Chapter XII: My Confessions as a "reformer." (1)

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.

My attack upon the National Portrait Gallery was in the form of a lecture entitled "Portraiture Past and Present." I found the subject so large, so complicated, I may say so octopus-like, embracing such varied periods and phases, and throwing forth its arms or ramifications in so many directions, that I soon discovered I was struggling with a monster subject, with which it was impossible to grapple completely in the limited time allowed for the performance. Still I managed in a light way to review the history of portraiture from Dibutades to Millais, and from its display in the Temples to its discouragement at the National Portrait Gallery, taking as my text Carlyle's dictum that "Human Portraits faithfully drawn are of all pictures the welcomest on Human Walls," a sentiment that appeals to all, for there is no doubt human beings interest us more than anything else. The Pyramids of Egypt awe, but our interest is in those who raised them; Ancient Rome enchants in exact proportion to our interest in the Ancient Romans; the Forum is but a frame which the imagination instinctively fills with the forms of the mighty men who moved there; the Amphitheatre would have little interest but for those who made its dust; and when we wander through our Parliament at Westminster it is not so much the place that interests us as the senators associated with its name. I confess that when I travel on the Continent I cut cathedrals and study the people, in the boulevards, in the streets, in the market-place. When I have spare time in London I do the same, and at one time made a point of spending a day now and then wandering about the East End of London for the purpose of studying character; and it was while so occupied that I happened to stray into our National Portrait Gallery. I was astonished and disgusted at such a collection having such a name, and there and then decided that I would make this the subject of my lecture, and the following is briefly my indictment as I then laid it before the Grand Jury, composed of the Press and the Public:

"Of all places, a Portrait Gallery should appeal to you most, and the National Portrait Gallery is the place in which to spend a happy day.

"That is, if you are not critical. If you are, then get thee to a library and bury thyself in books of biography, for portrait painters were deceivers ever, historical portrait painters in particular.

"The National Portrait Gallery was founded about thirty years ago, and the founder, Lord Stanhope, had the audacity to ask for a yearly grant of L500 for the purpose of supplying the nation with a representative collection of national portraits. The first purchase made by the trustees was a portrait of Sir Walter Raleigh (rather suggestive of the undertaking ending in smoke). However, it has struggled on, such as it is.

"Truly it is in no sense a National Portrait Gallery, and although the richest and most civilised nation in the world now generally grants L1,000 a year to supply itself with representative portraits of its great men and women, being I may say about the price of one portrait by a successful painter, the portraits of our great lights do not swell the number of the collection.

"It has been difficult, no doubt, even with this immense amount of cash, to get portraits of those of the past. They have been locked up in the stately homes of England.

"Of late years Charles Surface, Earl of Spendthrift, knocks his ancestors down to the highest chance bidder, but the National Portrait Gallery knows them not.

"The reason of this is not far to seek.

"Taking up at random an annual report of the trustees, I read: 'The salaries of officials amount to L1,176, other expenses L591, the police L635, total L2,402.' And now we come to the interesting item: 'The money spent on the purchase of portraits L255'! But the particular section of the report dealing with this item says seven works have been purchased for L143 18_s._--that is, L20 11_s._ 1_d._ each.

"Small wonder then that many works in the National Portrait Gallery of England--England where portraiture flourishes--are unworthy of the attendance of even L35 worth of policemen. Can we wonder when L635 is paid to the police to gaze at L143 18_s._ worth of portraits, the purchase of the year?" and so on.

The result of this "ridiculing the State," as the _Times_, in its leader, expressed it, for the penurious pittance it doles out of the revenues of the richest country in the world towards the maintenance of a National Portrait Gallery, was that I was the cause of arousing the Press of Great Britain to the miserable condition of the National Portrait Gallery, which ended in our having one in its place more worthy of the country.

Besides drawing public attention to the National Portrait Gallery, in the same lecture I put in a word for the struggling unknown portrait painters. Speaking of payment reminded me of the story told of Bularchus, a successful painter 716 B.C. Candaules, King of Lydia, paid him with as much gold as would cover the surface of the work. I told my audience that I doubted whether, if that system existed now, the portrait painters would leave any room at all on the Academy walls for subject pictures.

Would Meissonier or Alma Tadema, say, paint your portrait for three napoleons, and would you pay Slapdash, R.A., fifteen thousand for a larger one? I then made the assertion, "It is not too much to say that a fashionable portrait painter often receives L900 for his name, and L100 for the value of the picture to the sitter as a portrait. It is the artist's autograph with a dash of something attached." I asked, "Why should snobbery tempt those away from an honest, well-painted portrait by a less-known man, to accept a failure with a Society signature?" a query that was replied to by my receiving any number of letters from all over the country asking me to recommend artists; in fact, at the time I might have started an agency for portrait painters. One of the artists I suggested had already had a very striking portrait of the Chinese Ambassador, Marquis Tseng, hung in the Academy, and over that painting he had had a trying experience. His sitter, like Queen Elizabeth, objected to shadows, not like the conceited Queen through vanity, but, being an Oriental, he really did not understand what the shadows were, and rushed to the glass to see if his face was dirty. He was a high official in his own country, and naturally anxious not to be mistaken for the Dirty Boy. Again he got into a frightful state at the glazy appearance of his skin--it was an oil painting.

"Only opium-eaters have shiny skins, and I am free from that vice. This is a libel, sir, and will disgrace me at home."

Then he had no idea of perspective, but a great idea of his own rank, and commanded my bewildered brother-artist to paint the red button on the top of his hat, the feather down the back, the orders in front, and was disappointed that his different coats and sashes, three and four deep, could not all be shown at once.

Another illustration of the difficulties of portrait painters I gave in the same lecture has since been so frequently repeated in the Press that I fear it will be stale to most of my readers--the story of the man who called upon the portrait painter and asked him to paint his father.

"But where is your father?"

"Oh, he died ten years ago."

"Then how can I paint him?" asked the artist.

"Why, I've just seen your picture of Moses, and surely if you can paint the portrait of a man who died thousands of years ago, you can more easily paint my father, who has only been dead ten years!"

Seeing the sort of man with whom he had to deal, the young artist agreed to paint the defunct gentleman, and the picture in due time was sent home. It was carefully hung on the drawing-room wall, and the newly-blossomed art patron was called in to see it. He gazed at it for some time in silence, his eyes filled with tears, and then, slowly nodding his head, he said softly and reverently, "So that is my father! Ah, how he is changed!"

But out of this lecture comes another story--the story of "The Great Six Toes Trial." I must start at the beginning of its strange, eventful history, the same way as, in my lecture, I began with the origin of portraiture.

Now the late George Augustus Sala, in his leader in the _Daily Telegraph_ on this lecture, accused me of not giving the origin of portraiture. "Mr. Harry Furniss was bold enough to maintain that, although Greek art remained the model art of the world, portraiture had very little to do with it. Mr. Furniss should not tell this story to the prehistoric toad, for that reptile's presumably long memory might enable it to remind the graphic artist that thousands of years ago the art of portraiture was invented by a sentimental young Greek girl, the daughter of a potter of Corinth, Dibutades." In the same article he sneered at "a whimsical caricaturist lecturing his contemporaries," and in his references to me was about as offensive as he could be.

The second stage was my letter to the Editor of the _Daily Telegraph_. That paper not printing it, I sent it, with a note, to the Editor of the _Pall Mall Gazette_, who gave both letters a prominent position:

"SIR,--Can you find space for the publication of the following
letter which I addressed to the _Daily Telegraph_ in answer to
their leader in last Friday's issue, as the insignificant
paragraph, 'Greek Portraits,' which alone the _Daily Telegraph_
inserted, in no way states the facts of the case?"

"SIR,--The writer of the leader in your issue of last Friday is
guilty of the very fault of which he accuses me. He charges me with
not acquainting myself with the subject I treated of in my lecture;
he has manifestly not troubled to acquaint himself with that
lecture. The ignorance--at any rate, the omissions--that he lays to
my door do not exist. Did he expect me in the course of a short
hour's lecture to a general audience--which was certainly not
prepared for any history or technicalities--to bring forward in my
opening sentences the whole story of the rise and development of
Greek portraiture? The principal omission of which he complains is
the legend of the daughter of Dibutades--calling it an omission
because, forsooth, he did not read it in the _Times_ report! But,
in point of fact, not only did I give the story at length, but I
reproduced on the screen Mortimer's well-known picture of the
incident. Surely it is not too much to ask, even for a caricaturist
to ask--for such he somewhat scornfully terms me--that when so
powerful a personality as a leader writer levels his pen against an
individual, however humble, he should not depend upon the report of
another newspaper, the exigencies of whose space naturally prevent,
it may be assumed, the devotion of more than a column verbatim
report to any utterances of a 'mere caricaturist.' But, frankly,
does the nature of my own occupation in the arts preclude me from
pronouncing a correct judgment on portraits and portraiture? For
that, after all, is the burden of your article. Is not an opinion,
if correct, as good coming from a bootblack as from a Royal
Academician? If so, I submit that mine, if worthy of discussion at
all, might at least be ascertained and be considered with respect.
If not, then I bring the lecture of Professor Herkomer, A.R.A.,
published on the very same day as your article, to witness that my
judgment was a fair one. By a curious coincidence, he lectured at
Leeds on the self-same subject within twenty-four hours of the
delivery of my own little lecture; he travelled over much the same
ground; brought forward in some instances the very same examples as
I, and deduced very much the same conclusions."

I happened to call in at the Garrick Club on my way to the _Punch_ dinner, and there found a copy of the _Daily Telegraph_ containing the leader, on the margin of which was written with the familiar purple ink, in Lewis Wingfield's handwriting, "G.A.S. on Hy. F." Wingfield was Sala's neighbour and friend, so this settled any doubt I had about the authorship of the article I have just referred to. When I showed it to du Maurier, who sat next to me at dinner, he said, "I say, old chap, I'll tell you a capital story about Sala which you might use. When he was an art student, he tried to get into the Art Schools of the Royal Academy, and for that purpose had to draw the usual head, hand, and foot. When the Examiners counted the toes on the foot Sala had drawn, they found six, so Sala didn't get in, don't you know!" Now, as other journalists had quoted Sala against me, and a Nottingham paper attacked me in a long and rather vulgar and offensive leader, I, finding myself shortly afterwards the guest of the Literary Club in Nottingham, seized the opportunity to reply. I regretted--though I supposed it was flattering to me--to find that quite recently, although I had been treated for many years with the greatest kindness in the Press, I had been rather attacked. "I was proud," I said, "to find that the first person to attack me in the Press was the greatest journalist the Press possessed--Mr. George Augustus Sala." What I really said after this I print side by side with what I was reported to have said:

"WHAT I SAID.

"I have not the pleasure of Mr. Sala's personal acquaintance, but no one
has a greater admiration than I have for that great man in literature.
Mr. Sala began life as an artist; not only so, but he began in that walk
of art which I pursue, like another great man of the pen had done before
him, for, of course, you all know the story of Thackeray going to
Dickens and offering to illustrate his books. Dickens declined
Thackeray's offer, and it is generally believed that that refusal so
annoyed Thackeray that he became a writer and a rival to Dickens. It was
a very good thing for him and for literature that Dickens gave him the
refusal he did. Now, Mr. Sala, as I said, also began life as an artist,
and I am informed that when an applicant for the Royal Academy he had to
send in for examination the usual chalk drawings of a head, a hand, and
a foot. The Examiners, however, discovered that Sala had drawn six toes
on the foot. He was rejected, and no doubt this caused him, like
Thackeray, to forsake the pencil for the pen, and he is now Art Critic
of the _Daily Telegraph_.

"In 1851 Mr. Sala painted the pictures upon the walls of an eating
saloon, and that probably had given him the taste for cooking which he
had evinced ever since."

"HOW I WAS REPORTED.

"He (Mr. Furniss) had not the pleasure of Mr. Sala's personal
acquaintance, but no one had a greater admiration for him than he had as
being a great man in literature. Mr. Sala began life as an artist, and
not only so, but he began in that walk of life which he (Mr. Furniss)
pursued. He went to Dickens, and wanted to illustrate his books, but
Dickens would not have the sketches; afterwards Mr. Sala went into
literature, and it was a very good thing for him and for literature that
Dickens gave him the refusal that he did. (Hear, hear.)

"Mr. Sala began not only as an artist, but as a caricaturist, and he had
to send into the Academy Schools three 'short drawings,' as they were
called, of a head, a hand, and a foot. Unfortunately for Mr. Sala, he
had six toes upon the foot he drew, and the Examiner, having counted
these toes, pointed the matter out to Mr. Sala, who did not get into the
Academy Schools, so now he was the Art Critic of the _Daily Telegraph_.
In 1851, Mr. Sala painted the pictures upon the walls of an eating
saloon, and that probably had given him the taste for cooking which he
had evinced ever since."

The reporter had evidently trusted to his memory, and not to shorthand notes--thus the blunder. I pointed it out, and at once corrected it in a letter printed in the same paper a day or so afterwards. My object in all sincerity was to have a joke--du Maurier's joke--at Sala's expense, but in leading up to it my very complimentary and perfectly accurate parallel illustration of Thackeray was unfortunately, by the reporter's carelessness, attributed to Sala!

This correction was entirely lost sight of by the Press, and I was accused by papers all over the country of having falsely accused him of offering to illustrate Dickens. Papers printed apologies to Sala, and in some cases paid Sala's solicitor money to avoid actions-at-law. I then heard that he was going for me. I found a letter from Burnand to that effect the evening I returned from a lecturing tour. Strange to say, that night Sala and I were both guests of a Medical Society's dinner at the Holborn Restaurant. Both had to make speeches. I spoke before Sala, and referred to a misquotation from a speech I had made in the country, and purposely then and there made the _amende honorable_, of which he at least understood the meaning. He ignored this altogether, and I now merely mention the incident to show that he was vindictive from the very first. He would not listen to reason. Sir George Lewis, Mr. Labouchere, Mr. Burnand, and other mutual friends failed: Sala remained obdurate. It was freely reported after the verdict was given that the plaintiff never had any desire to make money out of me, and had specially instructed his counsel not to ask for damages! As a matter of fact, when our mutual friends implored Sala not to proceed with such a trivial and ridiculous action, he admitted that he wanted money, and in conversation with Sir George Lewis--who all through acted as my good friend, and Sala's too, doing all in his power (which is great) to induce Sala to accept my necessary _amende_,--Sala declined. He had already pocketed several amounts from papers publishing the Nottingham paper's fanciful report, and said to Sir George: "When Friswell libelled me, I got L500 damages; and why should I not be equally successful against Furniss?" "Yes," said the astute Sir George, "but you must remember that I got you that L500, and now I am on the other side."

What I really said, and what I was reported to have said, here I plainly show are two very different things. Still, in the words "and now he is Art Critic of the _Daily Telegraph_" there was a germ of libel--slander one must call it, as the words were spoken--so I was advised to withdraw. Sala, however, made this an impossibility, and the silly action, fanned into "almost European importance," to quote Lockwood, was to be. To make matters worse, just before the

GREAT SIX TOES TRIAL

I received a note from du Maurier:

"I am awfully sorry, old chap, but the capital story I told you of
Sala and the six toes was about another fellow after all!"

Although a letter from me was published immediately correcting this ridiculous blunder on the part of the reporters, pointing out that what I did say was that Mr. Sala was not the only literary man who began life as an artist; and that I had quoted casually as an instance that _Thackeray_ in early life went to Dickens, my correction--though well known to Sala--was, to my surprise, ignored, and the words _I had never used_ were made the point of the whole action!

Mr. Kemp, counsel for Sala, rolled them out with unctuousness then paused for the Judge to write them down. Mr. Sala, in the witness-box, in melodramatic style denied that he had ever taken sketches to Dickens, and the jury noted that fact. Yet I had never said he did! and furthermore Sala knew I had referred to Thackeray and not to him. Still, for some reason I could never understand, Lockwood allowed this to pass, and cross-examined Sala, admitting that he had heard the story of Thackeray and Dickens--as to my right as a critic--but never denied that these words attributed to me were absolutely a false report! The next point Sala made was that an "offensive caricature" (reproduced by permission on this page) was by me! It was Mr. F. C. Gould's. Sala knew this; so did Lockwood, but he did not deny it: in fact, when the jury considered their verdict, the two points they were clear upon were (1) that I said Sala had offered work to Dickens, and had been refused; (2) that I was the author of the clever (but in Sala's opinion most offensive) caricature of himself and me.

I prompted Lockwood in Court, but he told me that he would not bother about facts, or call me, or deny anything--he took the line that the whole thing was too absurd for serious consideration, and that he would "laugh it out of Court."

One report says that "Mr. Lockwood handled Mr. Sala very gently in cross-examination, and got from him an explosive declaration that Mr. Furniss's statements represented him as an ignorant and impudent pretender. 'Don't be angry with me, Mr. Sala.'"

But the Judge was angry with dear, good, kind Frank Lockwood, and scotched his humour, and refused to allow him to "laugh it out of Court." It annoyed him, and he summed up dead against me. Lockwood could only squeeze one joke out of the whole thing.

Sala in cross-examination said to Lockwood in a bombastic, inflated, Adelphi-drama style:

"That was not my greatest artistic work. Perhaps my greatest was an engraving of the funeral of the Duke of Wellington. It was from my original drawings. I engraved it on a steel plate, and it contained many thousand figures."

Lockwood: "All, I suppose, had the proper number of toes?" (Laughter.)

"They had boots on." (Continued laughter.)

Sala got five pounds for the Judge's want of humour, not for mine.

Having no chance of making my little joke in Court, I took my revenge by accepting a commission to report and illustrate my own trial for the _Daily Graphic_, and the following--the only authentic account of the Great Six Toes Trial--appeared the following morning:

"It was unfortunate that the Royal Academicians were all busy varnishing their pictures for the forthcoming exhibition at Burlington House when the Great Sala-Furniss Libel Case was heard on Friday last, and that in their absence you have had to apply to me (the defendant) for sketches of the scene in Court. What a chance Mr. Calderon has missed for a companion picture to the one he is painting of another great legal battle--the Parnell Commission! A picture in next year's Royal Academy of the trial between two art critics is surely worthy to be handed down to posterity, say, in the Council Room of the Royal Academy.

"That the subject is not a picturesque one, I admit, but I can offer the painter an historical incident connected with it that should recommend itself. We all know that Sir Francis Drake playing at bowls when the Spanish Armada was sighted is a favourite theme with artists. In this case, although there is nothing Spanish about it, there is a parallel incident. I was, like Drake, by the sad sea waves, not playing at bowls, but sketching a common, or garden, donkey, when a telegram arrived from London to say that the great trial was in sight, and my presence was demanded at the Royal Courts of Justice (Court 3) at eleven o'clock the following morning. Let it be recorded that my nerve was equal to the great Admiral's--I finished the drawing of that donkey.

"The morning was a gloomy one, and no doubt the weather had something to do with the solemn tone of the proceedings. A collection of briefless barristers, irritated jurymen, and wet umbrellas in dark corridors is not enlivening; and when you arrive, to find the Court crowded, and you happen to be, like me, considerably under the medium height, and rather broad in proportion, it is difficult to come up at all, much less smiling, to the feet of justice. Here is a subject for a _Punch_ puzzle. The defendant--how is he to get into Court? It is a mystery to me how I managed to squeeze myself through. I stuck to my hat, and my hat pulled me through (alas, a new one!). The hat was more rubbed the wrong way by the trial than was its wearer; but it is an item in the expense of legal warfare that ought not to be forgotten by the taxing master. However, I found myself sitting next my consulter and friend, the 'sage of Ely Place,' in good time. Although a case is down to be tried in a particular Court, it may be transferred to another Court at a moment's notice. This is bewildering to the parties interested and, from what I saw, irritating to the legal fraternity. Tomkins _v._ Snooks is down for trial, Court 2. The legal call-boys bustle in the counsel and others engaged. Mr. Buzfuz, Q.C., pushes his way into Court, surrounds himself with briefs and other documents, when some mysterious harlequin of the Law Courts changes Tomkins _v._ Snooks to Court 4, and calls upon Brown _v._ Jones, who are packed away in Court 3, waiting their turn. Buzfuz gets very angry, and bustles off to Court 4. In fact, getting your case into Court reminded me forcibly of that amusing toy, so popular then, called 'Pigs in Clover'--wigs in clover, I was nearly writing. I apologise at once for the mere thought. We were transferred from one Court to another, and our friends sat out a case in the Court advertised to try ours, wondering what on earth 'The Prince of Journalists' and I had to do with 'chops and tomato sauce.' What followed has been pretty fully reported, so I need not dwell upon it. Indeed, I could not live in the frightful atmosphere of those Courts, and would gladly pay twice five pounds to be allowed to sit on the roof if ever I find myself a defendant again.

"According to the reports, 'the plaintiff was supported by his wife, and the defendant by the editor of _Punch_.' The solemn occasion demanded a certain amount of gravity, which was particularly difficult for me to retain, as my 'supporter,' although fully alive to the tremendous bearings of the case and the importance of the issues, failed to hide in his expression those 'happy thoughts' that flow ceaselessly through his fertile brain. The outward effect was a see-saw antic with his imposing eyebrows--a proof to me that his sense of the ridiculous had got the better of his gravity. 'Put on your gloves at once,' he whispered impressively to me. 'Why?' I asked. 'Because you may then leave the court with clean hands!' (The 'putting on the gloves' must not be taken in a double sense.) But this is a digression. You merely ask for sketches in Court. Well, I send you my recollection of Mr. Kemp, Q.C., trying to be very angry with me; of my 'brother caricaturist' (_vide_ reports), Mr. Lockwood, struggling to be very angry with Mr. Kemp, and pointing to the defendant, 'That miscreant! (note the effect upon me), and the Judge very serious with everybody. As an antidote, I was spoiling a beautiful sheet of white blotting-paper by drawing recollections of the donkey I was studying in the country when I was summoned to town to take my trial. I am anxious to make this public, as I now remember that I left that sheet of sketches in the court; and who can tell? Some one may yet 'invest those sketches with an almost European importance,' and the number of five pounds I shall be called upon to dole out all round will be something appalling.

"_A propos_ of this truly great trial, the _Observer_ remarked, in its leader upon it, that 'future treatises on the law of libel will, if properly and picturesquely indexed, be enriched with this entry, "Art critic, statement held to be a libel upon, see Toes." Indeed, the antics of the law of libel ought to be written, edited, let me suggest, by Mr. George Lewis, and illustrated by the genius of Mr. Frank Lockwood. I will supply a footnote."

Over this _jeu d'esprit_ on my part Sala waxed very wroth, for besides having to pay L80 costs of his own, he brought upon himself columns of chaff, of which the following is a fair specimen. "The Prince of Journalists," wrote a wag of journalists, "is lamenting that he has jumped out of the Furniss into the fire, for of a surety five pounds will hardly repay Mr. Sala for the roasting he will receive from his good-natured friends." Skits showing six toes were plentiful, jokes in burlesque and on the music-hall stage were introduced as a matter of course, and private chaff in letters was kept up for some time. One private letter I wrote du Maurier, "Sala has no sole for humour--you have made me put my foot in it," and added the Six Toes signature sketch. In this no doubt du Maurier found inspiration for Trilby.

In the witness-box Mr. Sala took up a curious position with regard to that filched and fatal joke. He said that I told that joke because he had been invited to distribute the prizes at the Art School at Nottingham shortly before, and that I had run down and, like the miscreant who sowed tares in his neighbour's wheat, deliberately made him look ridiculous. As a matter of fact, I neither knew that Sala had distributed the prizes, nor that he had ever put in an appearance at Nottingham. Sala in his evidence said, "I have always been well received there (Nottingham). The people have always been very kind to me, and they expressed surprise at the libel." Nottingham people reading this, assured me it was the very reverse of the facts, that Sala was socially anything but friendly and most objectionable in his behaviour when there; and they invited me to distribute the prizes the following year, which I did--the last stage of all of this strange, eventful joke, which ended, as it began, in good-natured laughter.

* * * * *

The one confession I desire in all seriousness should reach the ears of my fellow artists is that my object in attacking the Royal Academy ("Royal Academy Antics," 1890), was a thoroughly unselfish one. "It was published for the sake of those who, for one reason or another, are not within the inner circle. I was prompted to call the discriminating attention of the public to the evil the Academy works and permits to exist," by appeals from artists outside--heartbroken men and women smarting under unfair treatment; I received letters recording cases of gross injustice, followed by ruin and poverty--which made my blood boil. The shortcomings of the Academicians had been the subject of criticism for many years, yet no improvement resulted. As the _Times_ pathetically observed: "At least it should not be taken for granted that improvement is impossible till improvement has been attempted. This much has been forced upon us by the painful knowledge of the many bitter, often heartbreaking, disappointments which cloud the opening of the Royal Academy Exhibition, when London looks bright and blooming, and everyone and everything around seems so full of life, and so eager and capable of enjoyment. It is impossible for those whose office carries them behind the scenes, in the midst of the festive and fashionable crowd which throngs the stately rooms of the Academy, not to think of the poor lodging and the shabby studio, and the easel, the rejected picture, the subject of so much labour, the spring of so many hopes, which was expected to win bread, if not fame, for the painter." Perfectly true, but oh, how pathetic! to those, like myself, "whose office carries them behind the scenes." It is pleasant to keep friendly with those Royal Academicians and their friends and worshippers--that "festive and fashionable crowd"--and to be on good terms with the givers of banquets and the pets of Society; but I care little for such, for I am neither a logrolling journalist nor a Society-seeking artist, and at the risk of having my independence mistaken for egotism, I have always expressed my opinions openly and freely, quite regardless of, and not caring one jot for, those whose friendship I lost in consequence--no, not even as in this case, where the very artists who confessed to me, and who appealed to me to attack the Academy, subsequently avoided me, as "it wouldn't do, don't you know, to be seen with Furniss, as I am in the running for the Academy." This was my dedication.

The one object in view was to disabuse the public mind of the erroneous impression that the Royal Academy is an unprejudiced official public body, that they elect only the best artists, and reject only the unworthy--in fact, that R.A. should be considered a hall-mark on work, as too many believe it to be, to the detriment of the majority of artists. "Most of those artists who write and talk of art may be considered prejudiced--no one can well say that you are. What is the Royal Academy to you?" was said to me. I was even encouraged by some of the Academicians themselves, who had from time to time fruitlessly attempted to introduce reforms; but notwithstanding the efforts of the right-minded members of their body, the majority adopt the Fabian policy of sitting down and doing nothing, or bury their heads, ostrich-like, till the storm of indignation raised by their unworthy selfishness and indolence has blown over.

I went thoroughly into the subject. I read Blue-books, criticisms, sober, solid reviews, Royal Academicians' confessions and defence. I read everything connected with the history of the Royal Academy from beginning to end. Then I appeared on the platform and gave lectures on Art and Artists and the Royal Academy, which drew forth leading articles from the _Times_ and nearly every paper in the land.

In my researches I found that the Royal Academy has been a narrow-minded clique from its very initiation. It was procured by the trickery of an American (its first President), West, from that "dull lad brought up by narrow-minded people," George the Third, described by Thackeray: "Like all dull men, the King was all his life suspicious of superior people. He did not like ... Reynolds.... He loved mediocrities--Benjamin West was his favourite painter."

"A royal patron on the sly secured,
Which from the first its cheek to shame inured."[A]

[Footnote A: Soden's "Rap at the R.A."]

It was a contemptible pandering to unblushing and self-interested sycophancy, involving practically the ruin of all that the best spirits in the art world had laboured for since the commencement of the century. A society of unmitigated selfishness was thus started, and still continues. When everything else around has been reformed, as the country has advanced and increased, the Royal Academy remains exactly as it was when so hurriedly formed one hundred and thirty years ago.

To all this I received endless confirmation, but, alas! the writers did not give me permission to publish their names. I have on my desk before me as I write this page a letter from the editor of our most artistic illustrated weekly: "Allow me to congratulate you; keep pegging away. The Royal Academy of Arts (plural) is nonsense; it is, as you say, a Royal Academy of oil. If the R.A. had done their duty years ago, we would not see such farcical statues in the streets, nor should I (as at present moment employed) be writing to Berlin and Vienna for assistance in matters where skill and taste are required by art workmen." The President of a certain Royal Academy wrote: "I have just read your 'Royal Academy Antics,' and I must confess that, as far as I can judge, many of its strictures are deserved; ... but I can venture to say that many of the antiquated mistakes made by the parent Academy have been carefully avoided by our governing body."

From all sorts and conditions of artists and art employers I received congratulations. Those from the poor struggling outsiders alone repaid me for the trouble I had taken. At that time, only eleven years ago, the Royal Academy and other picture shows were in a very different position from what they are now. Art is no longer a fashion; proportionately the Royal Academy is going down. The glory of Lord Leighton, one of the brightest of Society's stars, attracted hosts of fashionable people to the gatherings of the Academy, and Sir John Millais, too, was much run after by the fashionable crowd. Now that these are gone, the Academy has lost all interest in smart Society. "Academy Antics up to Date" would not have any sale, "An Artistic Joke" in Bond Street would not have any visitors. I fought for the weak when they were crushed by the strong. Now that "My Lady Oil" is feeble and powerless, I desist.

"The Royal Academy has been the subject of many bitter attacks," wrote the editor of the _Magazine of Art_, "during the last hundred years--attacks which, directed against unjust or antiquated rules, have usually been well founded. But never, perhaps, has so effective a charge been made as that which Mr. Furniss brings in his entertaining volume; and if it be true that ridicule will pierce there whence the shafts of indignation will rebound, no little good may be looked for from the publication."

Precisely so. Others, serious and influential, had exposed the R.A.; I tried what ridicule would do. But the public did not take me seriously, and the Press took me too seriously; and as the public does not buy books on art, but is content with a _rechauffe_, my object to a certain extent was defeated.

My Lady Oil of Burlington House is a very selfish creature; she persistently refuses to recognise her twin-sister Water Colour, giving her but one miserable room in her mansion, and no share whatever in her honours. My Lady Oil is selfish; My Lady Oil is unjust to favour engravers and architects, and to ignore painters in water-colours and artists in black-and-white. She showers honours on her adopted sisters, Engraving and Architecture, because the former mechanically reproduces her work, and the latter builds her pretty toy-houses for her children to live in.

This is really altogether absurd when you reflect that it is in water-colour that English art excels, and that the copyist, the engraver's occupation will soon be gone, beaten away by slightly more mechanical, but more effective, modes of reproduction.

Sooner or later John Bull will open his inartistic eyes, and see that mediocrity in oil is not equal to excellence in water, and that those who originate with the pencil are far before copyists with the graver and drawers of plans.

I then advocated a National Academy, a Commonwealth of Art, presided over by a State Minister of Fine Art, in which mediocrity will find no space till a welcome and a place have been given to all earnest work, regardless of its nature.

Where the number of works of any one man will be limited, and where there will be no such mockery of good work as "rejection for want of space."

Where all the fine arts, and especially the national fine art (water-colour paintings), shall be recognised as arts, and the best of the professors of them shall at least be eligible for election.

Where the committee of selection and hanging shall be--as in the Salon--elected by the body of exhibitors.

Where reasonable time shall be given to the proper consideration of every work sent in.

Where the women, in the rare event of their being equal to their brother brushes, shall be elected into the magic circle.

Very few of the great public who find the splendid Tate Gallery "a thing of beauty and a joy for ever," recollect the disgraceful treatment the donor of it received at the hands of the Government and others. The way in which Mr.--afterwards Sir--Henry Tate was "held up to derision and contempt by a handful of irresponsible cranks" was a public scandal. Mr. Tate, in consequence, temporarily withdrew his princely offer of L150,000 to the nation. All his friends, and they were legion, deeply sympathised with him. I, being one of the few who were asked by Mr. Tate to meet at his house and consider the form of the "British Luxembourg" before the offer was made public at all, took upon myself to write to the _Times_ as follows:--

"Red-tapeism has triumphed, and all your art-loving readers are
disgusted, but not altogether surprised, to find this morning that
Mr. Henry Tate has retired from the scene with his princely offer
of L80,000 and his magnificent collection of pictures, which was to
form the nucleus of the proposed gallery of British art. It is a
bitter disappointment to the munificent Mr. Tate, and a warning to
others who, like him, come forward with their purse and their
pictures and offer them to an unartistic nation. It is bad enough
to find that a splendid gift like this cannot be accepted; but even
worse features in this lengthy controversy have been the gross
personal attacks and ungenerous insinuations made against the
would-be donor, which must be particularly hurtful to his modest
and unobtrusive nature, and I now write to suggest that all those
who sympathise with him (and surely their name is legion) should
show him some public mark of their appreciation. To the British
mind this at once suggests a banquet, and I would most willingly
undertake all the arrangements in connection with it if my present
state of health did not preclude my doing so; but, without a doubt,
among Mr. Tate's countless admirers there must be many eager to
adopt and carry out this suggestion."

Of course I was chaffed in the Press for so "characteristically, though gravely," suggesting such a thing. My object in making the proposal was misunderstood. I was accused of putting the crowning absurdity on the whole thing, of making a cheaply canonised martyr of Mr. Tate, and some ungenerously hinted I was following up my joke of my "offer to the nation" by another. In fact, for the first time in the history of England, a public man was not to have a public dinner when there happened to be a matter of public importance to celebrate and ventilate! On the other hand, I received a letter from Mr. Tate, from Bournemouth, the day my letter in the _Times_ appeared, in which he thanked me for my warm hearted letter in the _Times_, but begged of me not to press my proposal in his honour. "As you say, I am a modest man, and it would be more than I could stand. What I _should like_ would be to see the artists calling a public meeting and protesting against the way in which British art has been shelved." In the same letter he assured me "that too much could not be said in condemnation of Sir Frederick Leighton's and the Academicians' supineness." In writing to thank me for dropping the proposed banquet, he again referred to his great surprise and disappointment that neither Sir Frederick Leighton nor any one of the Academicians had given his scheme any support, and complained that the President of the Royal Academy had been much more loyal to his friend Lord Carlisle "than to the cause of British art."

THE OLD BAILEY.

In the winter of 1885 the following paragraph ran through the Press:--"A statement has been circulated from a quarter that may be taken as well informed, that the City Lands Committee of the Corporation of London have perfected plans for the improvement of the Central Criminal Court. It is not improbable that the process of reform has been accelerated by a recent letter to the public Press of Mr. Harry Furniss, the well-known comic artist, who, having been summoned as a juryman, suffered many woes while waiting to be called into the box." As the _Saturday Review_ remarked, the bitter cry of the outcast juror which I uttered is familiar enough to the public ear, but I had given it a more penetrating note than usual; but it did not hesitate to say that it would not produce any more effect upon those whom I sought to influence "than the less articulate, or even than the absolutely inarticulate, protests of many generations of his fellow-sufferers." And the _Saturday Review_ was right, for fifteen winters have passed since I wrote my protest to the _Daily News_.

"I cannot help thinking the prisoners at the Old Bailey have every
reason to congratulate themselves they are brought there as
prisoners, and not as jurymen. They are well looked after, and have
a clear way into Court, and plenty of room when they get there.
These are their advantages; but, alas! the lot of the poor jurymen
is not such a happy one. For some reasons, which may (or may not)
exist in the mind of the summoning officer, I received a demand
from him to appear and perform a 'super's' part in trial by jury at
the Old Bailey Petty Sessions. I arrived at the Court punctually at
the hour requested, and after fighting my way through a mixture of
other small ratepayers, detectives, bailed prisoners, and
nondescripts, I came to the first floor. Then I entered a dark
passage, 'standing room only,' and found it quite impossible to get
near the Court, the outside of which resembled the entrance to Old
Drury on Boxing Night. 'There ain't no room; just stand outside
there!' where I managed to keep my temper and my feet for a
considerable time. By degrees I squeezed into the Court with my hat
and temper ruffled. I arrived at barrier No. 1. 'Have I been
called?' 'Name?' 'Yes, yer 'ave, long ago; fined five pounds for
not answering to your name'; explanation. Shoved on to barrier No.
2; explanation repeated. Shoved on to barrier No. 3; explanation
repeated again, and reached barrier No. 4. The Judge: 'Swear'; and
I swore. Final explanation; fine taken off. I have an excuse.
'Stand down!' Here I remain for an hour and a half in a pen,
huddled up with more 'Hexcuses,' as Mr. Husher calls us, some of
whom, by their own statement, came from houses in which there were
infectious diseases. Imagine how nice this would be with the
jury-box full! I must admit the presiding Judge performed his task
of selection with discretion, particularly when he let me off. But
I observe that before the Judge there is a bouquet of flowers. I am
told that this is the survival of an old custom of placing hyssop
before the Bench by way of febrifuge to protect him from
pestilential vapours from the dock. I would like to suggest that a
bunch of hyssop be again substituted for the bouquet of flowers. In
justice, I ask you this: Is it reasonable to fine an over-taxed
ratepayer five pounds for not having heard his name through a musty
brick wall? And may I through you make a proposal--that busy
professional men should be exempt from this annoyance on payment of
one guinea per annum, and that this fund should either be employed
in building a new court, or provide fees for a really competent
jury of junior barristers, who undoubtedly would be the right men
in the right place?"

My "cry" was taken up by the Press. "Purgatory is no name for it," "The Old Bailey Scandal," and other startling headlines failed to move Bumbledom. The most celebrated Criminal Court in the world, situated in the richest city, to this day remains a public scandal and a purgatory to unfortunate jurymen. My suggestion in this "amusing jeremiad," as it was called by one paper, contained one serious proposal; but my protest against the only form of conscription known to our laws, and my suggestion that the jury should be paid junior barristers, was, I confess, the only humorous idea I had in writing the letter! The major portion was serious--so again I have been a victim to the want of humour on the part of my journalistic friends.

Mr. _Punch_ appeared as my "champion stout and warm" in a series of verses, a few of which I quote:

"That citizen is now in Court, a dismal den and dusty;
Frowsy and foul its fittings be, its atmosphere is fusty;
And oh, its minor myrmidons are proud and passing crusty!

"They chivy him, that citizen, hustle him here and there;
One elbow looseth his trim tie, one rumpleth his back hair:
They greet his queries with a grunt, his grumblings with a stare.

"A close-packed crowd doth hem him round, a tight, malodorous 'block'
Of fustian men and women gross, of dry and dusty lock;
His 'By your leaves' they heed no whit, his struggles wild they mock.

"He may not stir, he cannot see. At length, in tones of blame,
He hears them toss from lip to lip his own much-honoured name:
'What! Fined for absence!!! That be blowed!' He swells with wrath
and shame.

"And through the throng he madly thrusts, like Viking, through the press
Strewing his path with buttons burst and fragments of his dress,
Claiming reversal of that fine with dearly-bought success.

* * * * *

"How long, oh British citizens, will ye in patience bide
The torture of the Jury-box remorselessly applied,
The Usher's haughty insolence, the Bobby's baleful pride?

"How long shall the 'twelve honest men,' our constitution's end,
Be treated worse than criminals, their time and money lend,
Long hours of thankless horror in their country's cause to spend?

"_Punch_ riseth in indignant wrath, your champion stout and warm:
'Tis time that Somebody should take this old abuse by storm,
And sweep out the Old Bailey with the besom of Reform."

I have to confess that letters to the Press have, as a rule, little
effect in reforming; in fact, my only direct success was caused by an
illustrated letter to _Punch_. The tent-jobbers were evicted, and the
pleasant and not altogether picturesque pavilion for cricketers, in the
centre of Regent's Park, was erected in consequence of this letter of
mine to _Punch_:

"DEAR MR. _Punch_,--I have discovered a nasty spot in one of the
lungs of London. As you are the Doctor to cure all evils, I trust
you will take up the case.

"I re-visited the neighbourhood of dear old Regent's Park last
week. I strolled through the Zoo to renew the acquaintance of all
my friends there, deserted in the 'Out of Town' season, and longing
in vain, alas! for their day in the country. It was early; the Park
was deserted, except by the birds, and here and there laughing
children with their nurses. Everything was pleasant, so fresh and
green, and free and easy, unlike the West End 'lungs.'

"I sat myself down on a bench. Shut out from the madding crowd, one
could breathe in comfort. I recalled Locker's lines in praise of
Piccadilly--that crowded thoroughfare, dusty and noisy--and while
trying to fit them in to suit the beautiful scene around me, I
nodded, and fell asleep.

* * * * *

"Bang! I'm awake! What's that? A cannon-ball hit me in the back?
I'm all of a heap on the grass, my hat one way, my umbrella
another--and I nowhere! or, where am I? Dear me, am I dreaming?
Have I been carried by a shot? (Volunteers do practise in the
Park.) Was it a suburban race-meeting? Yes, it must be, and one of
a low order. And yet this is surely Regent's Park!

"'Thank you, sir!'--'Thank y-o-o-u!'--'Th-a-n-k y-o-o-o-u!'"

I pick myself up. _Is_ it the monkeys' half-holiday? Yes! They are
imitating boys playing cricket. Their cages are close at hand.