congress
meets, is the cap of the capital, the dome, of course, being the
Capitol's cap, and a capital cap it is, covering the collective
councillors of the country. The Capitol itself looks like a huge white
eagle protecting the interests of the States. Audubon's Bird of
Washington is the name of the eagle well-known to naturalists, but this
_rara avis_ is the _Falcho Washingtoniensis_. At its heart is seated the
Supreme Court, keeping an eagle eye on the laws of the land; under its
right wing is the Senate (equivalent to the English House of Lords); and
the left shelters the House of Representatives (corresponding to our
House of Commons). At first this bird of buildings had no wings, and the
three representative assemblies sat in the Central Edifice; afterwards
the wings were added, and now the Capitol is fly enough for anything. It
soars high above the city, and from its summit a capital birdseye view
is naturally obtained.
The Senate in the American Congress answers to the House of Lords in the
British Parliament. The "sporting editor" would doubtless say that each
in its respective country is the right hand of the Government, and when
there happens to be a genuine stand-up fight, as foreseen with Spain, an
international contest, although the "left," in prize ring phraseology
(the House of Representatives in America and the House of Commons in
England), does all the preliminary work, it is reserved for the right,
when the critical moment arrives, to administer the knock-out blow.
[Illustration: THE THRONE IN THE SENATE.]
In both the Old Country and the New these superior senators are
politically alike. Representatively they are as different as iced water
is to old port.
[Illustration: THE THRONE, HOUSE OF REPRESENTATIVES.]
The seating of the senators in these two assemblages is typical of the
countries they represent. In the British House of Lords the Peers loll
about on scarlet sofas; in America the chosen ones sit at desks. The
British Peer has forsaken one lounge to occupy another; the American has
left the office desk for the desk in office. In Britain the House of
Lords is composed of Princes and Peers, with an admixture of bishops,
brewers, and other political party pullers; it is also an asylum for
stranded political wrecks from the Lower House. Soldiers and sailors,
too, are honoured and are sent there, not as politicians, but merely to
exist for the time being in a sort of respectable retreat, before being
translated to the crypt of Westminster Abbey or St. Paul's. John Bull
has made this hereditary hotch-potch, and he must swallow it. Jonathan
selects his senators to his own taste, and has them dished up fresh from
time to time.
The Senate is not sombre and sedate as is our Upper House, but
simplicity itself--no gilded throne, no Lord Chancellor in wig and gown,
no offensive officialism. It looks like a huge auction room, the
auctioneer being the deputy President standing at a table hammer in hand
knocking down the separate business of State lot by lot as put up by the
clerks.
The House of Representatives, like the Senate, reminds one very much of
an auction room. It is a splendid hall, but its size prevents Members
from being heard very distinctly, particularly as they talk away amongst
themselves, except when anything particularly interesting is going on.
In the Senate the table, and the clerks' table, are of dark wood; in the
House of Representatives they are of white marble. The American flag
hanging over the balcony gives it a semi-theatrical look, and the white
marble table resembles an American bar, making one feel inclined to go
up to it and order a brandy-smash, a gin-sling, or a corpse-reviver.
[Illustration]
The House has not met as I enter. The page-boys are playing at leapfrog,
and some early Members are disposing of their correspondence, and
instead of reproving the boys cast glances at them that seem to signify
they would like to join in the game themselves. Presently a Member comes
in backwards through one of the doorways, calling out to something that
is following him. I lean over to see if he has brought his favourite dog
or domestic cat, when a little infant in modernised Dutch costume comes
in waddling laughingly after her parent. Another Member turns round on
his swivel chair as his page-boy runs up to him, shakes him heartily by
the hand, tosses him on his foot and gives him a "ride-a-cock-horse."
Oh, you English sticklers for etiquette! What would you say if Mr.
Labouchere came in on all fours with his little child pulling his
coat-tails and whacking him with a stick, or if Sir William Harcourt
played at leapfrog with Lulu round the Speaker's chair?
[Illustration: THE HOUSE OF REPRESENTATIVES.]
My drawing will show you better what the House of Representatives is
like than any written description I can give. Each Member has his own
desk, with his Parliamentary papers all around him. He is not bothered,
as Members are in England, by having his papers sent to his private
house, or having to call for them at the office when he arrives, or
actually having to fight for a seat. Americans pay their
Representatives, and consider that they too have a right to be
accommodated with a seat whenever they want one to see them, and to know
who they are; so you have in front of you a diagram of the sitting
arrangements of the House, with the names of the Members.
[Illustration: AN EX-SPEAKER.]
At 12 o'clock the procession enters. An official carries a little wand
with the eagle on top, and after the Chaplain (during my first visit I
saw the "Blind Chaplain," the Rev. W. H. Milburn) has delivered a few
touching words about the floods in Minnesota, the reading of the
"reakard" begins. The House buzzes with conversation and displays the
utmost indifference while the minutes of the last meeting are read with
extraordinary rapidity by a clerk with a grating voice. Every now and
then a Member corrects a misprint in the "reakard" of what he has said,
and then leave of absence is given to applicants for it, who have to
state their reasons. The Chairmen of the various Committees then report
to the House, Chairmen of Committees taking in turn to sit in the
Speaker's Chair and preside over the House, whilst anyone can examine
them.
Instead of calling out a Member by his name--Mr. Bacon or Mr. Beans--the
Speaker calls upon "the gentleman from Illinois," or "the gentleman from
Michigan." But if any question arises to which some Member has an
objection filibustering is rampant. The Speaker rises and asks if there
is any objection to the consideration of the Bill. After a pause he
says, "The Chair hears none," and is about ordering the Bill to be
engrossed when some Member objects and a division is taken, the Members
standing up to be counted. Groups of them, however, do not pay a bit of
attention, and sit about on their desks smoking cigars and telling
stories, and when the numbers are given some of these will get up and
complain that their names are not included, as they did not hear, or
went out to speak to a friend, or some trivial excuse like that, so they
are counted again. One in particular I noticed and made a sketch of
peeling and eating an apple, and he strolled up afterwards and demanded
to have his name inserted. More delay; then "the gentleman from
Somewhere-else" informs the Speaker that there is not a quorum. "The
gentleman from Bedlam" demands a division taken by tellers, and the
Speaker agrees, and is just appointing the tellers, when "the gentleman
from Obstructianna" calls for "Yeas and Nays," which means, gentle
reader, that the whole of the House of Representatives have to be called
out by name, from Alpha to Omega. Those not wishing to vote smoke or eat
apples. Then some Member comes in and informs the Speaker that he didn't
hear his name when it was called.
In case the reader may think I am exaggerating I append the following
cutting from the "Congressional Record," vol. xxiii., No. 93.:
"Mr. O'NEILL of Pennsylvania. Mr. Speaker, I am paired, but I have
voted in order to make a quorum.
The SPEAKER. There is no quorum.
Mr. HENDERSON of Iowa. Mr. Speaker, when my name was called the
first time I did not hear it, and the second time I was examining
some papers and my name was passed before I could answer.
The SPEAKER. Did the gentleman fail to hear his name?
Mr. HENDERSON of Iowa. I heard it called, but did not answer in
time.
The SPEAKER. The gentleman understands the rule. If the gentleman
states that he was in the Hall of the House and failed to hear his
name, his vote will be recorded.
Mr. HENDERSON of Iowa. I was.
The vote of Mr. HENDERSON of Iowa was recorded.
Mr. PATTERSON of Tennessee. Mr. Speaker, I desire to vote.
The SPEAKER. Was the gentleman in the Hall, and did he fail to hear
his name called?
Mr. PATTERSON of Tennessee. Yes, sir.
The vote of Mr. PATTERSON of Tennessee was recorded.
Mr. DOLLIVER. Mr. Speaker, although paired I have voted to make a
quorum.
Mr. McKEIGHAN. Mr. Speaker, I was in the Hall and heard my name,
but did not vote because I did not understand the measure. If it is
in order I desire now to vote.
The SPEAKER. The Chair can not entertain the gentleman's request
under the rule.
Mr. HUFF. Mr. Speaker, I voted to make a quorum. I am paired with
Mr. KRIBBS.
The SPEAKER. On this vote the yeas are 136 and the nays 3. No
quorum has voted.
Mr. O'NEILL of Pennsylvania. I withdraw my vote.
Mr. HOLMAN. Mr. Speaker, I ask unanimous consent that another vote
be taken, which I have no doubt will show the presence of a quorum.
Mr. BURROWS. Mr. Speaker, can not that request be modified so as to
provide for taking the vote on the passage of the Bill instead of
on the engrossment and third reading? I ask unanimous consent that
the vote may be taken on the passage of the Bill.
Mr. CHIPMAN rose.
The SPEAKER. The Chair will state that the roll call having
disclosed the absence of a quorum, no business is in order but a
call of the House or a motion to adjourn.
Mr. HOLMAN. Then, Mr. Speaker, I move a call of the House.
A call of the House was ordered."
Then that grating voice calls out the list from A to Z, the pairs are
called, more explanations given, then there is more filibustering (I
think that is the correct word) on the part of the obstructionists, and
for the third time the same farce is enacted. Then the division takes
place, when the Members leave their seats and are counted as they enter.
No, the division takes place before the last count, for after the names
are called again and there are more explanations, when the Speaker
"recognises the gentleman's right," or does not as the case may be. I
know three hours of this was enough to show me that, although the
Americans may boast of being our superiors in many ways, such a farce as
I have described could never take place in the British Parliament. Why
on earth don't they take a division as we do, when the Members leave
their seats and the Ayes and Noes are locked in separate Lobbies, and as
they re-enter their votes are recorded and they are counted by the
tellers, and the question at issue is settled finally without doubt? I
must say that for a practical people the Parliamentary procedure seemed
to me the most unpractical ceremony I had ever witnessed. Yet they are
practical in some Parliamentary matters. For instance, there is a
Committee of Rules, presided over by the Speaker, which meets to decide
what time the House shall devote to each question, say two hours--one
for the Democrats and one for the Republicans. Each speaker in the
debate is allowed five minutes, and when this is up the Speaker reminds
him of the fact by rapping the table with his hammer.
[Illustration: AN EX-MINISTER.]
Again, it is very convenient that a Member can have speeches that he has
never delivered printed on the Parliamentary record. In England a
country Member is about to make a speech, and being anxious to let his
constituents have it in full he gives it to the representatives of his
local paper, and it is in the press before he delivers it. Something may
happen to prevent the delivery of the speech, and Hansard has not a line
of it. A curious thing happened in the "Congressional Record" a year or
two ago. The same speech was published as having been uttered by two
very different Members. This occurred through a New York orator handing
his speech (a eulogium on a deceased Member) to a friend to correct.
This friend had an eye to business, and he picked out another Member who
yearned to be thought an orator but who was not blessed with forensic
power and had never made a speech in his life, and sold him the speech
for forty dollars. He walked into the House swelling in anticipation of
his coming effort, but his chagrin was great when he discovered
precisely the same speech in the "Record." How is this for an instance
of American journalistic smartness?
After the exhibition of filibustering I described the House adjourned,
having done absolutely nothing but convince the stranger in the gallery
that payment of Members leads to a waste of time, which is not played
ducks and drakes with by the Members of our House.
An evening sitting is, of course, livelier, though at the outset there
are more strangers in the gallery than Members on the floor. It is
amusing to note how the ladies crowd the seats, and how the Congressman
lolls on the sofa in the outer circle of the chamber, or turns round in
his chair at his desk, crossing his legs on the desk in front of him,
puffs his cigar, and, heedless of the fate of the nation, turns round
and fascinates the fair ones in the gallery. It is amusing also to see a
Member leave his seat during his speech and walk all over the floor,
snapping his fingers and pummelling any desk handy. The official
reporter follows him about, book in hand, wherever the Member's
eloquence leads him, and his friends crowd around him when he stands or
walks and vigorously applaud him; so do the audience in the gallery when
his eloquence ceases, while his friends rush to shake his hand. He then
walks round and receives congratulations, like a man passing round the
hat. The clapping of the desk lids is very effective as a means of
approval or otherwise; but if the orator goes too far and a scene is the
result, the noise is too much even for the American House of
Representatives, and the Serjeant-at-Arms has to take the spread-eagle
on a toasting fork and walk up to the windy Member. I have made a sketch
of a Member who made an aggressive speech, and on being replied to by
another Member, walked up to the Speaker, leant on his desk, and puffed
his cigar right under his nose. All this to one accustomed to the
English House of Commons is beyond comprehension, and the only parallel
I can think of is the trial scene in "The Bells," when Mathias walks
about the court and snaps his fingers at the judges and then acts the
perpetration of the deed for which he is called upon to answer.
During my stay I heard a very funny specimen of rant from a gentleman of
the name of Turner, who was suffering from an attack of Anglophobia. He
would delight the Mortons and Conybeares whom we have to tolerate, and
his pronunciation of the Old Country's language was even worse than the
sentiments he expressed. He spoke of the "extremest spirit" of
"_o_fficial day_tee_," whatever that may mean; the next screech brought
out "_do_mestic _hoo_rizon," and he pathetically alluded to his
constituents as the people who lived in the "boomed city, who do not get
an elegant _re_ward for their la_bor_."
[Illustration: ANGLOPHOBIA.]
I was also amused by another gentleman in a discussion about some Bills.
He jumped up, and rushing over to where his opponents sat, he shouted at
them, "_Talk! You?_--you--you--you--you--you--you--you?" (and with
dreadful emphasis) "I've reported your little Bills!"
Then there were cries of "Go ahead! Vote! vote! vote! vote!" and to
crown the gentleman's vehemence he cried out repeatedly, "I demand a
division!" (Chorus): "Pull him down!"
"I demand a division!" "Pull him down!"
"I demand a division!" "Pull him down!"
And he refused to leave off until the eagle-topped toasting fork was
brought into play once more.
A veritable pandemonium is this Parliament! Fascinating to me, who have
spent so much time in studying every detail of our own Parliament, which
I have not the slightest doubt would prove just as strange and funny to
the American visitor, if like me he sees the ridiculous side of
everything, even of such an august assemblage as that of the legislators
of a nation.
[Illustration: THE PRESIDENT--IDEAL.]
[Illustration: THE PRESIDENT--REAL.]
Privacy is unknown in America. Everyone there, from the President in the
White House to your Chinese washerman in his laundry, is accessible to
all. I have visited both with less difficulty than I would experience in
approaching Brown, Jones or Robinson in this country. Here the business
man's time is his own, and you must not rob him of a minute any more
than of his cheque-book. In America a business man's time belongs to
anyone who may require it. You walk in to see him at will, and if
Jonathan can earn a dollar whilst in his bath by talking to you through
the keyhole he will do it, and he is just as open in giving his time to
show you any gracious action. The busiest man in America, the President,
surrounded by affairs of State, leaves them and shakes my hand in
welcome to his country. I say shakes my hand, for although I apologise
for my intrusion (which, by the way, was quite unnecessary) and pay him
some pleasant compliments, President Harrison replies only by shaking my
hand. I wax eloquent over the magnificence of the great country over
which he presides; I touch upon the coming election, and even give him
some information of value which I happen to have overheard by accident.
I lead him to believe that I am entrusted with secrets by the English
Cabinet about the Behring Straits and other vexed questions, and I
openly tell him what I believe to be the dark designs of England upon a
free country; in fact, I don't know what I don't tell him, and now that
he is no more I see no just cause or impediment why I should not now
make public his reply. It is all on the next page.
* * * * *
[Illustration]
As all English people could not get to Niagara, Niagara was brought to
them in the shape of an excellent diorama, which proved a great success
in London a few years ago. The atmospheric effect in all dioramas is
procured by making the visitor first pass through dark passages, fall up
unlighted stairs, and tumble about in the tortuous corridors in the
blackness; then, brought suddenly face to face with the picture well lit
up, the eye is affected by the glare of light, which would not be the
case if the spectator walked straight into the diorama from the street.
Now, curiously enough, you approach the real Niagara in much the same
way--that is, if, as I did, you go from Buffalo, and as was my lot, in
the most depressing weather.
[Illustration: A BUFFALO GIRL.]
I had to wait for the train to start at Buffalo in a _Dee_po which
eclipsed anything I have seen for gloom. The shoeblack's platform, of
more than ordinary proportions, occupied a good fifth of the
waiting-room. Its dusky proprietor was in possession of the throne, and
was discussing politics with a brother brush whose massive feet were
resting on the structure, an advertisement for the operating shoeblack,
implying that both the quality and quantity of his shine were superior.
The train was also very gloomy. My vis-a-vis was an old Buffalo girl who
must have remembered coming out to "dance by the light of the moon" a
couple of generations ago, when that melody was popular.
[[**Full page here!]
PRESIDENT HARRISON'S REPLY.]
[Illustration: MR. PUNCH AT NIAGARA.]
The exit from the town is made through a hideous quarter--wooden houses
and huts, depressing dirty streets, and the sides of the railway covered
with the refuse of a generation. Then some miles of open country, with a
building here and there which might possibly have added a little
picturesqueness to the dismal scene had not those despoilers of all
picturesqueness, the advertisers--and, above all, the advertisers of
pills--made an eyesore wherever the same was possible. Then through a
mile or two of apple orchards and more country with huts advertising
pills--probably the apples in those orchards are most particularly sour.
The rain came down fast, the train went on slowly; at every station damp
people with wet umbrellas came in and made me shudder. Altogether the
prospect of my getting a favourable impression of Niagara was a black
one. But it so happens the effect was quite the reverse--it was
precisely the same as passing through the gloomy passages leading to the
diorama.
[Illustration: HEBE.]
As I walked to an hotel to have some lunch before seeing the Falls, I
was startled to see in wood (everything is either water or wood at
Niagara) my old friend Mr. Punch standing outside a cigar shop, smiling
as usual; so after I had taken one of his cigars and lighted it, we had
a chat about Fleet Street and all his friends there.
[Illustration: MY DRIVER.]
"Guess, stranger, I'm here to draw the Britishers. 'Amurrcans' don't
understand me. They try to draw me, but they might just as well try to
draw one of these wooden cigars in my hand. Their sarcasm runs off me
like this rain, and I keep on smiling. They laugh at the Britishers
journeying thousands of miles to see this place, just as the English
smile at the Americans pilgrimaging to Stratford-on-Avon. Why, it's real
cheap to find natives round here who've lived all their lives within
earshot of the Falls and never seen them yet!"
We compared notes--American and English--and parted.
At the hotel to which I repaired for the purpose of refreshing the inner
man I was waited upon by a Hebe for the first, last and only time while
I was in the States. Quick, quiet and clean--what a relief after the
coloured gentleman!
[Illustration: FRA' HUDDERSFIELD.]
Hiring a covered conveyance with two horses and a very intelligent
driver, shaped something like his own whip, who was to act as my guide
as well as my Jehu, I was driven through the town of wooden houses to an
office where I bought tickets to pass me to the various places of
interest. The purveyor of this pasteboard looked like a French peasant,
spoke with an American accent, and came from the town of Huddersfield in
England.
I had no doubt the driver had graduated in his work from the perch of a
London hansom, and that probably the horses had been trained at
Newmarket. Everything is so very "English, you know," at Niagara, from
the wooden Punch to the pasteboard man.
I was informed by everyone that Niagara would grow upon me. I was rather
alarmed to find it growing upon me the moment I arrived, for it was
raining in torrents and I had juvenile Niagaras all round my umbrella. I
should rather say you grow upon Niagara--at least, for my own part, I
felt that if I were left there long enough I should do so. It was the
most fascinating sight I ever saw, and I felt as I stood motionless and
riveted to the spot I had had enough water to last me for the remaining
term of my existence.
[Illustration: NIAGARA GROWING UPON ME.]
Everyone, even the clerk of the weather, had arranged that my visit to
America should be pleasant. Niagara, to be seen at its best, must be
viewed on a pouring wet day. I know few of my readers will accept this
assertion as a serious fact, but it's true. It is just as true as the
fact that the way to obtain the full flavour of strawberries is to put
pepper on them, and that the sole method of fully relishing ham is to
use a dash of champagne as a sauce. There are people who even in this
enlightened age vegetate upon the face of the earth and know not these
things, and a very great many more who do not know that they ought to
select a soakingly wet day to appreciate the Falls of Niagara at their
highest value.
It is not for the extra bucketful or so of water that you may behold,
for that is imperceptible, but for the water you _don't_ see. A fine day
is a mistake, and the finer the day the greater the mistake, for the
reason that distances appear nearer, and the scene as a picture appears
contracted in consequence. But when the rain falls in torrents at your
feet, and then gradually disappears in mist, it gives to the Falls a
certain mystery and suggestion of vastness that cannot possibly be
experienced by the spectator except upon a thoroughly wet, misty day.
Therefore I congratulated myself that I saw Niagara on my first visit at
its wettest and best. Had I waited till the next day I could have gone
to exactly the same points at Niagara and seen the same pictures, in
water and colour of course, totally different in effect. You ought to
allow at least three days instead of three hours to inspect Niagara. The
first day ought to be wet, then one fine morning you should see it early
and drive round it in the beautiful afternoon, and stroll there alone or
otherwise by moonlight.
[Illustration: I ADMIRE THE GREAT HORSESHOE FALL.]
There I stood under my umbrella, with the rain coming down in sheets and
the spray and mist rising up, feeling that I must do one or both of two
things--write poetry or commit suicide. I had just got to--
"Oh, dashing, splashing King of Water,
Is that mist thy lovely daughter?
Tell me, through thy roar and thunder,
Canst thou----"
when the crack of a whip brought me to my senses. It was produced by my
faithful driver, who had come in search of me. I was saved.
He explained to me the wonders of the Great Horseshoe Fall (who more
able to do this than a driver?), and wound up by saying:
"Guess we'll harness Niagara yet--we've got the traces nearly on now."
[Illustration: JONATHAN HARNESSING NIAGARA.]
We had reached the carriage and pair when this meditative remark escaped
him. Thinking he was referring to some other gee-gee of his, possibly
one called appropriately after the Falls, and which was being broken in,
I said that I thought the present pair went very well in harness
together and had a lot of work in them yet.
"Why, certn'ly," was all he said as he shut the carriage door, but he
gave me a puzzled, anxious look, and I saw that he caught sight of my
poetry. I evidently had not understood his remark, nor had he
comprehended mine. At the next stopping place, about a mile above the
Falls, he explained that "there was seven million horse-power running
wild." It is to be "harnessed" at a cost of about 5,200,000 dollars, and
horse-power of upwards of 260,000 will be collared. Yes, Jonathan,
mounted upon his thirsty steed Dollars, is about to lasso picturesque
Niagara. I saw through the mist the destroyers at work; mills with their
hideous chimneys and dirty smoke, and attendant railways puffing
commerce will be seen when the landscape is clear. Jonathan cares not;
as a writer on this act of ultra-vandalism declares:
"Nothing is sacred to the practical man of the present age, especially
when he happens to dwell on the other side of the Atlantic. There he
uses the wonders of Nature as advertising boards for puffing quack
medicines or patent stoves, and the picturesque and the grandiose are
only appreciated by him in proportion to their utilitarian value."
[Illustration: "THE THREE SISTERS."]
Of course I paid my respects to the sisters of Niagara, or rather, to
the islands of that name. To do so I had to leave the carriage and walk
to the islands over little bridges, and again that feeling of
fascination overcame me, and looking round to see that the driver was
not following me a second time, I stealthily pulled out my verse and
abandoned myself to my poetical inspirations. I had my eyes fixed upon
three rocks in front of me, round which the waters, in all sorts of
forms and colours, were dashing. "The Three Sisters," I repeated to
myself. "Three sisters--some idea to work in here. Let me see, the
daughter is the mist--the three sisters--why, there they are!" Oh, why
was I born a caricaturist? All poetry had vanished; Niagara's
fascination was dispelled!
When next you visit Niagara stand on the last of the three sisters and
find the three portraits in the rocks. It is a puzzle picture; a
_fac-simile_ of which I here present you with.
I was next driven to the Inclined Railway, to descend which would enable
me to see the Falls from below. Arrived there, I found an old lady
cross-examining the attendant anent the safety of the railway, which,
truth to tell, is somewhat appalling to look at, the incline being at an
angle of thirty-one degrees. The motive-power is water, and what the old
lady wanted to know was whether the water would hold out long enough to
bring her back again.
"Niagara dry up in five minutes? Wal, old gal, that's clever! Guess this
railway's bin workin' every day you have--forty-five years now."
The questioner, who had witnessed, at the least computation, sixty
summers come and go, promptly vanished at this soft impeachment, and I
descended alone.
[Illustration: INCLINED RAILWAY, NIAGARA.]
Wonderful, magnificent as Niagara indubitably is, that sense which
enables me to drink in and appreciate to the full Nature's works of
sublime grandeur and vastness was ruined for the day. My eyes had beheld
the "Three Sisters" in the rocks; after that they discovered faces in
everything. They fell upon this mountain of ice and beheld spray that
had frozen into a grinning mask. Cautiously I picked my way along the
treacherous surface in the direction of its ear to see the spray rising
up from the other side, when suddenly my feet slipped on the ice and I
had had a fall as well as seen one.
In all probability this _contretemps_ would have been avoided had I not
been followed by one of those pests, a guide, the sight of whom caused
me to make undue hurry over the frozen surface. Harpies of this ilk are
the bane of sight-seeing all the world over.
My next performance was to drive through the town of wood for the
purpose of striking the water at another point; this accomplishment
being attended with the risk of being run over by passing trains, which
run vindictively as well as promiscuously over the unprotected
thoroughfares.
Having run this gauntlet successfully, I passed through a house which is
a store containing photographs and mementoes of the place and a couple
of persevering, persuasive maidens, whose efforts to make life a burden
to you until you buy some of the rubbish are usually rewarded with
unqualified success. After fighting my way through this edifice I was
taken in hand by a juvenile guide, who discoursed in the orthodox
fashion of his kind about the Whirlpool Rapid, pointed out where plucky,
foolish Captain Webb met his death, crushed by the force of water, and,
lower down, the spot where his body was found. Then my young chaperon
unburdened himself of a string of horrors concerning men in barrels,
insane women who from time to time have thrown themselves in, the little
steamer whose occupants shot the rapids for a wager and nearly paid for
their temerity with their lives, and many more similarly pleasant
reminiscences were conjured up through Niagara's haze on this drizzly
afternoon.
[Illustration: WHERE CAPTAIN WEBB WAS KILLED.]
Subsequently I had to make use of another "elevator," which, judging by
the velocity of the ascent and descent, is probably worked by a
detachment of specially-trained tortoises. Down by the rapids I made the
pleasing discovery that after all I had some sense of the sublime left,
for I was roused to further anticipated flights of enthusiasm by the
magnificent spectacle of the vast volumes of water foaming, rushing,
eddying, swirling along on their onward course with rush impetuous and
irresistible as the whirlwind, and I felt for my pocket-book to complete
my ode to mighty Niagara.
I had not noticed until that moment two commercial-looking individuals,
obviously British, seated close by and gazing biliously upon the
marvellous rapids; but I heard one remark to the other:
"'Enery, that's where Webb 'it 'is 'ed, hain't it?"
I disappeared rapidly in the direction of the "helevator," and fled the
disenchanted scene.
Blondin vulgarised Niagara; Jonathan is going to turn it into a colossal
mill-sewer. So make hay while the sun shines, or rather when the rain
falls, and see it soon.
[Illustration: TOURISTS.]
To us in England who are in the habit of rushing to a station to demand
a ticket for a journey across England, or to the North of Scotland, or
to the West of Ireland, and expect as a matter of course to find the
necessary accommodation, it seems strange that the Americans are so
"previous" in their arrangements. The sale of tickets, which is here
conducted with ease and despatch at the various termini, or, if you
desire to be "previous," at the depots of the companies in the centre of
the town, is in the States made a means of causing "corners" in
speculation. There are, I am informed, actually brokers who buy up the
tickets for the express mail trains, and whose prices rise and fall like
the stocks on 'Change.
For instance, in Chicago there is a whole street of these brokers. I
wanted to go to Buffalo. I got a prominent citizen to escort me to the
railway, and I felt some honour had been conferred upon me when I paid
the full fare and had a corner seat in the Pullman allotted to me. When
I arrived at the station I discovered that next to me was a mother with
two children, who were already climbing over my armchair instead of
their own, and fighting for and tearing the papers and magazines I had
just purchased. There was another horror I hadn't noticed at my first
glance, moreover. This took the shape of an infant of some months, which
immediately began to squeal with a shrillness that forcibly reminded me
of the siren on the Atlantic. No craft ever flew before the siren of an
approaching Atlantic liner more quickly than did I from that infant. I
at once abandoned my seat.
Now instead of going as one would in England to a station official,
telling him you are going by the next train and taking your seat in it
as a matter of course, I had to go into the city again, interview the
officials at their office, and ask as a special compliment to be allowed
to start a few hours later. All this is very surprising in a country
where, of all places, time is money.
In a long journey you pass through many States, in the two senses of the
word. Possibly you may find yourself in a state of thirst, but although
you are surrounded by drinks galore you cannot get the wherewithal to
quench it, for you are passing through a proclaimed State, and drinking
in that is illegal. Or you may be passing through a State free from the
temperance faddist, where intoxicating beverages are to be had for
paying for them, and suddenly discover that you are in a state of
hunger, say five hours after your dinner; but the coloured gentleman who
officiates as cook is snoring, and fifty dollars won't buy you a
mouthful of bread, so you find that your last state is considerably
worse than your first. I have experienced both.
I had the good fortune to "strike" an English friend on my journey, and
with him I shared a compartment in the Pullman. The overheated state of
the cars caused us both to have an unnatural thirst, and we longed for a
refreshing draught of air and liquid. Lunch was announced. I was quickly
in the dining car, and sat down opposite to an American, who had already
tackled his soup and poured out his first glass of claret from a quart
bottle. Feverishly I seized the wine-card. My vis-a-vis looked at me
over his spectacles, and called out to the "coloured gentleman," "Bring
another glass." The glass was brought, and the stranger (I had never
seen him before) filled it with claret and placed it in front of me.
"Thanks awfully!" I said, "but--er--really--er I am going to order.
Don't let me deprive you of your wine."
[Illustration: AMERICAN TRAVELLING. NOTHING TO EAT.]
"Why, sir, guess you may order what you like, but you won't get it! I
was caught once myself, fifteen years ago. Kean't buy liquor in this
State we're strikin' now, stranger. I bring mine along with me
now--enough for two, in case some green traveller crops up. You're
heartily welcome, sir, and here's your health!"
This is the local legislation! My feeling of disgust for the arbitrary,
narrow-minded, parochial parasite of the law-jobber was tempered by the
generosity of the native, and this is only one instance out of hundreds
I have experienced of the extreme kindness and courtesy of strangers in
the States.
[Illustration: AMERICAN TRAVELLING. NOTHING TO DRINK.]
I could not resist this splendid opportunity to tantalise my Scotch
friend and fellow traveller. He sat down beside me and I handed him the
wine-card. He wiped his fevered brow and his parched lips parted in a
smile as he ran his eager eye down the list. When he had scanned the
names (and prices) I broke in with:
"I say, old fellow, champagne to-day; a magnum of the best--it's my
birthday, so hang the expense! Oh, yes, I know it's a ten-pound note,
but I do feel this infernal shaking, noise and heat, and when else would
we feel better able to appreciate a good sparkling 'tall drink'? I pay,
and I insist--you order it and see that we get it!"
My friendly stranger on the other side simply gazed at me without moving
a muscle of his face, and said not a word, still I haven't the slightest
doubt that he was thoroughly enjoying the joke in his American fashion.
My Scotch friend's face brightened up at the prospect of refreshing his
parched larynx with a long drink of champagne; but it was difficult to
see whether he or the "coloured gentleman" looked the blacker when the
latter informed him that the only beverage he could have was ginger ale!
_Verb. sap._: Never travel on an American railway without your own wine.
Surely the railway companies, who justly pride themselves on the way
they study the comfort of their travellers, should warn the unwary in
time, for it is not everyone who is lucky enough to meet with a good
Samaritan as I did.
A friend tells me that some of the "coloured gentlemen-in-waiting" on
these cars have an eye for business, and when a stranger is victimised
by these stupid and selfish laws, they serve up to him Rhine wine out of
a teapot as weak tea!
If you doubt the truth of the following, ask any traveller who has
rushed through the States at the rate of two hundred and fifty miles an
hour to verify it.
You sit down to the principal meal of the day in the dining car at say
six o'clock. Not happening to be an American, you intend to eat your
meal in a reasonable time, say an hour, instead of five minutes. Why
hurry? What is there to do before retiring to the sleeping car to be
jolted sleeplessly about for seven or eight hours? Nothing; so take as
long as possible over your meal. You leisurely order a wine from the
list, and it is brought, uncorked and placed by your side. After the
soup and fish you think you will take glass No. 1, but no, not a bit of
it! You are now rushing through a proclaimed State, and your glass and
bottle are promptly removed. Sancho Panza never looked so surprised as
you do. To add insult to injury, or rather injury to insult, you are
brought that frightful cause of indigestion, "iced water." I have been
told "by one who knows" never to touch the ice on these railway cars; it
is not safe, though for what reason I cannot at the moment recollect. It
comes from some wayside cesspool or out of a rusty copper boiler, or is
the refrigerated perspiration off the railway carriage windows, or
something dreadful; anyway, it is unsafe. So you look at it and toy with
the next course on the chance of flying quickly through this detestable
state of narrow-mindedness and broad absurdity. Your patience is
rewarded. You fly past some wooden houses and blazing factories and
vulgar advertisements of quack medicines, the vendors of which forsooth
are those who prohibit a weary traveller from aiding digestion by
drinking an innocent and harmless beverage. The "coloured gentleman"
returns smiling with the bottle and glass.
"Guess we've cut through that State; this isn't proclaimed."
You drink confusion to the priggish provincial faddist whose State we
have just passed, and continue your dinner.
I am a slow drinker. During my late illness, the illness that caused my
trip to America, I had to take all my meals dry--allowed to drink
nothing whatever, not even a drop of water; so perhaps it is not
unnatural that after months of this treatment I should find a difficulty
in drinking before my meal is over. So when the above-mentioned incident
occurred to me, it so happened that I was in no hurry to raise my glass
to my lips. At last I took it up, but before I could transfer any of its
contents to the interior of my throat a dusky hand was placed on mine
and the glass was removed.
"Sorry, but we're in another proclaimed State now!"
I prayed that one of these fiendish faddists might enter the car at that
moment. I passed a solemn resolution that I would pour all the contents
of the cruets down his cursed throat and make hideous caricatures of
him all over the wine list!
More wooden houses and their wooden-headed occupants were passed, and at
last I was at liberty to have a drink.
Ice is not of necessity pure nor wine impure. If these ignorant fools
are unable to drink without proving to the world that Nature intended
them for beasts, it is no reason why they should make laws for their
betters, particularly for the stranger flying through their country,
which they misappropriately call free.
Again I hark back to the laying of railway lines, which I repeat we
manage better in England than they do in the States. The sleeper in his
berth in an American car is tossed up and down to such an extent that
his vocabulary is exhausted in anathematising the sleepers under the
rails. It doesn't seem as if the Transatlantic lines are ever going to
adopt our thorough system of track-laying. I met a railway expert on the
boat going out who had been to England to inspect officially the laying
of a railway, and he assured me that if they were to take up all the
tracks in America and relay them in our way it would financially break
them, enormously rich as the railway kings of the States are.
[Illustration: SLEEP(!)]
I must candidly say I don't care about sleeping in those cars. The heat
can be avoided by paying extra and having a coupe to yourself, or
sharing it with a friend, as I did. My first experience was on that
journey from Chicago which I mentioned before, and I shall never forget
it. I had at the last moment to take the only berth left, and it
happened to be a top one. I was the last to retire that night, and my
struggles to climb to my perch were so ludicrous that I was glad there
were no spectators. I placed my handbags, hat-boxes, &c., one on top of
another, and mounted them as cautiously as an acrobat ascending a
pyramid of decanters, and scrambled in. I then proceeded to divest
myself of my articles of clothing. I noticed that the snoring of the
gentleman in the berth underneath grew softer and somewhat stifled, and
as I wound up my watch and placed it, as I thought, under the pillow, he
jumped frantically out from behind his curtains and went head over heels
amongst my improvised steps. Then I began to realise what had happened.
I had not understood the mechanism of the arrangements, and under the
impression that I was placing my clothes, &c., on the ledge, I was in
reality dropping them on to the unfortunate occupant of the nether
berth, hence the muffled snoring, and when my forty guinea repeater
descended upon some unprotected portion of his cranium it put the
closure on his dreams in a most abrupt manner.
When you are introduced to an Englishman he invariably invites you to
eat something. "You must come and dine with us quietly at home,
don't-cher-know," or "I must rig up a dinner for you at the club some
night," &c. A Scotchman suggests your drinking something--urges upon you
the claims of the Mountain Dew; a Frenchman wishes at once to show you
something, the Bois de Boulogne or the Arc de Triomphe; a German desires
you to smoke something; an Italian to buy something; and an Australian
to kill something, but an American wants an opinion "right away."
"Waal, sur, what do you think of our gre--e--eat country? What do you
think of this wonderful city? What do you think of the Amurrican gurl?"
This latter is a question which one is asked in the States morning,
noon, and night.
To endeavour to effect a compromise by admitting that she is quite as
charming as the English girl, as pretty--though of course of a
different type--still equally charming, is a waste of time. You will be
met with the commonplace "Get out!" and an added enquiry, "Now don't you
think she's just the most fascinating and lovely creature on this earth,
and by comparison with your English girls ain't she just sweet?"
[Illustration: A WASHINGTON LADY.]
My own tactics were simple--I hedged.
"Well, you see," I replied to a question similar to the above, "I have
met but few as yet of your representative American girls. To be sure, I
have seen your cosmopolitan New York beauty, your Washington diplomat,
and your Chicago daughter of Boom, and so on; but there are yet many
fields of beauty unexplored, and I prefer to withhold my opinion till I
have had an opportunity of judging from further experience. I am quite
prepared to admit, however, that the general impression made upon an
observant Englishman is that American ladies dress better than does the
average Englishwoman; or, at any rate, carry themselves with more grace,
and thus show off their gowns to greater advantage."
"Correct! That is absolutely true," said a lady to me in Washington,
after I had delivered myself of the above stereotyped remark. "Your
English girls have awful figures, and they know absolutely nothing about
putting on their gowns. Why, my dressmaker in London--the very
best--made me laugh till I was nearly sick, by describing to me the
stupidity of her English customers. She declares that she positively has
to pin on a new dress when sending it home, a label stating: 'This is
the front'; and one day, when she omitted this precaution, she had a
riding-habit returned with the complaint that it did not 'set'
correctly. The lady had put it on wrong side foremost." This was told me
in all seriousness by one of the brightest and most intelligent ladies I
met during my stay in America, who, I am quite sure, was firmly
convinced of the truth of the statement made by the dressmaker.
It happened that one day I had been hard at work in my rooms at the
hotel, and as the daylight failed, before turning on the unrestful
electric light, I lit a cigarette and threw myself into the
rocking-chair to enjoy a peaceful quarter of an hour, when a knock came
to the door and a card was brought to me, "Miss Liza Prettyville
Simmerman, the _Examiner_."
Another interviewer! Had the card been Patrick McKee O'Fleister, the
_Examiner_ might disappear with the setting sun for aught I cared, but
the name struck me as being pretty (lady interviewers generally have
pretty names). It occurred to me that it would be interesting to see if
the name fitted the owner, so I said I would see her.
It fitted. "Sorry to disturb you," with a delightful accent and musical
voice. A pretty interviewer! A pretty American girl with a musical
voice! A _rara avis_.
I ordered up tea for two.
"You know, sir, what I am going to ask you. What do you think of the
American girl?"
"That," I said, "I'll tell you on one condition, Miss Simmerman, that
you first tell me what you think of her yourself."
"Ah!" she replied, with a laugh, "that is not so easy a task--we do not
see ourselves as others see us."
[Illustration: A LADY INTERVIEWER.]
"No, Miss Simmerman, and even when one listens to strangers, or reads
their impressions, one is apt to form a wrong estimate of oneself. Let
me therefore change the question, and ask, what do you think of the
English girl?"
"Oh! I think she is delightful."
"How would you describe the typical English girl?"
"Well, she is very tall and thin, and quiet, and has a nice voice, lots
of hair, and walks well."
"And talks seldom?"
"Yes, she is not as vivacious as the American girl, but she is more
sincere and thorough, and a deeper thinker, and not so much merely on
the surface as our girls are."
"But," I put in, "you say, do you not, that she does not know how to
dress her hair or wear her clothes properly?"
"Yes, that is so, and it is noticeable more particularly in her
headgear, which she wears well over her eyes; in fact the higher she is
in the social scale, the more tilted is her hat. One thing the American
girls do envy is the healthy, fresh, clear complexion of the English
girl. The green of the grass and the splendid complexion of your girls
are the two things which first strike the American visiting England.
Both of these, we are told, are due to the climate, and this doubtless
is a fact, for when an American girl has been in England a short time
the colour comes to her cheeks, only to disappear on her return to her
native land. Another thing we admire is the English girl's figure.
American girls are either slim as compared with English girls, or else
very stout. We have not the happy medium of the daughters of England."
"Pardon me, but is not the pale-faced daughter of America a little
spoilt?"
"From an English point of view, yes. American men's one idea besides
work is the worship of American women. You say anything you like about
America or Americans to Jonathan, but you must give nothing but praise
to the American woman."
"But we in England love our women folk also."
[Illustration: A SKETCH AT "DEL'S."]
"Ah! yes, but there is not such a contrast between an Englishman and an
English lady as there is between an American and his wife. Our 'Qui
Vive' women are so much superior to the men."
"I will admit that."
"Very well, then, I will admit that American girls are somewhat awkward
with their arms, and have no idea what to do with them. As they walk
they stick their elbows out, and when they stand still they hold their
arms exactly the way the dressmakers pose when having a dress tried on."
"I suppose they have little use for their arms?"
"Well, as a fact, American girls do not busy themselves or enjoy work as
English girls do. Their fathers, husbands, and brothers work, and they
look on."
"Yes, I have noticed that all over the States. Women talk, men listen,
but when men talk it is dollars, dollars, dollars. The girl is bored,
and sighs for London or Paris, until she is old enough to talk dollars
herself."
In face, I notice, the American girl is quite distinct from her English
sister. I notice a difference in the way the upper lip sweeps down from
the outer edge of the nostril; but more noticeable still is the fact
that the cheek-bones of the American girls are not so prominent, and the
smooth curve down the cheek to the chin is less broken by smaller
curves. In social life the American girl charms an Englishman by her
natural and unaffected manner. Our English girls are very carefully
brought up, and are continually warned that this thing or that is "bad
form." As a result, when they enter Society they are more or less in
fear of saying or doing something that will not be considered suitable.
As a matter of fact they are not lacking in energy or vivacity, but
these qualities are suppressed in public, and only come to the surface
in the society of intimates. American girls from childhood upwards are
much more independent; they have much more freedom and encouragement in
coming forward than ours. The vivacity and liberty expected of an
American girl in social intercourse are considered--as I say--bad form
for our girls.
[Illustration: YOUNG AMERICA.]
The observant stranger will, if an artist, also be struck by the fact
that the face of an American girl, as well as the voice, is often that
of a child; in fact, if one were not afraid of being misunderstood, and
therefore thought rude, one could describe the American girl better by
saying that she has a baby's face on a woman's body than by any
word-painting or brush-painting either. The large forehead, round eyes,
round cheeks, and round lips of the baby remain; and, as the present
fashion is to dress the hair ornamentally after the fashion of a doll,
the picture is complete.
The eyes of an American girl are closer together than those of her
English cousin, and are smaller; her hands are smaller, too, and so are
her feet, but neither are so well-shaped as the English girls.
Let me follow the American girl from her babyhood upwards. The first is
the baby, plump, bright-eyed, and with more expression than the average
English child; a little older, see her still plump, short-legged, made
to look stout by the double covering of the leg bulging over the boots;
older, but still some years from her teens, she is still plump from the
tip of her toe to her eyebrow, with an expression and a manner ten years
in advance of her years, and you may take it from this age onwards the
American girl is always ten years in advance of an English girl; next
the school-girl; then that ungainly age "sweet seventeen." She seems
twenty-seven, and thenceforwards her plumpness disappears generally, but
remains in her face, and the cheeks and chin of the baby are still with
her.
Suddenly, ten years before the time, and in one season, happens what in
the life of an English matron would take ten. The bubble bursts, the
baby face collapses, just as if you pricked it with a pin, and she is
left sans teeth, sans eyes, sans beauty, sans everything. This is the
American girl in a hurry, and these remarks only apply to the exhausted
New York, the sensational Chicago, the anxious Washington, and the
over-strained child of that portion of America in a hurry.
[Illustration: AN AMERICAN MENU.]
I have not quite made up my mind as to whether I like the American girl
or her mother the better. They are both vivacious and charming, but of
course the younger is the prettier, and in point of attractiveness
scores more than her mother.
It is true, as I have said, that American girls do "go off" very soon. I
must confess that one evening at dinner, surrounded by charming young
Americans, I was bold enough to say so. It was a very inopportune moment
to have made the remark, for seated next to me was a remarkably fine and
handsome young lady, who informed me that she had five sisters--I think
it was five--and I was assured by our host that they were all of them as
"elegant" as my fair neighbour, and that the mother looked as young as
the daughters.
At the reception, after dinner, I was introduced to the mother, and
found the exception that proved the rule. We had quite a discussion upon
the staying powers of the American beauty; but despite all arguments I
am convinced, through my own observations in England and America, that
American ladies do not wear so well as English. No doubt this is due, in
some measure, to the climate, and in a greater degree to the mode of
living. However, before dealing with this rather ticklish subject, I had
better finish what I had to say about the evening in question, or this
particular young lady may take my remarks as personal.
[Illustration: MY PORTRAIT--_IN THE FUTURE_.]
We discussed age and wear and tear _ad nauseam_. I felt rather aggrieved
by being put down by those members of the Press who had discussed my
personal failings for the benefit of their readers, as several years
older than I really am (all due, no doubt, to my premature baldness). So
I asked for the secret of the American hair-preserving elixir, and my
charming companion assured me that she had really and truly discovered
an infallible composition for producing hair! This she promised to send
to me, and upon my return to England I received the following charming
letter, which I publish for the benefit of all those whose hair, like my
own, is becoming, to quote an American paper, "a little depleted on the
top of the dome of thought." I have not yet tried the remedy, but I
intend to do so, and when I appear again on the American platforms I
shall probably rival Paderewski, who owes a great deal of his success
and fortune to his "thatch."
The following is copyright: "LIKA JOKO HAIR RESTORER."
"MY DEAR _Mr. Furnace_,
"Fearing you would think me lacking in a sense of humor I have
hesitated to send you the receipt you asked for, but, being an
American, I fear it would not be true to my country's principles to
allow such an opportunity for promoting growth to pass unheeded.
Two tablespoonsful alcohol,
Two tablespoonsful flour of sulphur,
Two tablespoonsful castor oil,
One pint boiling water.
"Put in bottle, shake well and allow it to stand three days before
using. Rub well into the scalp every night.
"Here it is, and I trust soon to receive the pen and ink sketch in
proof of its unrivalled success.
"Very sincerely,
"----"
"Brooklyn,
"April 20th, 1892."
I suppose my benefactress, if I disclosed her name, would be worried to
death by the multitudinous proprietors of shiny-surfaced "domes of
thought." Notice she calls me a furnace! Too suggestive of the sulphur!
alcohol!! boiling water!!!
I must confess that it was with some trepidation I accepted an
invitation to a reception of the Twelfth Night Club of New York--a club
for ladies only, which invites one guest, a man, once a month--no other
member of male sex is allowed within the precincts of the club. I
survived. Next day the papers announced the fact under the following
characteristic American headlines:--
TWELFTH NIGHT GIRLS REJOICE.
FURNISS GETS A WARM GREETING.
CARICATURIST TALKS TO TWELFTH NIGHT WOMEN.
ROTUND ENGLISHMAN TELLS HIS EXPERIENCES IN
HIS BREEZY WAY.
[Illustration: I AM ENTERTAINED AT THE TWELFTH NIGHT CLUB.]
I was pleased to read that the lady reporter considered that I "bore the
courtesies with the grace of a well-bred Englishman and with less
embarrassment than the average man evinces at being the only one of his
sex present upon these occasions(!). According to one of the iron bound
rules of this club the guest of honour is the only man admitted, and as
such Mr. Furniss was received with enthusiasm. If he could have
projected his astral body to the other end of the room, and from there
have sketched himself as he turned off autographs to the pleading group
of women, it would not have made the least funny picture in his
collection."
I agree in this latter part, for the whole affair struck me as intensely
funny, and not at all appalling--in fact, I spent a very delightful
afternoon. A lady whose dress the papers described as "a costume of
brown brocade and lace" played beautifully. Another "dressed in grey
satin and chiffon" sang charmingly. A third who wore "a skirt of black
and a primrose bodice trimmed with lace" recited with much talent, and a
galaxy of the belles of New York, ladies of society, and professional
stars of the pen, the platform and the stage combined to make feel at
home. I had to acknowledge in thanking them that although I perhaps
failed to draw American women, American women had certainly succeeded in
drawing me.
After this pleasant experience it was with a light heart I accepted a
similar invitation when shortly afterwards I visited another city. Again
I was to be entertained at a Ladies' Club, but to my surprise I found
it, not as I did the New York Club, modestly accommodated in a large
flat, but a club having its own imposing building--as important as any
in the West End of London. Carriages lined the street, and a crowd
surrounded the entrance. Still, I was not unhappy. The entertainment
would surely be proportionately long, and I would have less to say. I
was, as at the other club, unprepared, preferring to pick up some idea
for a reply during the entertainment prepared to honour me. The hall and
staircases were crowded with a most fashionable gathering; two large
reception-rooms--with open folding doors--were well filled with ladies
seated. The President met me at the door and escorted me to a small
platform in the centre of the rooms, on which were a reading-desk and a
glass of water! After formally and briefly introducing me, she asked if
any man was present. It so happened that in a corner behind the piano
one was found and immediately ejected, and I was left alone to begin! My
first impulse was to make a rush for that corner behind the piano, but
rows and rows of seated dazzling beauty formed a barricade I could not
negotiate. I had in the few words of introduction caught the name of Sir
Edwin Arnold and others who had stood where I did at that moment.
Yes,--but they were doubtless warned beforehand of what was expected of
them, and therefore came prepared. I, on the other hand, stood there
"flabbergasted"! I confess I never felt so cornered. No, if I had been
cornered--but there on a platform to face the music! No, not the music,
there was none! I had to speak--about what? for how long? to whom?
[Illustration: RECEPTION AT A LADIES' CLUB.]
I made a plunge. I confessed honestly I was unprepared. I explained that
I had accepted the invitation on my arrival--believing I was to be
entertained, not to be the entertainer. That I had none of the
flattering phrases ready of those who had stood before them on similar
occasions, and furthermore I did not believe in such platitudes. This I
quickly saw was my key.
"Now, ladies, as I am face to face with this unique gathering of
American women--and alone--I have at last a chance I have long waited
for. I want to tell what I _really_ think of you. I respect you for your
cleverness. To roll off empty compliments and--if I could--poetical
platitudes also with my tongue in my cheek, as others have done, would
be to insult your intelligence. You only want to hear me speak on one
subject, yourselves, the American woman, and compare her with the
English woman. Let me first speak as an artist.
[Illustration: WIFE AND HUSBAND.]
"Now, if there is one thing I have heard repeatedly from the lips of
American women it is that the English man is superior to the English
girl. You, in fact, look upon the English girl with contempt. You
certainly admire and emulate to a certain extent the fashionable Society
women of England, but the ordinary English girl you treat with
indifference, and speak of with contumely. You look upon her as a
badly-dressed idiot. That may strike your ears as a sweeping assertion,
but my ears have tingled over and over again by hearing that very
sentiment coming from your own pretty mouths. Now, as we are alone, let
me say a word or two on that point. You say the English woman is a fool.
You say that the English man is bright, clever and brave. One has only
to look round the world to realise that your opinion of the English man
is right. That one little dot on the map, England, predominates the
greater portion of the globe. That is the result of the plucky and
accomplished English man you so much admire. Now, I will ask you one
question. Did you ever hear of a clever man who had a stupid mother? The
history of the world shows that all great men had mothers with brains.
In considering this recollect that we are agreed that the English man is
superior to the American man. Does that show that the American mothers
are cleverer than the English mothers? No,--it points to the reverse,
that the English girl you look down upon, under her soft, gentle manner
has something superior to you American women--she has solidity and
brain-power. That is why the English man is superior to the American.
Now, ladies, you, with your pretty faces, your charming manners, your
vitality, and shall I say it? your worldliness, have boys who are--well,
equal to what you consider the English girl to be. Of course it is
always unsafe to generalise, but as you generalise yourselves and
sweepingly assert that the English girls are born idiots, I want you to
understand from a man who has not come here to tell you lies, but to
tell you the truth, that if America is really to be the great country of
the future, the sooner you begin to model yourselves on the English
girls the better."
I said a great deal more, but I shall not confess anything further about
the charming American ladies just now.
[Illustration: A DREAM OF THE WHITE HOUSE.]
We English have an impression that all American men, women, and children
are politicians, and it is the dream of every youthful American one day
to occupy the White House. But in the great contest of 1896 there was
something deeper than mere ambition. When I went over in the steamer I
travelled with some overworked, big city merchants who were sacrificing
their holiday in Europe to vote for Mr. McKinley; the little children
wore the national flag in their buttonholes; and the last evening we had
at sea a lady called me on to the deck and said, "Look at that
beautiful golden sunset! It is a symbol that America is for gold." And
as we looked behind at the sea-mist we had passed through, she found in
that the symbol of silver! In fact, for a foreigner, I had had quite
enough of the Presidential election before the steamer arrived at the
White Star Line landing-stage.
I crossed the Herring Pond in chill October, so as to be in New York for
the last stages of the Presidential contest. The last stages of these
elections, although exciting and interesting from a political point of
view, are not to be compared with the earlier scenes for effect. For the
purpose of sketching scenes the artist should be there in the heat of
summer, and in the heat of the Conventional controversies. At the time
of brilliant sunshine, when in that year America was so much _en
evidence_ in England, when Yale was rowing so pluckily at Henley, when
Haverford College was playing our schools at our national game, when the
Ancient and Honourable Artillery Company of Boston were being feted
right royally in the Old Country, when London was fuller of American
visitors than at any other time--it was then that all the fun of
po
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