Chapter VII (1)

_TOM HOOD, EDWARD WYLAM, HENRY SAMPSON, PAUL GRAY, H. S. LEIGH,
W. S. GILBERT, TOM ROBERTSON, CLEMENT SCOTT, G. A. SALA,
ARTHUR SKETCHLEY, W. J. PROWSE, ASHBY STERRY, C. H. LELAND,
GODFREY TURNER, DUTTON COOK, GEORGE R. SIMS, HENRY DOYLE, A.
B. HOUGHTON, R.W.S., F. BARNARD, G. THOMSON, PROFESSOR VON
HERKOMER, R.A., SIR JOHN GILBERT, R.A., HAL LUDLOW, G. J.
PINWELL, R.W.S., E. G. DALZIEL, F. A. FRASER, J. F. SULLIVAN,
LORD DUNRAVEN, ERNEST GRISET, EDWARD LEAR, JOHN RUSKIN._

Early in 1865 Mr. Edward Wylam became proprietor of the comic periodical _Fun_--at that time the only competitor of _Punch_--and was fortunate enough to secure Tom Hood as editor. On taking up the direction, Hood informed us that one of the stipulations he made with Wylam was that we should be solicited to undertake the engraving of all the drawings. At first we felt some hesitation in accepting the commission, thinking it might considerably interfere with very important works we were then engaged upon; but ultimately satisfactory arrangements were concluded, and our relationship continued in the most amicable manner, without a break for six years. In 1870--Mr. Wylam wishing to devote his entire attention to the development of "Spratt's Dog Biscuits," the patent for which he had recently purchased--we became the sole proprietors of the publication, paying for the goodwill and copyright the sum of _£_6,000, Hood continuing editor until his death.

_FUN_ CARTOON, 1867.

BY PAUL GRAY.]

In 1869 Hood commenced the publication of "Tom Hood's Comic Annual," which at once secured a large amount of public favour. The second issue more than covered the slight loss sustained on the first. While the third issue was in preparation we purchased from Hood the title, copyrights, and stock of all literary and artistic matter connected with it for the sum of _£_600.

Tom Hood was, as perhaps half the world knows, the only son of the celebrated wit and poet, Thomas Hood, the author of "The Song of the Shirt," "The Bridge of Sighs," "Eugene Aram," and many other poems of great beauty and purport.

_FUN_ CARTOON, 1869.]

Tom Hood, like his father, was somewhat of an artist, possessing considerable skill in caricature, and giving a comic "twist" to his sketches. Many of his drawings are scattered through the pages of _Fun_. He invariably expressed himself well pleased with the manner in which they were reproduced. The following is only one of many letters we received from him:

"I am delighted beyond measure with the blocks. I have returned
some of the proofs, which I have touched for alteration; which,
with scarcely an exception, however, arises from my mistake and not
from the engravers'.

"Ever yours faithfully,
"TOM HOOD."

During the many years of our intimate association with Tom Hood, we received hundreds of letters and notes from his pen, but the following is the first and only instance in which he signed his name "Thos. Hood." After this, when he had resigned his post at the War Office and sat down steadily to literary work, he always studiously signed his name "Tom," with the express object that his name might not be confounded with that of his father, or that he should be accused of "making capital" out of his father's name and reputation.

"21 MONTPELIER SQUARE,
"BROMPTON, S.W.

"DEAR SIR,--I believe Mr. Routledge has (or is going to do so)
given you the illustrations of my book to engrave.

"I need not ask you to do me justice, for I know you will do that;
but as I am not a professional artist, but an amateur, I fancy I
may give you more trouble to understand me at times.

"There are one or two blocks that I wish particularly to call
your attention to as requiring facsimile engraving, they being
likenesses. Two drawn in pencil I wish you not to touch, as I
intend, when I come to see you (which I hope to do soon), to put in
initial letters, as I think the fun in them forced. I have drawn a
rude sketch of them on the other side. I can introduce them thus: a
'W' on the board, and an 'O' on the flag. At present I am sorry to
say I am too ill to come over, but I hope to be on my legs again by
the end of the week.

"I am at the War Office from 10 till 4. Should I be able to see you
at 5 if I called?

"I hope this will not be our first and last connection in this
line, but that it will be a case of 'cut and come again.'

"Believe me,
"Yours truly,
"THOS. HOOD."

FUN OFFICE.
80 FLEET STREET E.C.

Friday.

My dear Mr Dalziel

With joy I'd resort
To dine with the Shandies at fair Hampton Court
On Saturday, were I not bound on that day
To navigate Thames in the opposite way
As one of the crew of the scow "Albert-Victor"
(A steamboat that knowing ones vow is a pictur)
Which is bound for sweet Margate, the shore light beyond,
Being chartered expressly by Spiers & Pond,

(This is Spiers and Pond the bard continues)

To take down a party--and 'mongst others me--
To open their famous new Hall by the Sea.

(This is the Haul by the Sea Again the bard urges on his wild
careen)

So I'm forced--though I'd much like to come if I could--
To decline your kind offer.

Yours truly
Tom Hood

E. Dalziel Esq]

All our transactions with Hood, which continued for close upon ten years, were of the most friendly and agreeable character, leaving behind delightful remembrances of his truly social and sympathetic nature. The letter which we give in facsimile was received in reply to an invitation to join us at an "up-the-river" dinner party, where we promised he should meet a few kindred spirits and spend a very enjoyable day.

Unhappily, Tom Hood died too soon, after an illness of some short duration, against which he fought with great courage. He worked with the assistance of his friend Henry Sampson, to the last--taking part in preparing the number of _Fun_ that was published the day after his death, which took place at his house, in Peckham Rye, on November 26th, 1874.

Subsequently his widow handed us the following letter, with the remark that they were the last lines he ever wrote:

"MY DEAR SIRS,--To the best of my ability, and to the utmost of
my power, I have served you loyally and honestly while strength
remained. If I have failed it has not been wilfully, and when we
have differed in opinion I have only done what I have believed it
right to do, or assert beyond mere matter of expediency.

"Sampson has long co-operated with me, and now so well understands
the working of the paper that it has been of the greatest comfort
and use to me to have, for the first time in my life, some one on
whom I could entirely rely when I was disabled.

"A more disinterested and faithful friend man never had, and I
am sure if you transfer the bauble from my hands to his you will
have secured fidelity and ability of no unusual order, loyalty and
discretion, zeal and determination. It is my dying wish that he
might be my successor on _Fun_. Of course I only express this as
simply a wish of

"Yours always,
"TOM HOOD."

A PORTION OF _FUN_ CARTOON, 1871.]

Jones knew a thing too much for most people. "Nice bunch o' water-cresses, just fresh in," said his greengrocer. "Oh, ah!" said the knowing Jones; "_fresh_--oh, yes! after being brought all the way from the country! Not for me, thankee!" For the fact was that the knowing Jones was just off for a day or two in the country himself.]

But it so happened that the same bunch of water-cress went down by the same train as Jones did, and alighted at the same rural station. "Ha!" said Jones, in a stroll down the country lanes, "now, here comes a fellow with a real fresh country bunch of water-cresses; I will buy them and take them home to town with me the day after tomorrow. _That's_ the way to get the real fresh article!"

BY J. F. SULLIVAN. FROM _FUN_.]

Among the many men, with whom our connection with _Fun_ and the "Comic Annual" brought us into close communication, who have steadily ascended the ladder of fame--some, alas! no longer with us,--mention ought to be made of Henry S. Leigh, author of "Carols of Cockayne," "Strains from the Strand," and other volumes of verse; a man possessed of rare wit and unquestionable genius, but, unfortunately, without one atom of application or appreciation of the value of time. On one occasion, when some change of contributors was contemplated, Hood wrote:

"As for Leigh, he is hopeless: when perpetual motion is patented,
a machine might be invented to bring him to the scratch regularly,
but--he is unluckily a 'genius.' You might give him a retaining
salary that would ensure--his never doing a line."

Yet, notwithstanding his extreme dilatoriness, he was a thoroughly good fellow, and Hood was at all times only too glad to receive any contributions he cared to send, for they were certain to contain some quaint conceit and out of the way sentiment.

_Mrs. Vicar._--"Thomas, what has become of you lately? I haven't seen you at Church for several months."

_Thomas._--"Noa, ye ain't. _But I haven't been nowheres else._"]

On Leigh being remonstrated with for non-delivery of promised copy, we received the following:

"35 STRAND,
"_1st Feb., 1881._

"_To_ MESSRS. DALZIEL BROTHERS,

"You have treated me so kindly that I dared, a little blindly,
An ambition and a future to your care to recommend.
He is timid, he is nervous, but may God above preserve us
If we cannot stretch a point or so to gratify a friend.
I have sent you oft a lyric, either genial or satiric:
Some were bad, and some indifferent, and some were very good.
So my errors don't be hard on, but beneficently pardon,
Were it only through the memory of dear old Tommy Hood."

Of W. S. Gilbert, of "Bab Ballads" and Comic Opera fame, it may not be generally known that all those "topsy-turvy" rhymes were published in _Fun_: though they were by no means the only work he did for the journal. For a considerable period he wrote a comic paraphrase upon the most popular play produced during the week, as well as an extremely clever series of papers called "People I Have Met." He also wrote several stories for the "Comic Annual." In his selected edition of "Fifty Bab Ballads" he gives the following account of how these happened to be published in _Fun_:

"It may interest some to know that the first of the series, 'The
Yarn of the _Nancy Bell_,' was originally offered to _Punch_,
to which I was at that time an occasional contributor. It was,
however, declined by the then editor on the ground that it was 'too
Cannibalistic' for his readers' taste."

_Teetotal Wife._--"Ah, when that 'evingly Sir Wilfrid 'as 'is way, 'e'll put that nasty beer down!"

_Irreverent Brute._--"Hope he'll put it down to the price it used to was--thruppence a pot."]

W. S. Gilbert, like many of his fellow workers on the staff of _Fun_, began life in the Civil Service, he having been for a short time in the Education Office; but the "diurnal drudgery" was not congenial. His impetuous temperament would not brook direction or control, as his most intimate friends were not slow to discover. Immediately on his fairly breaking away from the "ten to four slavery," the first thing he did was to buy a quire or more of foolscap paper, a bundle of quill pens, and a few pieces of boxwood. Thus armed, he commenced to fire away with pen and pencil, for at that time Gilbert contemplated turning his attention to art. His connection with _Fun_ began in his early days, when he sent some of his "topsy-turvy" things to Mr. Maclean, the first proprietor, who, detecting the unquestionable merit, insisted upon their being accepted and published.

Clement Scott, another early and very valued writer on _Fun_, in a short sketch of his own career, referring to Gilbert, says:

"He was courteously, as a contributor, invited to the weekly _Fun_
dinners, and I fear from what I have heard, that at the outset the
young writer was not very courteously treated by some of those
who afterwards recognised his great talent to the utmost, and
became his warmest friends and companions. Frank Burnand, owing
to his novel, 'Mokeanna,' was promoted to _Punch_; Tom Robertson,
the dramatist, whom I met at the club on the _Fun_ meetings every
week of my life for half a dozen years; Arthur Sketchley, with his
'Mrs. Brown'; and for verse writers, the delightful Henry S. Leigh,
Saville Clarke, and your humble servant, who has been writing bad
verses for over thirty-five years."

So long as Hood lived, George Augustus Sala was a constant contributor, as were Edmund Yates and Arthur Sketchley; the latter gentleman's "Mrs. Brown at the Play," as well as a long series of "Mrs. Brown" papers, chiefly comments on the current events of the day, were all published in _Fun_, and had immense popularity.

_Pensioner (to Workman)._--"Got e'er a bit o' baccy about ye?" | _Workman._--"No, mate!--just smoking the last bit!"

_Pensioner._--"Come off that there grass--_directly!_"]

Another prominent member of the staff was William Jeffrey Prowse, a journalist of great brilliancy and power, and a "leader writer" and constant contributor to the _Daily Telegraph_. His advent, under the _nom de plume_ of "Nicholas," was announced by Hood in the following quaint terms:

"With feelings of considerable pride we inform our readers that
we have been enabled (at some expense) to secure the exclusive
services of the celebrated 'Nicholas.' ... 'Nicholas,' that friend
of man, has benevolently consented to impart (for a certain weekly
stipend) the experience of--well, let us say _middle_ age to the
generous ardour of youth: AND THIS IS HOW HE DOES IT."

But Jeffrey Prowse was something more than the ordinary journalist working to order; he was a poet of no mean power. Some of his productions in this way were published after his death at the end of a small volume of "Nicholas Notes," edited by his friend, Tom Hood. Among his best are "To Be, to Do, and to Suffer," a poem showing great ability; and one named "The City of Prague," of which the following are the first and last verses:

"I dwelt in a city enchanted,
And lonely indeed was my lot;
Two guineas a week, all I wanted,
'Twas certainly all that I got:
Well, somehow I found it was plenty,
Perhaps you may find it the same,
If--if you are just five-and-twenty
With industry, hope, and an aim.
Tho' the latitude's rather uncertain,
And the longitude also is vague,
The persons I pity who know not the city:
The beautiful City of Prague.
* * * * *

L'ENVOI.

As for me I have come to an anchor,
I have taken my watch out of pawn,
I keep an account with a banker,
Which, at present, is _not_ overdrawn;
Tho' my clothes may be none of the smartest
The 'snip' has receipted the bill;
But the days I was poor and an artist
Are the dearest of days to me still!
Tho' the latitude's rather uncertain,
And the longitude also is vague,
The persons I pity who know not the city:
The beautiful City of Prague."

_He._--"What a dreadful noise there is down there with those cabs and things! You can hardly hear yourself speak."

_She._--"Yes; almost as bad as being at the opera, isn't it?"]

Poor Prowse died at the early age of thirty-four. Hood, in a short memoir, says:

"Prowse, as a writer, was gifted with a great charm of style; with
a fertile imagination he possessed a logical mind. The amount of
work he has done is astonishing, writing often two or even three
leaders a day; and yet amid this constant and fatiguing trial he
found time to write poems and essays, papers for the magazines, the
annuals, and for _Fun_."

_First Hielan'man._--"She'll pe ta pest wusky I shall have tastit for efermore."

_Second Hielan'man._--"So tit I, neither!"

_Third Hielan'man._--"Neither tit I, too!"]

We must not omit to mention Ashby Sterry as one of the staff, and a contributor to _Fun's_ pages of much graceful verse. He is well known for his volume, "Lays of a Lazy Minstrel." Then, Charles H. Leland, who gained considerable reputation as the genial Dutchman, Hans Breitmann. This gentleman contributed very liberally to the "Comic Annual." He is one of the most affable and interesting men it has been our good fortune to be associated with. He was full of entertaining anecdote, a true artist and no mean draughtsman--in appearance, a giant, in manner as simple as a child. On one occasion in America he asked a negro the name of a black man of rather fine physique and superior appearance, who was standing near.

"He Injun," replied the nigger; "he big Injun; he heap big Injun; he dam heap big Injun; he dam mighty great heap big Injun; HE JONES." Jones appeared to be the nigger's culminating pinnacle of greatness!

Godfrey Turner, one of the talented young men who, in the early days, did so much towards placing the _Daily Telegraph_ in the high position which it attained among the London morning papers, worked very constantly upon _Fun_, as well as on the "Comic Annual." Poor fellow! a protracted illness, generally attributed to overwork, incapacitated him during the last two or three years of his life.

Dutton Cook's short stories appeared constantly in the "Annual"--among his very last work being one he wrote for that periodical. Nor must we omit to mention Leman Blanchard, who was the author of more Christmas pantomimes than can well be counted. He did this work for Drury Lane under F. B. Chatterton, and then Sir Augustus Harris, for many years, as well as for many of the Provincial theatres. The able and accomplished editor of _Sketch_, John Latey, also was one of our most-esteemed contributors.

Henry J. Byron did much good work for _Fun_ under Hood, but he retired from the staff on commencing a paper of his own, under the title of the _Comic News_, which unfortunately for the proprietor had but a short existence.

Frank Barrat, Manville Fenn, Austin Dobson, Byron Webber, Moy Thomas, H. C. Newton, and Christie Murray, are the names of others whose work frequently appeared in _Fun_ and the "Comic Annual."

On the death of Tom Hood we complied with his dying request and placed the "Bauble" in the hands of Henry Sampson, who had been a constant fellow worker with Hood for some two or three years previous. One of the first things Sampson did was to introduce George R. Sims upon the staff. It is superfluous for us to comment upon Sims' great ability as a dramatist, a writer of short stories and sympathetic ballads, because the voices of the reading and the play-going world have already proclaimed their high appreciation of his genius. Suffice it to say that it was in the pages of _Fun_ that he found his first opportunity of appearing in print.

In 1893 when _Fun_ passed out of our hands, he alluded to us in the _Referee_, with which he had long been associated under the _nom de plume_ of "Dagonet," in the following kind words:

"It was by writing a small 'Poem' in _Fun_ that I first won
a little journalistic recognition. It was called 'A Dumpty
Captain....' It was in November, of 1874, that I first joined
the staff of _Fun_ and made my bow to the British public as an
anonymous journalist. Tom Hood had just been laid to rest. It was
in those days that I commenced my life-long friendship with Henry
Sampson, the new editor. Though for me it was a time of struggle,
I would give a good deal for the light heart with which I braved
the slings and arrows in those dear old days."

Again, Sims writes:

"Although I left _Fun_ in 1877, my association with the Brothers
Dalziel was never severed, and right up to the last issue (October,
1893) I was a contributor to 'Hood's Comic Annual,' of which they
were the proprietors and editors. I have nothing but pleasant
memories of the cheery, generous-hearted brothers and their clever
sons; and I am delighted to hear that this year the honoured name
will still be on the front page of 'Hood's Annual,' for it is to
appear as usual under the editorship of Mr. Charles Dalziel.[21]"

Later, in January, 1894, he kindly wrote in the same paper:

"For nearly half a century the firm of Dalziel Brothers carried on
the business of newspaper proprietors and engravers with credit to
themselves and advantage to the public, and they gathered around
them the best of young men, many of whom have become shining lights
in the world of art and letters. To those who had the honour
and pleasure of working under them, their friendship and their
hospitality were always freely extended, and I have nothing but
pleasant memories of the days when I was allowed to be one of their
working staff.

"The Brothers Dalziel paid me the first money I ever received
for verse. Tom Hood, the editor of _Fun_, had gone to Paris for
a holiday, and Henry Sampson edited the journal in his absence,
and gave me half a column to fill, and I plunged into poetry at
once; and when I left _Fun_, in 1876, the Brothers wrote me a
charming letter, which I still possess. Though my connection with
_Fun_ ended then, I remained one of the contributors to 'Hood's
Annual' until last year; and so our business relations continued
uninterruptedly and pleasantly for nearly twenty years--yes, for
quite twenty years, for it was in 1874 that I did my first work
for them. Had there been no Dalziels there might have been no
'Dagonet.'"

_Mistress._ "Biddy, how is it you did not answer the bell when I rang?'

_Maid._ "Sure, mem, 'twas bekase I didn't know what you was ringing for, mem!"]

So long as Sims continued on the staff he was at all times a most welcome contributor, and, with one exception, always to our entire satisfaction. The exception came about from the severity of a criticism which he wrote upon Sir Henry Irving's rendering of Macbeth, the humour of the article not being quite as apparent as it was intended to be. This caused Irving [and his friends] so much annoyance that he commenced an action against us for libel. However, Sims at once acknowledged the authorship of the article, with ample apologies and regrets, and assurance that there was no "malice aforethought," and Henry Sampson did the same as the responsible editor, so Sir Henry, in a very handsome and kindly manner, withdrew from the prosecution, and the matter ended.

For several years George Dalziel (the elder of the Brothers), regularly contributed short stories and verse to "Hood's Annual." Among the latter was a rather lengthy poem, of which we give a few of the verses:

WHAT THE MOON SAW.

Oh, can the earth, so dream-like sleeping lie
Beneath the rays of that pale silvery moon,
That never gives a weary moan or cry,
Or sign that sorrow dwelt 'twixt night and noon?
There, calmly sailing on amid the stars,
She looks as though no ruthless thought nor care,
Nor wicked deed could ever be that mars
And lays the black spots of our nature bare.

She looks as though she never yet had seen
An ill deed done in all the million years
That she has gazed upon the earth, or been
Pale witness to a flood of bitter tears,--
Pale witness to the darkest deeds that man,
With demon brooding in his heart, could frame:
Foul, miry spots her gentle eye doth scan,
And "Lady Moon" goes smiling, all the same.

Lo! she did see the budding earth when young;
She saw the first red rose that e'er did bloom;
She heard the first grand carol that was sung,
And saw the mountains clothed with golden broom.
She heard each silvery stream and gurgling brook
Hymn its new song of never-ending praise,
And leaves and flowers, in every ferny nook,
Sing psalms to greet the glorious king of days.

* * * * *

She heard the first wild notes of Jubal's lyre,
That fell upon the ear like magic sound--
The first bright spark of that celestial fire
That thrills with rapture rare the whole world round.
She heard the first loud burst of ocean roar,
And saw the crested waves careering fly;--
She heard its ripple kiss the sandy shore,--
And saw the white foam dash against the sky.

* * * * *

Years, centuries told, come on, and quickly fly,
And this world rolls beneath the silvery moon
As she sails calmly through the deep blue sky
Unheeding joy or sorrow, night or noon.
Unheeding revel, wail, or bitter cry,
Or joy, or grief, or weary toil, or rest,--
She slowly climbs the ever-darkening sky,
While dying sunlight pales upon her breast.

GEORGE DALZIEL.

From another issue of the "Annual" we make a few extracts from some verses which are entitled:

MY BOOKS.

My books! my friends, my dear companions all!
My never-failing--ever true and fair!
There standing round, come ready to my call,
And talk, and sing, and tell their wonders rare.
If I am sad, they give me joyous song;
Or if I wish for pleasant talk the while,
My friends are there, and will for short or long,
Just as I please, the ling'ring hour beguile.
With them at ease I play the conjurers part,--
They bring for me the stores of other times,--
Oh, rare the grace!--oh, rare the cunning art
That stirs the sluggish heart with ringing rhymes!

I see the patriot rear his banner high;
The troops march gaily through the busy town;
Methinks I hear the trembling maiden sigh
As her true knight goes forth to seek renown.
King Arthur, with his warriors brave and good,
Comes forth, the dauntless flower of chivalry;
And there be priests in monkish garb and hood,
As well as motley fools of revelry.

'Neath walls of Troy I see the valiant Greek,
Brave Ajax, and the mighty Hector there;
In fancy hear the aged Priam speak,
And see fair Helen with the golden hair;
The war-like braves in single combat stand,
The ponderous spear each doughty hero hurled,--
Fair Beatrice takes Dante by the hand,
And shows the myst'ries of the hidden world.

* * * * *

Sweet scenes of peace! here in my native land
These loving friends will each a posie bring,
With wooing words they take my ready hand,
And lead, where meadows smile and brooklets sing;
Where scented flow'rs cling round the cottage home,
Sweet new-mown hay, and fields of ripening corn,--
The broad smooth lake, the gorge where waters foam,
The shady grove, or by the scented thorn.
I see the fairies in the woody dells,
I join their midnight revels on the green;
The tower where the Enchanted Princess dwells,
Embowered in a blaze of golden sheen.

With them I travel o'er the arid plain,--
And wander where the palm and plantain grow,--
Through citron groves--or vine-clad summit gain,
Climb mountains clad with thousand years of snow,
The heathy moor, and o'er the high hill top,
And seem to breathe the cold crisp frosty air,
As from the lofty Alpine icy slope
I see the fertile valleys stretching there.

'Mong lofty pines, or where the olives grow;
Through far-off lands with Livingstone I roam,
Or loiter where the mighty rivers flow,
While sitting in my easy chair at home.
There is no land in all the world we know,
There is no mighty lake or frozen sea,
No hidden depth where foot of man can go,
But my true friends will find and show to me.

For some will sing, and some will tell a tale,
A simple story full of jocund glee,--
And anecdote with point that cannot fail
To cheer the heart with true hilarity;
Kind jovial friends that merry songs can sing,
Or with a touch of pathos bring the tear;
Anon I hear the wedding bells out-ring,
And now for gallant deeds the sounding cheer.

Here true they stand, the many great and good,
The fairest names the world can ever tell;
For some like gold the test of time have stood,
And some!--Oh, there be "maidens fair" as well,
That take a foremost place amid the true,
Good trusty friends there loitering by the wall;
Here Art and Poetry and Science too,
With Travellers that come whene'er I call.

When day is done, with all its toil and care,
The time that busy men together strove,--
My friends come forth the quiet hour to share,--
The friends I trust, and trusting, best I love;
Here motley fool may preach a sermon true,
Or sombre garb may tell a merry tale;
Here by the fire where these warm friendships grew
They talk to me--the friends that never fail.

GEORGE DALZIEL.

BOXES.]

GALLERY.]

BY ERNEST GRISET. FROM _FUN_.]

During the period that _Fun_ was in our possession George Dalziel was a constant contributor, writing upon the passing events of the day under the general heading of "Dots by the Way."

Few matters in modern history caused greater excitement in the public mind than the many unsuccessful attempts of our troops to reach Khartoum for the relief of General Gordon, and, on the news of how the place had fallen and the brave hero had been murdered by a horde of savage Dervishes, the following verses appeared:

DEATH OF GENERAL GORDON.

["The Fortress of Khartoum was treacherously delivered up
to the Mahdi on January 26th, 1885, when General Gordon was
slain."--_Daily Paper._]

Hush! let no sound of revelry or song
Be heard in all our busy streets to-day,--
For such dark news falls 'mong the surging throng
As sends men sadly pondering on their way.
Sad news that sends a pang of crushing pain
To every honest heart throughout the land.
Khartoum betrayed! her brave defenders slain,
And Gordon fallen by the assassin's hand.

Great, noble Gordon, ever true and brave,
That held this 'leagured city 'gainst the foe,--
And all that man could do, he did to save
The women and their babes from direful woe;
But who can stand against the cunning art,
The cruel, dark device, and darker sin
That traitors use, when with a fiendish heart
They ope' the gates and let the foemen in?

Beloved by all who knew his noble heart,
Or ever felt the warm grasp of his hand,
The loving kindness and the ready part
He took in each good work in every land.
A gentle nature, kind as it was brave,
To help the lowly in their poor estate,
He spent his life to free the fettered slave,
And guide the suffering to a better fate.

O grand career, unsullied to its close!
Its splendour yet shall brighter shine, and tell
In glowing numbers how he faced his foes,
And how by treason dire, great Gordon fell.
With head bowed down we mourn the good man gone,--
And with our sorrow comes a sense of shame,
That in the midst of foes he stood alone,
And died with added glory to his name.

The tale spreads like a black cloud o'er the land;
'Tis like a darkening blight that falls at noon,
When men together meet and wondering stand,
And gaze as though the stricken heart would swoon,--
The flaming sword, the "lightning of the spear,"
Shone in the place where multitudes were slain,
The air is full of wailing, and we hear,
Mingled with prayer, the groan of mortal pain.

GEORGE DALZIEL.

Again, when the decisive battle was fought under the command of Lord, then Sir Garnet, Wolseley, at Tel-el-Kebir, which practically brought the revolt led by Arabi Pasha to a close, this song appeared:

A SONG FOR OUR BRAVES.

[On the return of Troops from Egypt in 1882, after the victory at
Tel-el-Kebir.]

A song now for the Guards,
Right gallant deeds they've done,
And liberal rewards
Their bravery has won;
The world beheld with pride
On Egypt's sandy plain
Their dreary midnight ride--
The battle charge. Like rain
Before the raging storm they swept the foe away,
And victory was won at the dawning of the day.

There in the dull grey morn,
With paling stars o'erhead,
We hear the bugle horn,--
The shouts of those who led;
We seem to hear the crash,
To see the gleaming steel,--
The cannons roar and flash,
The dusky foemen reel:
One moment at their guns they stood, then fled in wild dismay,
And victory was won at the dawning of the day.

Our heroes now come back,
In pride they march along;
Be sure they shall not lack
Warm welcome, cheers and song;
Tho' some were left behind,
And fill a soldier's grave,
Their honoured names we'll find
'Mong records of the brave
Who fell that morn while fighting and upheld old England's sway,
When victory was won at the dawning of the day.

GEORGE DALZIEL.

For many years we published at intervals several small volumes of short stories, by George Dalziel, some of them having been previously printed in the various issues of the "Comic Annual." These volumes had considerable popularity, the most successful being, "My Neighbour Nellie," "Dick Boulin's Four-in-Hand," "The Story of a Shop," "A Soldier's Sweetheart," and "Only a Flower Girl." We also put together three volumes of verse, with the titles of "Mattie Grey, and Other Poems," "Faces in the Fire," and, later, "Unconsidered Trifles." The first two of these were printed exclusively for private distribution, but the last volume was addressed to the public through the publishing house of Mr. Elliot Stock. Some few of the poems in each of these volumes appeared originally in the pages of the "Annual."

_New Mother._--"Now then, Polly, come and have your hat on, there's a little duck!"

_Polly._--"Shan't! Other little ducks don't wear none--there now."

[_The rest of the argument is lost in outcries and dissolved in tears._]]

The following lines, printed in "Faces in the Fire," were written as an affectionate tribute to the memory of one of the sweetest and most loveable of women:

MY MOTHER'S SONGS.

Of all the songs from sweetest voice,
In the sweet days of old,
That made my inmost soul rejoice,
However oft they're told,
Are those sweet songs my mother sung
While we were round her knee;
When all the world seemed blythe and young
And fresh and fair to see.

O, I have wandered far away
In sunny lands of song,--
And I have heard the minstrels play
That thrilled the listening throng;
Tho' sweet the charm when beauty sings,--
And sweet the minstrelsie,--
There is no charm that memory brings
Like those old songs to me.

Oft in the calm clear starry night,
Among the leafy trees,--
Or on the weird lone mountain height,
And in the gentle breeze,--
Or on the rough wild stormy sea,
When all is dark and drear,
The dear old songs will come to me,--
My mother's songs I hear.

Sweet is the strange enchanting spell
That lures all thought away,
To warm fireside or woody dell,
Where we were wont to play.
Around my boyhood's happy home
Glad mem'ries fondly cling;
And oft' the sweet old songs will come
My mother used to sing.

Through many years of joyous life
I reach the sere and old;
Now all the battle and the strife,
The fierce sun, and the cold,
Are o'er for me, and calm I wait
Until the "joy-bells" ring;
For I shall hear at Heaven's gate
My angel mother sing.

GEORGE DALZIEL.

Of the many art contributors, it will be sufficient if we state the names of the principal men whose works have adorned the pages of _Fun_ and Hood's "Comic Annual." Of these, naturally, the cartoonists take the foremost place. Paul Gray, who held this position on Hood assuming the editorship, was a young Irish artist of very considerable promise, and displayed much fine feeling for black and white work. He also made drawings for some of our "Fine Art Books." He was a man of delicate constitution, and within twelve months of his joining the _Fun_ staff he fell into a consumption and died. Shortly before the sad event, writing to us on other subjects, he said:

"I take the opportunity of saying how very pleased I am with the
way in which the cartoons are engraved--some of the latter, more
especially, could not possibly be better."

Jeffrey Prowse, in one of his poems, makes the following touching allusion to the early death of his young friend:

"There is one of our band whom we cherished--
The youngest, the purest, the best--
In the frost of the night-time he perished,
Going quietly home to his rest;
And we thought, as we buried our dear one,
And mournfully turned us to go,
That the summons was still sounding near one--
Listen! _On bot,
On bot le rappel là-haut!_"

The very spot where the Snorkers held a pic-nic. Oh! didn't the ladies cry out in one voice, "I could live in such a charming place for ever, if only----" At the self-same pic-nic, Tilbury Pawkins plighted his troth to Amelia Softispoon. Now they are married, and Amelia has begun trying to live in the "charming place," and Pawkins is going home to a damp cottage and a rheumatic wife as blithely as a newly-married man should.]

Then came W. J. Weigand, followed by A. Boyd Houghton. Notwithstanding the great ability of the latter, his quality of mind hardly fitted him to join in with Tom Hood's idea of the punctuality indispensable for conducting a weekly periodical. Next came Henry Doyle, a brother of the more famous Richard Doyle--an extremely careful and painstaking artist--who subsequently became Keeper of the Dublin National Gallery, with the distinction of C.B. After Doyle came Fred Barnard, an artist of surpassing versatility and humour. Perhaps it is not too much to say that in wit and true comicality he far outstripped all his predecessors on the journal; but some slight difference of opinion with the editor--or was it some interference on the part of Mr. Wylam, the then proprietor--caused him to secede from the position. Then followed Gordon Thomson, an artist upon the merits of whose productions there was a wide difference of opinion; but he did much good work--the series of double-pages in connection with the Franco-Prussian War being exceptionally strong. His large pictures for Christmas and other Holiday Numbers were remarkable for the varied topical events he crowded into them, and those who remember his "Academy Skits" will know what quaint burlesques they were. Here is an appreciation by one of his most distinguished contemporaries:

Sir John Gilbert said:

"These funny 'Academy Skits' are extravagant to a degree, and at
the same time they give such a complete embodiment of the picture
in hand as to stamp the subject in my mind far more fixedly than
any careful copy could possibly do."

Among the general contributors to _Fun_ were many well-known draughtsmen--Professor H. von Herkomer, R.A.; George J. Pinwell, R.W.S.; Hal Ludlow, and "E. G. D." The last named (the eldest son of Edward Dalziel) was a young artist full of promise and great ability. Had he given continued attention to his oil painting he must undoubtedly have taken a very high position. He exhibited many pictures at the Royal Academy, the Grosvenor, and other galleries, but the allurement of black and white became too much for him, and he laid aside his brush for the pencil. He contributed many excellent works to our various "Fine Art Books," as well as to our "Bible Gallery." Unfortunately he died at the early age of 39. Amongst his many admirers was Sir John Gilbert, as the following letter, which refers to his drawings in _Fun_, will show:

"VANBRUGH PARK, BLACKHEATH,
"_20th December, 1878_.

"DEAR MR. DALZIEL,--Pray accept my best thanks for your kind
remembrance.

"The drawings as they appear weekly in _Fun_ I always admired. The
_uncommon_ humour, the wonderfully expressive faces, with attitude
in accordance with the face, is always delightful and wonderful.

"The idea of gathering them together in a volume was excellent and
I had intended to get the book. I thank you again for it.

"Pray remember me very kindly to your brother and your son,
and with best wishes for your continued prosperity, health and
happiness,

"I am, very truly yours,
"JOHN GILBERT."

_Young Graceless._--"Natural selection!"

_Old Graceless._--"Certainly! Only the finest specimens of the race survive."

_Young Graceless._--"Come now, _that_ won't do! Why, you're over sixty now, and good for another twenty years!"]

Among other artists employed on _Fun_ were--William Small; Harry French; "F. A. F." (Francis A. Fraser), and his brother, G. Gordon Fraser, whose sketches of humorous Irish character were for several years a prominent feature in the journal (poor fellow! during the very severe winter of 1895 he was accidentally drowned while skating); E. J. Brewtnall, R.W.S., the water colour painter; F. S. Walker, R.H.A.; George Gatcombe, Harry Tuck; and J. W. Houghton. The last named also contributed the dramatic criticisms, with illustrations, for several years. Jack Houghton is a ready writer of smart, clever verse, and wrote all the rhymed descriptions to Gordon Thomson's "Academy Skits."

Another very talented youth who it was our good fortune to introduce on _Fun's_ pages, both in literature and art, was J. F. Sullivan. He was a student at South Kensington, when he first forwarded some sketches for our inspection; and seeing they gave evidence of considerable ability, we at once availed ourselves of his drawings. Though he had much originality of conception and design, he did not very readily acquire a "style" of his own, such as is evidenced in his later productions. Perhaps the most notable works Sullivan did were some very clever character sketches--"The British Working-man" and "The British Tradesman." But he was not an artist only, for, during the many years he was associated with _Fun_, he contributed to it a fair amount of very good verse and general comic matter.

"Here you are! the finest natives! best of appetite-creatives.
Come and buy! Taste and try!"

BY ERNEST GRISET. FROM _FUN_.]

There was a distinct cleverness about the quaint grotesque drawings of Ernest Griset, a young Frenchman, who made his appearance in London now many years ago. His drawings were at first exhibited in the window of a book shop close to Leicester Square, where they attracted considerable attention. Tom Hood had a great opinion of the artist's ability. They were generally in pen and ink, lightly tinted with delicate colour. We thought very highly of Griset's drawings, and soon enlisted his services, not only on _Fun_ and "Hoods Annual," but upon many other publications--for which we bought hundreds of his drawings, and from them made selections. Tom Hood wrote clever verses to some of these, and we published them in book form through Messrs. Routledge as "Griset's Grotesques." We also got together several of his drawings which had appeared in _Fun_ and published them as shilling books from the _Fun_ Office.

Griset was, and is, a hard and rapid worker. He has been engaged in many other ways as an illustrator; much on "Prehistoric Man." Also as a decorator of public halls, he has done good things.

_Frank (just accepted)._--"Love thee, dearest? Ay, and when time shall have furrowed these youthful cheeks and dimmed the lustre of your eyes, when age shall have threaded silver amidst these glossy locks and bowed the figure erstwhile straight----"

_Laura (hastily)._--"Oh, Frank, I hope not! Think how old you will be!"]

W. S. Brunton, known as "Billy" Brunton, was a young Irishman full of racy humour and odd fancies. He was a constant contributor of comic sketches dealing with passing events of every-day life. It is well known that when the present Earl Dunraven was a young man he was occupied for many years as a journalist, on the London Press. He was of a genial disposition, a fluent writer, and a general favourite among his brethren of the pen, as well as a popular member of the Savage Club at the time that "Billy" Brunton and some few other kindred spirits kept the place pretty lively with their jovial nights and merry Irish rollicking. On one occasion, shortly after Dunraven had come into the title and estates, a small group of "Savages" were standing gossiping in the club smoke-room, when he very quietly said:

"By the way, old chums, now that my position in the world is a little altered, and I have been obliged to change my name, I hope there may be no reserve on your parts, or change of feeling towards me, and that we shall continue to meet and chum together on precisely the same friendly terms, and with the same cordial good-fellowship, that has always existed among us."

"Billy" Brunton, who happened to be one of the group, laid his hand, with a caressing pat, on Dunraven's shoulder, and in an encouraging tone said:

"All right, old man, that shall be all right, so let your mind be entirely at ease on that score. Bedad, I pledge my word for it; and I'm sure I speak the sentiments of every member of this club, that 'although your position in the world is a little altered, and you have been compelled to change your name,' you'll find no change in us--for you shall at all times be treated with precisely the same respect and the same consideration that has always been shown you here; and to prove I'm entirely in earnest in what I say--gentlemen, I propose that Dunraven stands glasses round."

It is hardly necessary to say that the proposal met with approval by the entire party, or that it was responded to by the noble "Savage."

Henry Sampson remained editor of _Fun_ and "Tom Hood's Comic Annual" for nearly four years, when he resigned that position to commence a weekly newspaper--the _Referee_.

Early in the Sixties we made the acquaintance of Edward Lear, who was a landscape painter of great distinction, a naturalist, a man of high culture, and a most kind and courteous gentleman. He came to us bringing an original chromo-lithographic copy of his "Book of Nonsense"--published some years before by McLean of the Haymarket. His desire was to publish a new and cheaper edition. With this view he proposed having the entire set of designs redrawn on wood, and he commissioned us to do this, also to engrave the blocks, print, and produce the book for him. When the work was nearly completed, he said he would sell his rights in the production to us for _£_100. We did not accept his offer, but proposed to find a publisher who would undertake it. We laid the matter before Messrs. Routledge & Warne. They declined to buy, but were willing to publish it for him on commission, which they did. The first edition sold immediately. Messrs. Routledge then wished to purchase the copyright, but Mr. Lear said, "Now it is a success they must pay me more than I asked at first." The price was then fixed at _£_120, a very modest advance considering the mark the book had made. It has since gone through many editions in the hands of F. Warne & Co.

Lear told us how "The Book of Nonsense" originated. When a young man he studied very much at the Zoological Gardens in Regent's Park. While he was engaged on an elaborate drawing of some "Parrots," a middle-aged gentleman used to come very frequently and talk to him about his work, and by degrees took more and more interest in him. One day he said, "I wish you to come on a visit to me, for I have much that I think would interest you." The stranger was the Earl of Derby. Lear accepted the invitation, and it was during his many visits at Knowsley that these "Nonsense" drawings were made, and the inimitable verses written. They were generally done in the evening to please the Earl's young children, and caused so much delightful amusement that he redrew them on stone, and published them as before stated. That is how this clever, humorous book came into existence; a work that will cause laughter and pleasure to young and old for all time. John Ruskin says of Lear's "Book of Nonsense":

"Surely the most beneficent and innocent of all books yet produced
is the 'Book of Nonsense,' with its corollary carols, inimitable
and refreshing, and perfect in rhythm. I really don't know any
author to whom I am half so grateful for my idle self as Edward
Lear. I shall put him first of my hundred authors."

* * * * *

John Proctor, the celebrated cartoonist, had retired from his position, and had gone over to _Moonshine_, the then new "comic," and William Boucher had taken his place, before we became connected in any way with _Judy, or The London Serio Comic Journal_. Charles H. Ross was the editor when the paper came into our hands in 1872.

"_She is one of the most amiable ladies I ever met, and has a pleasant smile and a pretty something to say to one and all, and she doesn't mean a word she says. Watch her now softly crossing the floor, no doubt fearful of waking old Mr. Topperton, whose heavy breathing might by the ill-disposed almost be likened to a snore. See, she is carrying a pillow; doubtless it is to prop up Topperton's head, now resting against the hard wooden edge of the chair at a painful angle. Not a bit of it._"

"Behind a Brass Knocker" (_Judy_).--CHARLES H. ROSS.

_Published by Mr. Gilbert Dalziel._]

He was a gifted writer of varied powers, a dramatist and novelist of the most sensational order. But above all, Ross was a great humorist, with a manner peculiarly his own. He was also a skilful draughtsman, and we engraved hundreds of his drawings. His pages of humorous pictures, which appeared in _Judy_, were generally signed "Marie Duval" (his wife's maiden name), and the subjects often savoured somewhat of French origin.

One of the principal contributors to the paper at this period was Ernest Warren, an admirable verse writer. He, too, wrote for the stage. Of his books, many of which were of "The Round Table" series, the most popular were "Four Flirts," and "The White Cat." Another, which had run through the Journal, and was written in collaboration with his friend Ross, was "Rattletrap Rhymes and Tootletum Tales." All three books went through many editions.

"The Bloomin' Flower of Rorty Gulch" was published in the last-named book, and shows Ross's power as a sarcastic verse writer. As a recitation, the poem is very popular, and in the hands of that clever and esteemed actor, E. J. Odell, who has made a feature of it for many years, it is highly appreciated in Bohemian and other circles.

In his "Book of Beauty" Ross says "On Love":

"Ladies and gentlemen! there is no such thing as love.

"This fact is thrown in by A. Sloper without any extra charge.

"Some people take a long while to find this out, and some never do
quite find it out: those are the lucky ones.

"During A. Sloper's infancy, when A. Sloper was a mere boy, he was
under the impression that he was in love, and couldn't eat over two
eggs and a couple of rashers for breakfast; but it turned out he
was wrong, and only wanted medicine.

"Later on he had another attack, and made poetry. He made a line
that ended with _love_, and stuck _grove_ on to the end of another,
and _move_ on to the end of a third, and _hove_ and _stove_ on to
the end of the fourth and fifth, and still he was not happy, nor
was any one else to whom he read the poem.

"Love has been the stock-in-trade of all poets ever since the first
poet started in business, and they have generally treated the
subject from a thoroughly business-like point of view.

"A young man once late at night told A. Sloper that some people
never tell their love, but feed on their damask--and he fell down
immediately after making the observation.

"A. Sloper has known men who could not make love, but have made
boots, Geneva watches, and other things, very well indeed. He has
also known men who could make love, but could never propose. You
might have brought actions against them, and still they couldn't."

"_'What is it?' she asks._

"'_It is_ him--papa,' _responds Melia_; 'he has come back!'"

"Behind a Brass Knocker" (_Judy_).--CHARLES H. ROSS.

_Published by Mr. Gilbert Dalziel._]

And see the glowing description of "The Beautiful Gymnast: A Fragment":

" ... Nothing could have been more lovely!