CHAPTER XLVI

PRINCE BISMARCK

It was some little time after the Kaiser’s reinstatement that a British sailor, who was quite unable to control his feelings, after glowering for several minutes at the figure, made a run at it and knocked it over. The head was smashed and the figure badly damaged.

The tar’s friends, who were much concerned at their companion’s escapade, strove to pacify him, and contrived to get him out of the building without further trouble; but the Kaiser had to go into hospital for repairs.

The sailor was carried away by an impulse thousands have with difficulty controlled out of respectfor the Exhibition and the law which makes it an offence to destroy other people’s property.

Two days after the incident a little boy inquired of an Exhibition attendant where he could see the pieces of the Kaiser, as he would like to take a bit away.

A party of twenty-eight American soldiers happened to be passing the curtained room where the dismembered model of the Kaiser lay, and one of them made the request that they should be shown the “All-Highest” lying in state.

“And a very bad state, too,” replied the attendant, who could not oblige.

The second serious attack upon the Kaiser’s effigy took place two or three months after the first.

On this occasion it was a Colonial soldier who, seeing the restored monarch gazing at him in a supercilious fashion, as he imagined, drew from its scabbard the sword of the defunct Austrian Emperor, whose model sits close by, and stabbed the Kaiser’s figure in the face.

The force with which the thrust was delivered was such that off came the monarch’s head, and again the model had to be taken to hospital for the surgical operation of restoring the head and refixing it to its trunk.

Count Zeppelin, whose name will for ever be associated with the introduction of aerial warships and the dropping of bombs upon defenceless people, has had many a clenched fist shaken at him standingthere beside the portraits of Roger Casement and Tribich Lincoln.

Though never actually assaulted, it was only the stolidity of the British character that kept people’s hands off his effigy during the Zeppelin raids on London. Visitors were too proud, I suppose, to touch him, and from the time the first German airship was brought down in flames on British soil Count Zeppelin’s model began to be ignored.

A British matron quietly remarked, as she stopped an instant in front of the portrait, “So you’re going the way of all our enemies—beaten at your own game.”

In the early months of the war we borrowed from a soldier an Iron Cross that he had taken from the breast of a dead German officer whom he had found lying in a wood at Zillebeke, near Ypres, in November, 1914.

According to the story of the soldier—Drummer Newman, of the Grenadier Guards—our men, comprising Grenadier Guards, Irish Guards, and Oxfordshire Light Infantry, were opposed to the Prussian Guards, who were driven out of the wood, leaving behind them several hundreds of their dead.

Newman was searching for despatches when he happened upon the cross in question. I remember him coming to my studio with the trophy. He was a typical soldier, and he greatly amused me by his description of the way in which old soldiers—bearing in mind one of the trite sayings of Frederick theGreat—would hearten their comrades, saying, just before going over the top, “Now then, boys, you don’t want to live for ever, do you?”

The Iron Cross was exhibited with other relics, and used to be handed round for inspection, until one day it was missing. That was in October, 1915, and, although we made inquiries of the police and learned that it had been seen in the neighbourhood of the Exhibition, we heard no more of it till, several months later, it was traced by detectives to a gentleman at Warrington who had innocently purchased it from an invalided soldier.

We willingly refunded the amount that had been paid for the cross, and it has now been restored to our collection.

No sooner was London subjected to the terrible ordeal of air-raids than we received, as was only to be expected, offers of bombs that had been dropped by enemy aircraft.

As a matter of fact, we acquired one of the first of these missiles, and it proved of great interest to our visitors, especially to our own airmen, who never tired of describing to their friends the construction of the bomb and the way in which it was dropped.

We found it necessary, however, to discourage the bringing of ammunition to the Exhibition, as we had no desire that the building should be wrecked by the untimely explosion of a live bomb or shell.

Reverting for a moment to the attacks upon the effigy of the ex-Kaiser, I am reminded of one or twooccasions when figures have incurred the animosity of beholders, although not to the same extent.

A professional rider, expelled from the Jockey Club, used to visit the Exhibition very often for the sole purpose of venting his spleen against the image of his supposed enemy, Fred Archer, the jockey who won five Derbys; and he was heard to remark that it was “so like the beggar, I would give anything to smash it.”

In August, 1893, an old man, whose whole get-up spoke of better days, was seen to walk up to the effigy of the late Jabez Spencer Balfour, shake his withered, palsied fist in its face, and totter out of the building.

Tussaud’s during the war—Chameleon crowds—The psychology of courage—Men of St. Dunstan’s—Poignant memories—Our watchman’s soliloquy.

Under the stress of war many strange things revealed themselves at Tussaud’s—things by no means easy to define, subtle, illusive, immaterial, difficult to comprehend and hard to describe.

At the outbreak of hostilities the attendance suffered a severe check. This disquieting effect was in the main, I believe, due to the great wrench suffered by the public mind through the country’s sudden transition from the normal condition of peace to a strenuous state of war. But as each month passed the flow of visitors steadily increased in volume, until it far exceeded that of pre-war days.

By the time the manhood of the Empire had, in a great measure, doffed its sombre everyday suit and donned khaki, khaki became the dominant colour of the throng that filled the Exhibition rooms.

With this change in attire there came a marked alteration in its demeanour. Usually sedate and reserved, it now betrayed—in startling contradiction to all reasonable expectations—a cherry, devil-me-care character which, curious to relate, resolved itself intoa tone unmistakably flippant; a mental attitude to which we soon realised we must give our careful consideration.

He would indeed have been a poor psychologist who had taken this outward showing as a true indication of the feelings of our brave fellows; for it was obviously but the assumption of that demeanour so strongly characteristic of the British disposition, that of facing an ugly job in a cheerful spirit.

It was the ready answer to the pessimist, “If it’s got to be done, what’s the use of being miserable about it?”—a philosophical bearing that perhaps found its deepest expression in their “Cheerio!” and insouciant wave of the hand bidding farewell to wife, mother, and child ere turning to face the grim realities and dread uncertainty of war.

To keep pace with the stirring and ever-fluctuating events of the day, large maps of the battle areas were specially produced for the Exhibition, and lectures were given before them, explaining our varying fortunes in the great conflict. It was in the giving of these lectures that we were soon able to take a fairly correct measure of the disposition of our visitors.

They were, first of all, delivered on somewhat academic lines, with, perhaps, too pronounced an idea of imparting instruction rather than that of affording entertainment. It was soon found that if the attention of our visitors was to be held, it was necessary to adopt a more optimistic and lively, if not an almost bantering, tone if the dissertation were toreceive any real mark of appreciation on the part of those who cared to listen.

As the struggle proceeded Tussaud’s began to assume the position of apointe de réunionof a very remarkable character, and this quite irrespective of class or nationality.

We opened our doors as early as eight o’clock in the morning, and even then found that not a few had been waiting for admission for some considerable time. This forced upon us the conviction that the Exhibition had risen in favour as something of a place of refuge by those who had involuntarily found themselves abroad early in the morning and had borne its existence in mind.

Be this as it may, throughout all hours of the day Tussaud’s proved a centre of attraction to many champions of their country’s cause. Here they were to be seen, whether on their final leave before going out to the front, or homeward bound to enjoy a brief respite from the turmoil of the conflict, and awaiting a train to carry them to their families.

During the autumn of 1914 and far into the following year there congregated within our walls numerous hapless and pathetic beings, strangers to us by their foreign tongue, who, having come from nowhere in particular and having nowhere in particular to go, aimlessly wandered into the Exhibition.

We can only presume that they came to help pass away many a sad and anxious hour, or maybe to take measure of the semblance of those who were at thatvery moment foremost in striving to stem the tide of the cruel incursion that had driven them to take refuge in a foreign land.

Then as time wore on there came a touch of relieving colour that showed itself here and there amid the prevailing khaki; at first a mere fleck that gradually became more pronounced as the war advanced. This was the hospital blue of our valiant soldiers who had not passed unscathed through the ordeal of fire, as cheery a gathering as ever set foot within the place, a cheeriness readily responded to by their fellow visitors through the medium of sympathy and admiration.

One sad sight there was, however, which touched the hearts of the people so deeply that no display of cheerfulness on the part of the sufferers—and they, too, were invariably light-hearted—could quite evoke a sense of mirth.

St. Dunstan’s Hostel for Blinded Soldiers and Sailors in Regent’s Park is not very far from Madame Tussaud’s, and many of its inmates visited the Exhibition, and, for the matter of that, still find a pleasure in coming in couples or small parties to spend an hour or so among the models and the relics.

In spite of the distressing fact that they have been deprived of the gift of sight, they stand in front of the models and pause while the biographies are read out to them from the Catalogue by some more fortunate companion. Then they almost invariably nod to express their comprehension of the subject before them, and seem to see and understand throughthe faculty of their imagination much that would otherwise have been made manifest to them through the function of their eyes.

During the past few years our attendance has totalled to a figure reaching several millions; but the number visiting the place hardly constitutes so remarkable a fact as the many diverse nationalities and tribes they represented, or their coming from so many far-distant and remote parts of the world.

The landing of a fresh contingent at any one of our ports, or the arrival in London of any body of men attached to our Allied Forces, brought distinct and unfamiliar types of humanity to our doors.

“I had often heard of the place, but never thought I should have had an opportunity of seeing it,” was a remark that often fell upon the ears of our attendants; and we know, for many reasons, that most of them had made up their minds to visit the place long before they had set foot upon our shores.

Of the many telling experiences of the last few momentous years, the one that will be retained longest in our memory will most assuredly be the touching sight of the war-stained and weary men who, during the earlier days of the war, literally stumbled through our turnstiles into the building.

Dazed for want of sleep, begrimed and besmeared with the very mud of the trenches, they flung themselves upon the nearest ottoman or couch, or in some out-of-the-way place upon the floor, to snatch a few hours’ sleep in comparative comfort.

One evening, when strolling round the rooms sometime after the place had been closed, I found myself looking at the watchmen, who were busily engaged sweeping the floors. The chief among them, an old and valued servant, possessing a disposition that generally enabled him to look upon the bright side of things—although he was so often constrained to view them only during the sombre hours of the night—caught me gazing at him.

With a face I thought unusually grave he bade me “Good-evening,” and ruefully remarked, “It seems to me, sir, some of this dirt has come a long way.” Then, pondering for a while, with his eyes fixed upon the floor, he resumed, “Yes, sir, some of it from the very trenches.” And I somehow believed the old fellow was right.

Three heroes of the war: Nurse Cavell, Jack Cornwell, V.C., and Captain Fryatt—Lords Roberts and Kitchener—Queen Alexandra’s stick and violets—The Duke of Norfolk’s tip.

There are three figures, added during the past few momentous years, which possess the rare distinction of being models of abiding interest. Out of the many portraits placed in the Exhibition, there are few that stay there very long.

EDITH CAVELL, THE MARTYR NURSEA Portrait Study by John T. Tussaud.

EDITH CAVELL, THE MARTYR NURSE

A Portrait Study by John T. Tussaud.

Nurse Cavell, Jack Cornwell, and Captain Fryatt will always be remembered with esteem by the present generation, and the great story of their heroic deeds ensures for them a permanent home at Baker Street, where they will be viewed with patriotic pride by posterity. The portrait of Edith Cavell, the martyr-nurse, was modelled immediately after that heroic woman was brutally shot by the Germans at Brussels at two o’clock in the morning of Tuesday, the 12th of October, 1915.

I communicated with the London Hospital, Whitechapel, where Nurse Cavell had served before she went to Belgium, and the nurses there readily afforded me all the information they had to impart.

Several of them visited my studio and gave me valuable hints as to the posing of the figure and thegeneral demeanour of Miss Cavell when at the hospital. They particularly described the way in which she used to walk through the wards with a book under her arm and her head inclined slightly to one side. When the model was finished they were good enough to say that it enabled them to visualise Miss Cavell as they knew her, and that it was a pleasing portrait.

My wife prepared the laurel wreath, placed above the model, on which are inscribed Nurse Cavell’s words, uttered a few hours before her death, “I am happy to die for my country.”

Soon after the boy hero of the Jutland naval battle was modelled and he had been awarded the posthumous honour of the Victoria Cross, his mother, accompanied by a lady friend, came to the Exhibition to see the figure of her son. It was on the 24th of August, 1916.

JACK CORNWELL, V.C.A Portrait Study by John T. Tussaud of the boy hero of the Battle of Jutland.

JACK CORNWELL, V.C.

A Portrait Study by John T. Tussaud of the boy hero of the Battle of Jutland.

No sooner did Mrs. Cornwell catch sight of the image of her young hero than she burst into a fit of weeping, and exclaimed, “My boy, my dear boy!” Upon resuming her composure she expressed her surprise at the remarkable resemblance, and added: “I am very proud of my boy, but I do miss him so.”

Mrs. Cornwell had with her a letter she had received from the Captain of H.M.S.Chester(her son’s ship). He wrote:

I know you would wish to hear of the splendid fortitude and courage shown by your boy. His devotion to duty was an example to all of us. The wounds, which resulted in his death within a short time, were received in the first few minutes of the action. Heremained steady at his most exposed post at the gun, waiting for orders. His gun would not bear on the enemy; all but two of the crew were killed or wounded, and he was the only one who was in such an exposed position. But he felt he might be needed, as indeed he might have been; so he stayed there, standing and waiting under heavy fire with just his own brave heart and God’s help to support him.

For the model of Captain Fryatt, of the Great Eastern Railway steamerBrussels, I had to rely mainly upon photographs.

This brave seaman was captured, with his vessel, by the Germans on the 23rd of June, 1916. On the 27th of the following month he was condemned to death at Bruges for attempting to ram a German submarine, the sentence being carried out the same afternoon.

The model appropriately stands near that of Mr. Havelock Wilson, the sailors’ champion, and, judging from the remarks of visitors who knew the Captain well, it bears a good resemblance.

CAPTAIN FRYATTThe model of the martyred captain of the G. E. R. Ship “Brussels,” now at Madame Tussaud’s.

CAPTAIN FRYATT

The model of the martyred captain of the G. E. R. Ship “Brussels,” now at Madame Tussaud’s.

We cannot leave this subject without associating with these figures the revered names of Lord Roberts and Lord Kitchener, whose models stand near by. The attitude of visitors towards them is that of deep admiration and respect, expressed not so much by word of mouth as by demeanour, which eloquently testifies to the public sympathy with these great warriors.

FIELD MARSHAL EARL KITCHENERA Portrait Study by John T. Tussaud.

FIELD MARSHAL EARL KITCHENER

A Portrait Study by John T. Tussaud.

Enclosed in a glass case is a walking-stick to which belongs a story showing the kind-heartedness of Queen Alexandra.

Early in the war the Queen-Mother visited the wounded Indian soldiers in hospital at Brighton, and, noticing that one of the officers limped, she inquired of him how he come by his injuries. The officer produced his aluminium ration-box, and explained that a German bullet had struck it, scattering fragments of the metal into his leg and other parts of his body.

Queen Alexandra’s sympathy with the Indian officer took a practical form, as she presented him with her own walking-stick to aid him during convalescence.

Some time afterwards the officer returned to the front, and a brother officer brought the walking-stick to us, as he thought Madame Tussaud’s was the best place for it, so that the public should be constantly reminded of Queen Alexandra’s deed of kindness.

The stick bears on a silver plate the initial “A,” surmounted by the royal crown.

The incident reminds me of another in connection with the same gracious lady which occurred many years ago, when the Exhibition was at the old Portman Rooms in Baker Street.

Queen Alexandra, who was then the Princess of Wales, had been visiting the Exhibition, and was leaving the building when a poor flower-girl, with a baby in her arms, approached her and, before anyone could intervene, held a small bunch of violets close to the Princess’s face, saying, “Buy a bunch of violets, please, lady.”

Instead of being annoyed, the Princess accepted the flowers with her usual sweet smile, handed the girlhalf-a-sovereign, and then entered her carriage and drove away.

The astonished girl kept looking at the coin in her hand, and was quite alarmed when she was told she had held her flowers under the nose of the Princess of Wales; but the remembrance of the Princess’s smile soon reassured her, and she went away happy.

In the early days of the war the late Duke of Norfolk, the Duchess, and their two children, the young Earl of Arundel and his sister, Lady Mary Howard, formed a quartette of most interested spectators, and were conducted over the place by the gentleman who had been appointed as War Lecturer to the Exhibition.

He devoted most of his attention to the young people, and relates how the Earl and his sister passed unobtrusively among the exhibits, gaily chatting all the way, no one but he recognising the ducal party.

The Earl was shown, and allowed to handle, a German rifle, then recently captured in Belgium, and he instantly pretended to load the weapon. Then, raising it to his shoulder, he took a level aim at the head of the Kaiser and clicked the trigger.

As the party were retiring, his Grace and the Duchess had a brief consultation, after which the Duke came back to thank the lecturer for the attention he had given his son and daughter.

There were sovereigns in those days, and his Grace offered one to the cicerone, who deferentially declinedthe gift, saying he had been amply rewarded by the pleasure of the young people’s company. “I told the Duchess you wouldn’t take it,” said the Duke, laughing.

A crinoline comedy—Mr. Bruce Smith’s story—An American lady’s shilling—My father’s meeting with Barnum—The “cherry-coloured cat”—Paganini and the tailor—George Grossmith poses.

In the dressing of the models attention must naturally be paid to the varying styles of both sexes. For this reason visitors are able to mark the changes Dame Fashion has decreed.

The crinoline period known to our mothers was, curiously enough, anticipated in the days immediately preceding the French Revolution, as exemplified by the quaint Parisian coquette, Madame Sappe, with whom that egoistic old cynic, Voltaire, is palpably flirting in the Grand Hall, a few paces removed from the portraits of Louis XVI and his Queen, Marie Antoinette.

The crinoline of Madame Sappe brings vividly to mind an amusing story related by my granduncle Joseph, who was standing by the turnstiles when a portly matron waddled towards the pay-table, wearing an exaggerated example of this spacious skirt. Her passage aroused some curiosity, and the shuffling of her feet was accompanied by an unaccountable sound of pattering which disposed my relative to keep her under observation.

As soon as she found herself among the figures and hidden from view, as she imagined, the buxom dame cautiously raised her crinoline, when, to my uncle’s amazement, out stepped two little boys.

Nothing was said to the adventurous woman who had thus passed her offspring into the Exhibition free, and my uncle used to say that the expression on her face at the success of her subterfuge was one of radiant satisfaction.

Mr. Bruce Smith, the popular artist, who has produced many scenic effects in our tableaux, tells a story perhaps against himself.

He was engaged, with several fellow artists, on a hunting scene, when an elderly lady and a friend strolled quietly past. Mr. Smith, at the moment, was standing stock-still, scanning his work; then suddenly making a motion with his brush to retouch the canvas, he was startled by an unearthly yell from the old lady:

“Good heavens! they are alive!”

Our “Master of the Robes” fell in conversation with an American lady, who told him that she had paid for admission with a shilling given to her in the States by an English aunt with the instruction that if ever she went to London the shilling should be expressly spent on her admission to Madame Tussaud’s.

She had related the same story to the money-taker at the turnstile, and he was so impressed that he laid the romantic shilling on one side. Our representative offered to give it back to the lady, but she thanked him and said:

“No, I guess I could not break faith with my aunt!The shilling has found its appointed place in Madame Tussaud’s till, after many years, and I have done as I was told.”

My father’s meeting with Phineas Taylor Barnum, the great showman, was an accidental one.

While lunching in a West End restaurant the brusque and humorous behaviour of one of the guests sitting near enlisted my father’s amused attention. The waiters were no less amused by the breezy visitor with the American accent, who supplemented his commands with odd remarks. Having ordered a second dozen of oysters, the American said:

“I guess I could hanker arter these. Bring me another dozen.”

Looking hard at him, my father recognised Barnum, and presently the two men were in friendly conversation; in fact, they spent the greater part of the day together, as kindred spirits are apt to do in such circumstances.

Barnum used to call himself the “Prince of Humbugs,” and gave that title to his autobiography. He told my father a story about a bright idea that struck him when his show was going none too well in an American town.

He put up an announcement, “Come and see the cherry-coloured cat,” and imposed an extra charge for the privilege.

There was almost a riot as Barnum showed the people a black cat. They protested, and demanded their money back; but he coolly asked them whetherthey had never seen a black cherry, and so appeased their wrath.

Barnum sat to me in the spring of 1890, about a year before he died, and I think I must give him the palm for being the most entertaining of all my subjects, his reminiscences extending over so long and interesting a period. I remember him telling me that many years before he had tried to induce my grandfather to transport Madame Tussaud’s Exhibition to New York, but that the negotiations fell through at the last moment.

As I modelled him he gave me some gentle hints not to be too attentive to the wrinkles on his face, from which I inferred that the old showman possibly thought he looked older than he felt, in spite of his silvery hair and four-score years.

A short-sighted tailor was once employed to repair the coat worn by Paganini, who stood with the violin under his left arm, while the bow was held aloft in his right hand.

The figure was on a tall pedestal, and the knight of the needle had to use a step-ladder. One of the attendants, ever ready for a joke, taking advantage of the tailor’s infirmity, removed the figure, and, adopting a similar attitude, stood in its place.

The tailor prepared his thread, mounted the steps, and was about to begin stitching when the supposed figure brought the bow down on his victim’s back. This so terrified the unfortunate man that he rolled down the ladder on to the floor, where he sat gazing up with the utmost stupefaction.

All attempts to pacify him were for a time futile, and whenever he passed the figure of Paganini afterwards he invariably sidled away from it with a scared look.

Another practical joker was the late George Grossmith.

It is on record that he once made the Exhibition the scene of his operations. Getting into an advantageous nook, he stood stock-still in a line with other celebrities—waxen ones. People going by stopped and said:

“Ah, Grossmith; Capital likeness! How excellent! Dear little Grossmith, one would think he was alive!” and various remarks of the kind. Then suddenly the effigy nodded grotesquely, and slowly extended a comic Grossmithian hand. Everyone fled as though he had been shot at.

The Speaker of the House of Commons (Mr. J. W. Lowther), at a banquet given by the Institution of Civil Engineers, in Middle Temple Hall, on the 23rd of March, 1898, told of a distinguished visitor to London who mistook Madame Tussaud’s for the House of Commons.

Much the same view must have been taken by a genial and sociable diplomat from the United States who, soon after his arrival in London, came to Madame Tussaud’s.

“And what do you think of our great Exhibition?” asked a friend.

“Well,” replied the General, “it struck me as being very like an ordinary English evening party.”

We visit the Old Bailey for mementoes—A mock trial—Relics of Old Newgate—Two famous cells—The Newgate bell.

As soon as I learned in the winter of 1903 that the Old Bailey was to be demolished and its mementoes sold by auction, I hastened to the historic court-house, armed with a catalogue, to tick off such articles as might be wanted for Madame Tussaud’s.

The grim building brought many impressive scenes to my recollection, and it struck me as a curious freak of fate that the place where house-breakers had been tried and sentenced should now be itself in the hands of the “house-breakers.”

The Royal Arms and the Sword of Justice had been taken down, and the walls behind the judge’s seat had been stripped of their faded hangings, giving to the old court an air of desolation; while the removal of the doors and windows admitted the chilly blasts of that bleak February day.

From court to court I passed, noting the catalogued items that attracted me. I observed the long form, covered with black, time-worn leather, where I sat on the occasion of my first visit, thirty years before, a sensitive and imaginative youth, contemplating withawe and a strange depression of spirits the final stages of a murder trial.

Then, as now, it was the interests of Madame Tussaud’s that sent me to the Old Bailey, and it may seem odd to confess that of all my many duties none ever afforded me less real pleasure than such duties as this.

This time my visit was unexpectedly relieved by an amusing incident which might have served for a scene in a melodrama.

I came upon a bevy of workmen, in charge of a jovial carpenter, improvising a mock trial to pass the time between the conclusion of a meal and the resumption of their work.

Presently I heard a scuffling noise and the voice of someone in distress. A lanky old man was being forced by a couple of fellow workmen into the prisoners’ dock, obviously on some sort of vamped-up charge.

“Silence!” shouted a shrill-voiced little man, wearing an apron and paper cap, who had made himself usher of the court.

I looked towards the jury-box, and there saw a droll-looking individual finishing his dinner out of a newspaper.

“Stop that row! Such conduct is disgraceful in a court of justice,” he called, looking across at the struggling prisoner.

Then, observing himself to be alone, the occupant of the jury-box managed to empanel six of his friends to make seven “good men and true.” The jurymen cameforward from different sheltered parts of the court, bringing with them what remained of their meal.

As by some prearranged signal, an elderly man, with a round, red face, quietly slipped into the judge’s seat, assuming a judicial air, and fixing his stem gaze upon the protesting prisoner in the dock. The judge paid no attention to the banter directed to him by a number of workmen who constituted the “public” and had sauntered in to enjoy the sport.

His “lordship” took on himself the duties of judge and clerk of the court, and gravely recited a long, and terrible indictment of the accused, who might have been some arch-fiend from the list of crimes charged against him—a list that seemed to box the compass of the Ten Commandments. He was involved in domestic complications which drew forth groans from all in court, and the judge’s reference to his “poor dear wife and little innocent children” evoked well-simulated execration.

A comical fellow entered the witness-box, and reminded the prisoner of a blood-curdling murder he had committed years ago, for which somebody else had been hanged. The witness paused, and then, bringing down his first, said, “Worse than all this, my lord,’e’s been known to work overtime without extra pay.”

While these harrowing details were visibly moving the jury, the clocks of the neighbourhood struck the close of the dinner hour, and the whole seven men with one accord jumped to their feet shouting “Guilty!” adding, “No recommendation to mercy.”

The judge put on a billycock hat in imitation ofthe black cap, and addressed the prisoner with due solemnity to this effect:

“Prisoner at the bar, we regret we cannot ask you whether you have anything to say. Justice has no time for that. A jury of your countrymen has found you guilty, and they know best. My duty is to order you to be taken to a public-house near at hand, where you are very well known, and at a certain hour you shall buy drinks for everyone in this court, including myself, the jury, and whatever members of the public care to be present. If you fail to turn up at the appointed time and place, may the Lord have mercy on your stingy soul!”

In the course of a few days the Old Bailey jury-box and several other fittings of the ancient criminal court were installed under the roof of the Exhibition. The prices they fetched were hardly more than nominal.

It was very different, however, with the relics of the adjoining prison. The mementoes of Old Newgate found many eager buyers, and the bitter February weather did not prevent a large crowd of bidders following the auctioneer about as he crossed the bleak prison yard and passed through the long dreary corridors.

The bidders came from all classes of society, bent on obtaining some keepsake of the sombre establishment. I see that procession now, some muffled to the ears, some blowing their finger-tips in the piercing cold, others stamping their feet, but all indulging in one form of humour or another to keep up their spirits in very dispiriting surroundings.

There were three lots on which the crowd bestowed special attention.

One was Jack Sheppard’s cell, from which he made his daring escape—a thrilling feat dear to the imagination of boys young and old.

JACK SHEPPARD, THE HIGHWAYMANThis model is posed in the actual cell from the Newgate prison, from which he made his sensational escape.

JACK SHEPPARD, THE HIGHWAYMAN

This model is posed in the actual cell from the Newgate prison, from which he made his sensational escape.

Another lot was the cell in which Lord George Gordon, the instigator of the riots that bear his name, died of gaol fever on the 1st of November, 1793. His exploits will be remembered by readers ofBarnaby Rudge.

The third lot was the famous bell which, for just upon a century and a half, had never failed to notify the good citizens of London the precise moment when a condemned prisoner had paid with his life for a life he had taken.

THE OLD NEWGATE BELLAcquired by Madame Tussaud & Sons, Ltd., when the prison was demolished in 1903.

THE OLD NEWGATE BELL

Acquired by Madame Tussaud & Sons, Ltd., when the prison was demolished in 1903.

There was an idea at the time that the metal of the Newgate bell contained in it a quantity of silver, and this belief gave rise to the impression that it would fetch a high price.

But it fell to our bidding, amid a hearty burst of approval, for the round sum of £100, by no means a high price for such a coveted relic.

Not only the bell, but also the cells, came into our possession that day. The thick solid masonry and heavy iron work were taken down and carefully marked, so that each part should be set up again in its right position when installed at Madame Tussaud’s—a tedious process that incurred a far greater outlay than the original cost.

Satisfaction was widely expressed that the Newgate relics should find their way into Tussaud’s.

These memorials of Old Newgate have already reposed in their new home sixteen years, and have been viewed by millions of people who otherwise would not have had an opportunity of seeing them.

Visitors of all grades of society linger long before these narrow cells, and I have often seen them rap with their knuckles the Newgate bell, which never fails to respond with a soft mellow resonance, reminding one of the time-honoured couplet, deeply inscribed upon it:

Ye people all who hear me ringBe faithful to your God and King.

Ye people all who hear me ring

Be faithful to your God and King.

Tussaud’s in verse—Tom Hood’s quatrain—“Alfred among the Immortals”—A refuge for Cabinet Ministers—Two dialogues—“This is fame!”

On very many occasions Madame Tussaud’s has been the subject of prose and verse in the public Press. I have already given a few extracts. Here are other quotations, some of which will surely raise a smile.

TOM HOODTom Hood was one of the first of a long line of authors and editors who paid tribute to Madame Tussaud’s.

TOM HOOD

Tom Hood was one of the first of a long line of authors and editors who paid tribute to Madame Tussaud’s.

Tom Hood, the prince of punsters, honoured us with the following quatrain:

The stillborn figures of Madame Tussaud,With their eyes of glass and their hair of flax,They only stare whatever you ax,For their ears, you know, are nothing but wax.

The stillborn figures of Madame Tussaud,

With their eyes of glass and their hair of flax,

They only stare whatever you ax,

For their ears, you know, are nothing but wax.

Punchhas always been very fond of honouring us with quips and sallies regarding portraits that seemed to merit such good-humoured attention. The dapper and debonair late Poet Laureate, Mr. Alfred Austin, had not long been added to the collection when our genial jester coruscated as follows:

ALFRED AUSTINPoet Laureate 1896-1913.

ALFRED AUSTIN

Poet Laureate 1896-1913.

ALFRED AMONG THE IMMORTALS.The Poet Laureate is on View at Madame Tussaud’s.“Let them gibe, let them jeer,Let them snigger and sneerAt my dramas, my lays, and my odes!Others know my true worth—’Mid the great ones on earth,They’ve enshrined me at Madame Tussaud’s.”

ALFRED AMONG THE IMMORTALS.

The Poet Laureate is on View at Madame Tussaud’s.

“Let them gibe, let them jeer,Let them snigger and sneerAt my dramas, my lays, and my odes!Others know my true worth—’Mid the great ones on earth,They’ve enshrined me at Madame Tussaud’s.”

“Let them gibe, let them jeer,

Let them snigger and sneer

At my dramas, my lays, and my odes!

Others know my true worth—

’Mid the great ones on earth,

They’ve enshrined me at Madame Tussaud’s.”

A more recent contribution from a light versifier runs:

There’s a refuge, if Cabinet duties cease,Where Ministers anxious to rest—withPeace—May do so.Political stars who are on the waneIn a popular Chamber may wax againChezTussaud.

There’s a refuge, if Cabinet duties cease,

Where Ministers anxious to rest—withPeace—

May do so.

Political stars who are on the wane

In a popular Chamber may wax again

ChezTussaud.

Here is another quotation fromPunch:

There once was a Madame called TussaudWho loved the grand folk inWho’s Who, soThat she made them in wax,Both their fronts and their backs,And asked no permission to do so.

There once was a Madame called Tussaud

Who loved the grand folk inWho’s Who, so

That she made them in wax,

Both their fronts and their backs,

And asked no permission to do so.

One thing is to be noted about the last two quotations: the writer gives the right pronunciation to the name Tussaud, whereas other “poets” often make it rhyme with “swords”—a common error.

There was a picture inMoonshine, in which a policeman was separating two quarrelling errand boys.

Back to Index Next