CHAPTER XLIII

The lure of horrors—Beginnings of the “Dead Room”—Sir Thomas Lawrence, P.R.A., sketches a suicide—Burke and Hare—Fieschi’s infernal machine—Greenacre—Executions in Public—“Free at last!”

Crime may be secret, but never secure.—Old Proverb.

In citing the old aphorism that society itself creates the crimes that most beset it, we shall in no way be tempted to regard the popularity of the Chamber of Horrors as due to any desire on the part of the people to visit the place with the object of gazing upon the result of their own handiwork.

An inquiry into the motives that induce the public to visit this gloomy chamber scarcely comes within the scope of this work. But that a very large numberdovisit the place in the course of each year, and that they cannot be deemed to belong to any particular class, but represent, without distinction,allclasses of society, we may, of our own certain knowledge, aver without the slightest hesitation.

Were we, however, if only from an abstract point of view, to venture an opinion on the vexed question as to why so many have a leaning towards the seamy and sinister side of life, we should be disposed to consider that, apart from the allurement of the abnormal and the inclination to indulge a morbid curiosity, perhapsthe chief influence serving to stimulate the mind of the public when a great crime has been perpetrated in a genuine concern that a serious outrage has been made on society, constituting a veritable menace to its security.

We have stated in a former chapter that Curtius, more than a century ago, had allocated a part of his Museum in Paris to models of men of ill-repute, and had named it the “Caverne des Grands Voleurs.” How far this place approximated to the present Chamber of Horrors we cannot say, but it certainly must have created a precedent for the placing of the portraits and the relics of lawbreakers in a place separate and apart from the main and more reputable portion of the Exhibition.

In 1802, when Madame Tussaud crossed the Channel to establish her Exhibition permanently in this country, she did not, in all probability, find it easy to obtain an additional room for these figures, especially when touring through the provinces. Nevertheless, when she had to exhibit her models in the same hall, she undoubtedly differentiated, to the best of her ability, between the famous and the infamous by grouping the models of evil-doers in a corner by themselves.

When the Exhibition was opened in Baker Street, the Chamber of Horrors became a recognised feature of the collection. It was at first called the “Dead Room,” although some designated it the “Black Room,” owing to its sombre aspect.

Its chief exhibit at that time was the guillotine, surrounded by the impressions of heads that had beendecapitated by it. Here also was shown the model of Marat dying in his bath, besides many other relics of the Revolution. Indeed, it might have been regarded as the nucleus of an historical museum dealing exclusively with the last days of the old French Monarchy. Even the walls were constructed and draped in imitation of the interior of the Bastille, the principal keys of which were shown therein as mementoes of unusual interest.

KEY OF THE BASTILLESet in a stone from the dungeons of the famous fortress.

KEY OF THE BASTILLE

Set in a stone from the dungeons of the famous fortress.

“Mr. Punch” made his début before the British public somewhere during the early forties, and, as already indicated, he took an early opportunity of referring to this part of the Tussaud collection as the “Chamber of Horrors,” by which title it has been known ever since.

The number of persons visiting this extra room during these days was not great, except on those occasions when the business was galvanised into activity by the addition of a portrait-model of some unworthy being who happened for the nonce to figure largely in the public eye.

There came into our possession at a time beyond my memory a singular and valuable sketch, by Sir Thomas Lawrence, of the alleged murderer, Williams, as he appeared directly after he had hanged himself in Coldbath Fields prison.

SIR THOMAS LAWRENCEPresident of the Royal Academy.

SIR THOMAS LAWRENCE

President of the Royal Academy.

Williams was accused of the murders of the Marr and the Williamson families in the East End of London under peculiarly brutal circumstances. These massacres, which were committed in December, 1811, caused an immense sensation, and inspired the remarkablemonograph of de Quincey entitledMurder as One of the Fine Arts.

How Lawrence came to make such a drawing, and what induced so refined and dignified a person to interest himself in a subject so repulsive, it is difficult to understand. Although Lawrence had not then been elected to the presidency of the Royal Academy, he held a high position in society as the first portrait painter of his day.

We give an illustration of the sketch in question which is quite authentic.

JOHN WILLIAMSFrom a drawing made after he had committed suicide in prison by Sir Thomas Lawrence, P.R.A.

JOHN WILLIAMS

From a drawing made after he had committed suicide in prison by Sir Thomas Lawrence, P.R.A.

Until 1823 it was directed that the body of a suicide should be buried in a cross-road and have a stake driven through it, and there can be little doubt that that of Williams was thus treated. It was not, indeed, until 1882 that an Act was passed putting an end to this barbarous custom.

This circumstance readily calls to mind Tom Hood’s description of the fate that befell Ben Battle, the victim of Faithless Nelly Gray:

A dozen men sat on his corpse,To find out why he died—And they buried Ben in four cross-roads,With astakein his inside!

A dozen men sat on his corpse,

To find out why he died—

And they buried Ben in four cross-roads,

With astakein his inside!

Of the characters that became, in course of time, suitable objects for the “Dead Room” we have neither the space nor the inclination to dwell upon, but a passing reference to two or three that helped to give the place its present distinctiveness may prove interesting.

The hideous crimes perpetrated by Burke and Hare,to which slight reference has already been made, took place about the year 1828, and the memory of those crimes was still fresh in the mind of the public when we opened in Baker Street; indeed, a matter of six years could not suffice for its obliteration.

The appalling revelation that it was not only possible, but easy, for one’s neighbour to be decoyed away, put to death, and his body sold, without question, for a sum varying from £8 to £14, aroused a feeling of consternation throughout the country of a very real and lasting character.

The high prices paid for bodies required for dissection had begotten this terrible traffic. At least sixteen murders had been traced to these miscreants, but the evidence at the trial failed to answer the question “How many more?”

Burke was executed in January, 1829, on the strength of Hare’s evidence, so that for nearly a century have the portrait-models of these two notorious criminals stood facing each other. There are to this day many visitors who, on catching sight of their forbidding features, seem to recognise them, and make ready comment, without the aid of a Catalogue, on the leading circumstances associated with their nefarious careers.

BURKE AND HAREBoth notorious criminals who perpetrated a series of gruesome murders in Scotland before 1828. These models from life by Madame Tussaud were among the first of contemporary criminals made by her for the famous “Chamber of Horrors,” then called the “Dead Room” or the “Black Room.”

BURKE AND HARE

Both notorious criminals who perpetrated a series of gruesome murders in Scotland before 1828. These models from life by Madame Tussaud were among the first of contemporary criminals made by her for the famous “Chamber of Horrors,” then called the “Dead Room” or the “Black Room.”

The very first startling event that furnished a subject for the “Dead Room,” when the Exhibition opened in Baker Street in 1835, was the attempt on the life of Louis Philippe, King of the French, four months later.

It had been the custom of His Majesty to review the Gardes Nationales and the garrison of Paris oneach anniversary of the Revolution of 1830. For some considerable time the King and his Government had been growing very unpopular, and many warnings had been given him to desist from this military function; but, in spite of all advice, he persisted in holding the review.

The anniversary of the Revolution was on the 28th of July, and the King, followed by a numerous Staff, left the Tuileries at half-past ten on the morning of that day, accompanied by his three sons, the Ducs d’Orléans, de Nemour, and de Joinville.

In passing along the Boulevard du Temple—and, strange to say, when almost opposite the site of Curtius’s old Museum—a noise was heard resembling an irregular musket fire. In an instant the road and pavement at the point where Louis had been riding was strewn with dead and dying men and horses, and amid the mêlée the King, slightly wounded in the forehead, stood alone by the side of his injured horse.

More than forty persons had been struck and nineteen killed or mortally wounded. Among the latter was Edward Joseph Mortier, Duc de Trevise, the famous Marshal of Napoleon I.

After a few moments’ suspense, attention was directed to a cloud of smoke issuing from the third-floor window of a house on the Boulevard. Herein was discovered a machine composed of a row of twenty-five gun-barrels so arranged as to cover the cavalcade as it passed the premises. It had been fired by a train of gunpowder, with the result that several of the barrels had burst on the discharge.

The room was empty, but from one of the back windows of the house the police caught sight of a man huddled up in a corner of the courtyard below. He was trying to stanch the blood which was flowing from a great wound in his head. In spite of his injury, caused by his firing of the infernal machine, he had had the strength to stagger out of the room, seize a rope, secure it to a window, and by its means escape from the house.

The man turned out to be Giuseppe Fieschi, a rabid conspirator. Our model of him was added some weeks after the event, and, being placed by the side of an exact copy of the machine he had used, the man and his diabolical contrivance proved of considerable interest, a circumstance that substantially assisted to establish the Exhibition as a permanent London attraction.

This political crime was, however, soon eclipsed by one of a particularly sordid character committed much nearer home.

James Greenacre who murdered his fiancée, Hannah Brown, by striking her a fatal blow in a fit of temper, will ever figure as a criminal of a very curious type. Many a deed like that which brought him to the scaffold has occasioned but a passing interest. It was the means he adopted for the purpose of evading the consequences of his crime that aroused the excitement and indignation of the people. He dismembered the body, and deliberately distributed it in broad daylight to widely different parts of the Metropolis.

The discovery of the various parts of the body from time to time, the bringing of them together, and thefinal identification of the remains wrought up the public mind to a state of high tension, and after the culprit had been brought to justice many thousands visited the Exhibition to scan for themselves the features of his model which had been installed.

It will be remembered that we are dealing with a period when the extreme penalty of the law was exacted in public, a condition of things which lasted till 1868, when it was enacted that all executions should take place privately within prison walls.

The night before Greenacre’s execution at Newgate (the 2nd of May, 1837) hundreds slept on the prison steps and round about the neighbourhood of the old gaol. Crowds spent the night in taverns and lodging-houses, indulging in unseemly revelry and ribald and drunken dissipation. Nor were the spectators all drawn from the lowest class; all classes were represented. Positions within sight of the drop fetched from five shillings to a couple of guineas each, and a first-floor room overlooking the scaffold commanded as much as £12, no small price in those days.

It is a grim story, but who has not been entertained by the account in theIngoldsby Legendsof the way in which “My Lord Tomnoddy” failed to witness the launching into eternity of a doomed fellow creature?

As the result of a happy thought from “Tiger Tim”—

“An’t please you, my Lord, there’s a man to be hang’d”—

Tomnoddy invites a party of convivial friends to enjoy the scene, for

“To see a man swingAt the end of a string,With his neck in a noose, will be quite a new thing.”

“To see a man swing

At the end of a string,

With his neck in a noose, will be quite a new thing.”

So he

Turns down the Old Bailey,Where, in front of the gaol, hePulls up at the door of the gin-shop, and gailyCries, “What must I fork out to-night, my trump,For the whole first-floor of the Magpie and Stump?”

Turns down the Old Bailey,

Where, in front of the gaol, he

Pulls up at the door of the gin-shop, and gaily

Cries, “What must I fork out to-night, my trump,

For the whole first-floor of the Magpie and Stump?”

St. Sepulchre’s clock strikes eight, and

God! ’tis a fearsome thing to seeThat pale wan man’s mute agony,—The glare of that wild, despairing eye,Now bent on the crowd, now turn’d to the sky.Oh! ’twas a fearsome sight! Ah me!A deed to shudder at,—not to see.

God! ’tis a fearsome thing to seeThat pale wan man’s mute agony,—The glare of that wild, despairing eye,Now bent on the crowd, now turn’d to the sky.

God! ’tis a fearsome thing to see

That pale wan man’s mute agony,—

The glare of that wild, despairing eye,

Now bent on the crowd, now turn’d to the sky.

Oh! ’twas a fearsome sight! Ah me!A deed to shudder at,—not to see.

Oh! ’twas a fearsome sight! Ah me!

A deed to shudder at,—not to see.

The clock strikes

Nine! ’twas the last concluding stroke!And then—my Lord Tomnoddy awoke!“Hollo! Hollo!Here’s a rum go!Why, Captain!—my Lord!—-here’s the devil to pay!The fellow’s been cut down and taken away!What’s to be done?We’ve missed all the fun!”Whatwasto be done? The man was dead!Noughtcouldbe done—nought could be said;So—my Lord Tomnoddy went home to bed!

Nine! ’twas the last concluding stroke!And then—my Lord Tomnoddy awoke!

Nine! ’twas the last concluding stroke!

And then—my Lord Tomnoddy awoke!

“Hollo! Hollo!Here’s a rum go!Why, Captain!—my Lord!—-here’s the devil to pay!The fellow’s been cut down and taken away!What’s to be done?We’ve missed all the fun!”

“Hollo! Hollo!

Here’s a rum go!

Why, Captain!—my Lord!—-here’s the devil to pay!

The fellow’s been cut down and taken away!

What’s to be done?

We’ve missed all the fun!”

Whatwasto be done? The man was dead!Noughtcouldbe done—nought could be said;So—my Lord Tomnoddy went home to bed!

Whatwasto be done? The man was dead!

Noughtcouldbe done—nought could be said;

So—my Lord Tomnoddy went home to bed!

Referring back to the days before the advent of the daily illustrated papers with their portraits of all kinds of people, a very affecting story was once told by a well-known author.

It related to a very pretty and plaintive young woman who visited the Chamber of Horrors early on the morning that a certain criminal with manyaliaseswas executed.

She was accompanied by her father, who, with his arm about her waist to steady her faltering steps, led her up to where the figure of the murderer stood. The poor woman remained gazing at it as though fascinated; then, with a nod, she burst out crying and buried her head in her hands.

Her father gently drew her out of the place, and as he did so whispered in her ear, “Free, my child; free at last!”

How the author came to hear of the incident we do not know, or was it one of those coincidences that somehow do occur?

“The Chamber of Horrors Rumour”—No reward has been, or will be, offered—The constable’s escapade—A nocturnal experience—Dumas’s comedy of the Chamber—Yeomen of the Halter.

We have speculated much upon the origin of what has come to be called “The Chamber of Horrors Rumour,” relating to a popular delusion that Madame Tussaud’s will pay a sum of money to any person who spends a night alone with the criminals assembled therein.

It need hardly be pointed out that no such ridiculous challenge was ever issued to the public, although the rumour has run for nearly twenty years, in spite of repeated contradictions.

I am not even hopeful that what I am writing now will produce the desired result of disabusing adventurous minds of this impression; in fact, denials on our part appear rather to have tended to give wider currency to the rumour. Thousands of letters have been received from volunteers of both sexes eager and anxious to undertake the ordeal for rewards which vary, in their imaginations, from £5 to £5,000.

Among the aspirants have been soldiers, sailors, ex-policemen, and even domestic servants, all of whom insisted that their nerves were equal to the task. Onlythe other day I received a letter from a Scotsman who intimated his willingness to forgo any pecuniary reward if only we would furnish him with a bottle of whisky and some sandwiches with which to regale himself as he sat at the feet of Burke and Hare.

The conclusion has somehow taken possession of our minds that this fallacious rumour emanated, innocently enough, from a story told long ago by one “Dagonet” of a man who was said to have been accidently locked all night in the Chamber. Originally, I imagine, people must have offered voluntarily to spend a night there for a consideration, and then, as the subject came to be talked about, it very easily grew into the form of a challenge said to have been made by us, which, of course, was never made and never will be made.

Considerable fillip was given to the rumour by the Chamber of Horrors scene inThe Whipat Drury Lane Theatre in 1909.

From some source or another handbills in the following form were plentifully distributed:

£100 REWARDwill be given to any person, male or female, who will pass the night alone in the Chamber of Horrors at Madame Tussaud’s Exhibition. The only condition made is that the daring one shall not smoke or drink or read during the twelve hours he passes with the wax figures of the world’s noted criminals.

£100 REWARD

will be given to any person, male or female, who will pass the night alone in the Chamber of Horrors at Madame Tussaud’s Exhibition. The only condition made is that the daring one shall not smoke or drink or read during the twelve hours he passes with the wax figures of the world’s noted criminals.

It was also stated on the handbill that the above was a copy of a placard said to have been issued many years ago, but in spite of the large reward, no one cameforward to try the experiment, and that now, after many years, “Tom Lambert, the trainer of The Whip, undergoes this horrible experience in the Drury Lane drama.”

So far so good, for dramatic purposes—and that is all.

Apparently it was something of this sort that the bard had in mind who wrote the following stanza:

I dreamt that I slept at Madame Tussaud’sWith cut-throats and kings by my side,And that all the wax figures in those weird abodesAt midnight became vivified.

I dreamt that I slept at Madame Tussaud’s

With cut-throats and kings by my side,

And that all the wax figures in those weird abodes

At midnight became vivified.

Until the recent escapade of a venturesome young lady, the only instance I can recall of any person spending the night alone in the Chamber of Horrors falls accidentally to the credit of a policeman on duty at the Exhibition when the opening of the present building was celebrated in July, 1884. A reception was then held which lasted until after midnight, and naturally it became necessary that the place should be guarded till the return of the staff in the morning.

The policeman in question was put in charge of the criminals in the Chamber of Horrors, with liberty to relieve the monotony of his eerie vigil by strolling through the other parts of the building, which included access to the room in which the refreshments had been served. Wines and spirits and other good things were left nominally under his care—whereby hangs a tale.

When the time came to relieve the policeman in the morning, he could not be found, and after a long searchan Exhibition attendant heard the sound of moaning proceeding from one of the docks in the Chamber of Horrors. Here lay asleep the missing police-officer, in a condition that pointed to the probability of his having had recourse to the wines of the feast, presumably as a means of fortifying his courage.

The incident caused some little concern, but the officer’s position was so well understood and the extenuating circumstances were so obvious that his misadventure came to be jocularly treated as an excusable lapse. He had not only spent the night in the dread abode of criminals, but had actually slept there—a much more surprising performance.

Yet another reminiscence of the Chamber of Horrors, just a little creepy.

Sauntering one night through its gloomy passages after the last visitor had departed and the watchmen, having passed me on their rounds, had lowered the lights to a feeble glimmer, my attention was drawn in some unaccountable way towards one of the models.

“I could swear that figure moved,” I said to myself. “But no, the notion is too ridiculous.”

I looked at it again, carefully this time. I was not mistaken. The figuredidmove, and, what was more, it moved distinctly towards me. It appeared to bend slowly forward, as though in preparation for a sudden bound, and I thought it looked at me with a fixed and malignant stare.

Just as I was expecting it to raise its arms and seize me by the throat, it stopped dead, and remained at agrotesque and ludicrous angle, apparently looking for something on the floor.

What was the explanation of this thrilling experience?

The vibration caused by a heavy goods train on the Metropolitan Railway, which runs under the Exhibition premises, had shaken the figure off its balance, and the iron which fastened it to the floor permitted it to move and lean forward in the uncanny manner I have described.

The following comedy of the Chamber of Horrors from which the chief actor derived a minimum of amusement, if any, comes into my mind as having been described by the elder Dumas, and is calculated to relieve the gloom that is naturally associated with the place:

“A young Parisian, visiting the Exhibition in London, found himself temporarily alone in the famous Chamber, and was seized with the ambition of being able to say, on his return to his favourite Paris café, that his neck had been held in the same lunette which had once encircled those of Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette.

“The idea was no sooner conceived than carried out, and for quite five minutes the rash young man enjoyed his novel position under the knife of the very same guillotine which had once worked such havoc among the aristocrats in the gay city.

“When, however, he was about to touch the spring that would release him, a thought struck him which threw him into a cold sweat.

“Supposing he were to touch the wrong spring, might not the knife come down, with the result not only of beheading him, but of making the world believe a most sensational suicide had been committed?

“He shouted for help, and at length an attendant, followed by a crowd of visitors, appeared.

“‘What is the matter?’ they asked in English; but the official was equal to the occasion, and turned it to good account.

“À l’aide! Au secours!’ yelled the Parisian, who could only speak French.

“‘A little patience,’ answered the other.

“‘What does he say?’ was the general query.

“‘Oh, it’s a part of his performance, ladies and gentleman. You see, Madame Tussaud is not satisfied with merely exhibiting the guillotine. She wishes to show you how it is actually worked.’

“This statement was greeted with general applause by everybody except the victim, who continued entreating to be released, whilst the impromptu lecturer calmly explained to the audience the practical working of the death-dealing machine.

“‘Bravo! How well he acts!’ was the verdict, as the prisoner appealed frantically in a language which none else but the attendant understood.

“Finally, on being at last released, he fainted. They brought him round with smelling-salts and cold water, and the first thing he did was to feel if his head was still safe. Satisfied on this point, he fled, without stopping to find his hat, and lost not an instant in starting at once for Paris.”

I come now, by a sudden transition, to write of three notable shrieval servants whose occupation, however indispensable, was unsavoury.

Calcraft, the first to be styled the “Yeoman of the Halter,” I had not the “pleasure” of knowing.

We have the original signboard he used to exhibit outside his house. It is a framed piece of wood, about three feet by two feet, and it bears in black letters the following notice:

J. Calcraft,

Boot and Shoe Maker. Executioner to Her Majesty.

His successor, Marwood, sat on several occasions for his model.

WILLIAM MARWOOD, THE HANGMANModeled from life.

WILLIAM MARWOOD, THE HANGMAN

Modeled from life.

The executioner would sometimes visit the studios when his spirits were low, and a pipe and a glass of gin and water—his favourite beverage—were always at his service.

Then he would go down to the Chamber of Horrors to see some of his old acquaintances around whose necks he had so delicately adjusted the fatal noose. He would stop before each one with a grim look, while his lips moved tremulously.

“Put me there,” he once said after he had given a sitting.

It was like a man choosing the site of his grave.

His companion on these visits was a grizzled terrier. One day he came alone.

“Your dog, Mr. Marwood—where is it?” he was asked.

The old man was sad.

“My poor old dog is dying—my dog that knew the business like a Christian and the inside of every prison in England; that has played with my ropes; that has caught rats in my business bags.”

“Dying by inches,” was the unfeeling rejoinder of a bystander, followed by the cruel suggestion, “Why don’t you hang him?”

Marwood gave him a reproachful glance.

“No, no. Hang a man, but my dear old dog—never!”

Poor Marwood had a good heart, and the story of the dog was so affecting that the interview abruptly terminated.

Berry, the executioner, was paid for a sitting, and seemed by no means averse from having his figure placed in the Chamber of Horrors, where it may now be seen. He rather appeared to be proud of his official calling.

Anecdotal—“Which is Peace?”—Mark Twain at Tussaud’s—Dr. Grace’s story—Mr. Kipling’s model—Filial pride—Bishop Jackson’s sally—German inaccuracy.

As I proceed with my narrative, having already travelled through the memories of many years, there seem to crowd at my heels, so to speak, a great collection of humorous and curious incidents which, although unrelated to each other, are yet worthy of a place in this chronicle.

They come of their own free will readily enough when I want to engage in serious work, but no amount of persuasion will lure them from their lurking-places when I want to recount them. As I fancy my friends like my short stories as well as any, I propose to introduce a few trivialities that are sufficiently obliging to present themselves as I write.

In the Berlin Treaty days a staunchly Conservative borough was celebrating the event, and among other decorations was a large transparency showing Lord Beaconsfield and Lord Salisbury standing together, with the motto “Peace with Honour” beneath them. An old woman went up to the borough M.P. and asked:

“If you please, sir, will you tell me which is Peace?”

Charles Peace was the man of the moment just then.

CHARLES PEACEModel of the notorious criminal in convict garb.

CHARLES PEACE

Model of the notorious criminal in convict garb.

Mark Twain, according to his cousin, Katherine Clemens, once visited Madame Tussaud’s. He stood a long while, says his cousin, in contemplation of an especially clever piece of work, and was aroused by a sudden stab of pain in his side. Turning quickly, he found himself face to face with a dumb-founded British matron with her parasol still pointed at him.

“O lor’, it’s alive!” she exclaimed, and beat a hasty retreat.

The best known of all cricketers, Dr. W. G. Grace, has long enjoyed a well-earned place of prominence in the Exhibition, and even to-day, when the great master of the bat and the ball is no longer with us, his portrait continues to attract more than an average share of attention.

Dr. Grace was very fond of telling the following story about a trusted old servant of his whom he treated on one occasion to a trip to London. On her return he asked her what it was that pleased her most among the sights of the Metropolis.

“Oh, sir, Madame Tussaud’s was beautiful,” replied Susan.

“Then you must have seen me there?” said her master.

“No, that I did not, sir.”

“What! How did you miss me? I am there as large as life.”

“Well, sir, to tell you the truth, it cost sixpence extra to go into the Chamber of Horrors.”

A young girl arriving at an institution at Torquay, from London, was asked whether she had ever visitedWestminster Abbey. She hesitated, and was then reminded that that historic edifice contained monuments of the Kings and Queens of England. She immediately brightened up, and replied, “Oh, yes, I have been there, but they call it Madame Tussaud’s now.”

A short time after the seated figure of Mr. Rudyard Kipling, which is still to be seen in the Exhibition, had been modelled, the following conversation is reported to have occurred between a young lady and her maid, who had visited Madame Tussaud’s:

Relating her experiences there, the girl remarked:

“They’ve got Mr. Kipling and another murderer there, miss.”

“But Mr. Kipling isn’t a murderer,” said her young mistress.

“No, miss,” was the reply, “but they’ve got him there, miss.”

During those days when the Exhibition was being removed from one town to another the figures of criminals originally stood together in the same room with all the other models; but as it was suggested that it was indecorous to have the effigies of criminals in such close proximity with those of illustrious personages, Madame Tussaud had the former removed to a separate room, and the Chamber of Horrors was formed as it now exists.

The relatives and friends of criminals frequently visit the Chamber.

At a drawing-room meeting held at the residence of Lady Esther Smith, in Grosvenor Place, in aid of the Social Institutes’ Union, which exists to providefacilities for establishing clubs on temperance lines, Mrs. (now Lady) Bland-Sutton told the story of a little girl who was asked where she would like to go for a treat.

“To Madame Tussaud’s,” was the prompt reply.

“But you went there last year,” it was objected.

“Oh, yes, I know,” said the child, “but father wasn’t in the Chamber of Horrors then.”

Somewhat similar is the following:

A parlourmaid, interviewed by her mistress just after a Bank Holiday, was asked:

“And how did you spend your day off, Polly?”

“Oh, we went to Madame Tussaud’s,” was the reply. “We always go there, mum. You see, having uncle in the Chamber of Horrors gives the place a family interest, so to speak.”

When Dr. Jackson was Bishop of London he gave a breakfast to several curates before they left to take up missionary work abroad, and one of them, in the course of conversation at the repast, observed that he had just visited Madame Tussaud’s, where he had heard a figure of his Grace had been on view for many years.

He said he much regretted that he could not find the figure anywhere in the Exhibition, although he had searched for it high and low.

“Oh,” said the Bishop, “haven’t you heard, my dear boy, that they’ve melted me down for Peace?”—a sally that was greeted with roars of laughter.

DR. JACKSONBishop of London 1868-1885.

DR. JACKSON

Bishop of London 1868-1885.

Many complaints have been made by foreigners visiting London regarding the inefficiency of guideswith little or no knowledge of the places with which they are supposed to be thoroughly acquainted.

For instance, a certain Teuton of great pretensions brought to Madame Tussaud’s a party of travellers from a Prussian provincial town, and informed them, among other things, that Mrs. Maybrick, whose model was then in the Napoleon Rooms, was a lady connected with the life of the great Bonaparte.

Enemy models—A hostile public—Banishment of four rulers—Our reply toJohn Bull—Attacks on the Kaiser’s effigy—Story of an Iron Cross.

We now come to the eventful period that began in August, 1914.

COUNT ZEPPELINModel of the inventor of the Zeppelin airship on view at Madame Tussaud’s.

COUNT ZEPPELIN

Model of the inventor of the Zeppelin airship on view at Madame Tussaud’s.

At the beginning of hostilities the Kaiser, Count Zeppelin, and other German objectionables were relegated to a less conspicuous position than they had formerly occupied. The enemy had not at that time gained the animosity which his subsequent acts of “frightfulness” earned for him, but he soon showed himself in his true colours.

It was in the spring of 1910 that a renewed portrait of the German Emperor had been given a place of honour, with the Empress by his side, near our own royal group. Not very long afterwards the British public began to suspect the Kaiser of evil designs upon this country, and visitors frequently indicated their displeasure in front of his model.

With the outbreak of war, naturally enough, came an outburst of general reprobation, and the atrocities committed by the German Army and Navy provoked impulsive patriots to visible and audible manifestations of anger. More than once the Kaiser had his figure struck by men, while women shook their fists and umbrellas in the face of the world’s greatest homicide.

As a matter of fact, to the Kaiser belongs the distinction of having been expelled from Madame Tussaud’s for several months—a distinction that was shared by the late Francis Joseph, Emperor of Austria.

This was done in deference to public opinion, which had become very hostile to their models being shown at Madame Tussaud’s. Letters had appeared to this effect in the Press, and one periodical published a large cartoon showing the Kaiser and his associates in the prisoners’ dock in the Chamber of Horrors.

Originally four enemy monarchs had pedestals in an obscure corner of Room No. 4. They were the Kaiser, the late Emperor of Austria, the Sultan of Turkey, and King Ferdinand of Bulgaria.

The Sultan of Turkey, as an unkind friend remarked, “found his level in the melting-pot” some time ago; and the Kaiser twice had to undergo a surgical operation as the result of bouts with ultra-patriotic visitors. Ferdinand of Bulgaria also had some narrow escapes, especially from our “handymen,” who have a short way with all enemies.

Some time ago my attention was called to the fact that one of the “spikes” of the Kaiser’s moustache had been clipped off, giving him a ludicrously woebegone appearance. I have always suspected the Colonials of that “cut,” and if I am wrong—well, I apologise. Perhaps the “spike” will be heard of some other day as a souvenir of the war.

Feeling ran so high after the sinking of theLusitaniathat we readily yielded to the public demand, and evicted the Huns from the house.

On the 16th of September, 1916,John Bullhad addressed to us the following open letter on the subject of the presence of the objectionable figures:

To the Directors, Madame Tussaud & Sons, Ltd., Baker Street, W.Gentlemen,Being an admirer of your Moral Waxworks, I am sure you will excuse me if I indicate a blot upon your interesting and intellectual display. As a matter of fact, there are four blots.They occur in your Grand Hall, No. 4, and they take the form of effigies representing, with a fidelity almost lifelike, those malodorous monarchs the Sultan of Turkey, King Ferdinand of Bulgaria, the Emperor of Russia, and that arch-villain Kaiser Bill.Do, please, reshuffle the pack, gentlemen. Take the sinful quartette out of your Grand Hall, which they desecrate, and place them in that other room of yours which seems specially designed for their accommodation—the Chamber of Horrors.In the company of Burke and Hare, Charles Peace, Greenacre, and Wainwright, they will be quite at home.John Bull.

To the Directors, Madame Tussaud & Sons, Ltd., Baker Street, W.

Gentlemen,

Being an admirer of your Moral Waxworks, I am sure you will excuse me if I indicate a blot upon your interesting and intellectual display. As a matter of fact, there are four blots.

They occur in your Grand Hall, No. 4, and they take the form of effigies representing, with a fidelity almost lifelike, those malodorous monarchs the Sultan of Turkey, King Ferdinand of Bulgaria, the Emperor of Russia, and that arch-villain Kaiser Bill.

Do, please, reshuffle the pack, gentlemen. Take the sinful quartette out of your Grand Hall, which they desecrate, and place them in that other room of yours which seems specially designed for their accommodation—the Chamber of Horrors.

In the company of Burke and Hare, Charles Peace, Greenacre, and Wainwright, they will be quite at home.

John Bull.

John Bullon the 14th of November printed the following, containing my reply:

Bravo, Tussaud!PATRIOTIC ACTION OF THE GREAT EXHIBITION.We have received the following interesting letter from Mr. J. T. Tussaud:“As a regular reader of your valuable and most instructive paper, my attention was drawn to your letter, addressed to my company, which appeared in your issue of the 16th September.“In it you call attention to what you describe as a blot—or rather four blots—upon ‘our interesting and intellectual display,’ namely, the inclusion of the Sultan of Turkey, the King of Bulgaria, and the Emperors of Austria and Germany in our collection of celebrities and notorieties. Of course, such a letter from such an influential person could not pass unnoticed, and it was brought before my Board of Directors at the earliest opportunity.“Prior to the date of your letter the pack had already been reshuffled, and the figures to which you refer had been relegated to a much less conspicuous position than they had previously occupied. When your letter was penned they were conspiring against the peace of Europe in a small room which contains the tableau representing ‘The Destruction of Messina’—a scene of ruin which seems to be in keeping with this Machiavellian group.“Like yourself, other visitors had frequently suggested that the quartette should be placed in another famous—or infamous—part of the Exhibition; but the trouble was that Burke and Hare, Charles Peace, Greenacre, and Wainwright, whom you name, and their comparatively innocuous companions, would not hear of their abode being thus desecrated.“What were we to do?“I am now pleased to inform you that after considering your remarks a solution has been arrived at: the pack has been shuffled again, and, by a remarkable feat of legerdemain, the four knaves have now disappeared altogether.”We congratulate Messrs. Tussaud on this happy solution to the problem.

Bravo, Tussaud!

PATRIOTIC ACTION OF THE GREAT EXHIBITION.

We have received the following interesting letter from Mr. J. T. Tussaud:

“As a regular reader of your valuable and most instructive paper, my attention was drawn to your letter, addressed to my company, which appeared in your issue of the 16th September.

“In it you call attention to what you describe as a blot—or rather four blots—upon ‘our interesting and intellectual display,’ namely, the inclusion of the Sultan of Turkey, the King of Bulgaria, and the Emperors of Austria and Germany in our collection of celebrities and notorieties. Of course, such a letter from such an influential person could not pass unnoticed, and it was brought before my Board of Directors at the earliest opportunity.

“Prior to the date of your letter the pack had already been reshuffled, and the figures to which you refer had been relegated to a much less conspicuous position than they had previously occupied. When your letter was penned they were conspiring against the peace of Europe in a small room which contains the tableau representing ‘The Destruction of Messina’—a scene of ruin which seems to be in keeping with this Machiavellian group.

“Like yourself, other visitors had frequently suggested that the quartette should be placed in another famous—or infamous—part of the Exhibition; but the trouble was that Burke and Hare, Charles Peace, Greenacre, and Wainwright, whom you name, and their comparatively innocuous companions, would not hear of their abode being thus desecrated.

“What were we to do?

“I am now pleased to inform you that after considering your remarks a solution has been arrived at: the pack has been shuffled again, and, by a remarkable feat of legerdemain, the four knaves have now disappeared altogether.”

We congratulate Messrs. Tussaud on this happy solution to the problem.

The restoration of two of the figures was due to a very singular circumstance. Our overseas soldiers soon began to visit Madame Tussaud’s in large numbers, and they frequently expressed disappointment at not being able to see the two enemy Emperors whose armies they had come so far to fight.

Sympathising with their point of view, we had the Kaiser and Francis Joseph readmitted, placing them in an isolated position, with the “All-Highest” at one time confronting the Messina tableau, and more recently faced by the tableau of the Ruhleben horse-box in which British prisoners had to spend four long weary years of separation from home and family. In the same room are models of Prince Bismarck and Count von Moltke.

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