CHAPTER XVIII

NICHOLAS I., EMPEROR OF RUSSIAGallery portrait by Bothmann presented to Madame Tussaud’s by the Tsar.

NICHOLAS I., EMPEROR OF RUSSIA

Gallery portrait by Bothmann presented to Madame Tussaud’s by the Tsar.

Nearly forty years later, on the assassination of Nicholas’s son, Alexander—to which allusion has been made—there appeared in one of our leading English illustrated papers, which gave pages to the story of the assassination, a full double-page picture of the Imperial study at St. Petersburg, and, behold, therein stood the identical chair which we had sent to Nicholas I.

It is interesting to note that on Wednesday, the 20th of October, thirty-six years later, a number of Princesses came to the Exhibition; and among them was Princess Alix of Hesse, then a happy young girl of eight, and now mourned as the late Tsarina, who, as reported, shared with the Tsar and his family a terrible death at the hands of diabolical assassins during the recent Russian Revolution. Among the royal party which came on that day were our own Princesses Louise, Victoria, and Maud of Wales.

A great Wesleyan preacher and lecturer in his day was the Rev. Peter McKenzie, who died in November,1895. He deserves a place in these memoirs on account of his characteristic and rather eccentric behaviour when he visited the Exhibition. In the course of his perambulation through the galleries he, like most of our patrons, found his way to the Napoleon Rooms, where Voltaire’s chair immediately arrested his attention.

Striking an indignant attitude in front of it, the Wesleyan preacher exclaimed, “And this belonged to the man that was going to pull down the edifice of Christianity and sweep the religion of Jesus Christ from the earth!” So saying, he planted himself in the chair and, with a triumphant wave of his hand, declaimed to the wondering visitors gathered round the following verse of a well-known hymn:

Jesus shall reign where’er the sunDoth his successive journeys run;His kingdom stretch from shore to shore,Till moons shall wax and wane no more.

Jesus shall reign where’er the sun

Doth his successive journeys run;

His kingdom stretch from shore to shore,

Till moons shall wax and wane no more.

Landseer and the Count d’Orsay visit the Exhibition—A fright—Norfolk farmer’s account of Queen Victoria’s visit.

About the year 1845 the celebrated Count d’Orsay, being, as usual, in a desperate state of impecuniosity, was absolutely afraid to venture out of Gore House (where now stands the Royal Albert Hall), except on Sunday, for fear of being arrested and imprisoned for debt.

It so happened that a portrait of one of the members of the Royal Family, painted by the Count, was just then in process of engraving, and it was necessary before the proofs could be struck off that d’Orsay himself should see and correct the work of the engraver. To do this the Count would be obliged to go to the engraver’s house, and that gentleman, being of a devout and Sabbatarian turn of mind, utterly refused to receive d’Orsay on Sunday.

Finding himself in this difficulty, the Count asked the advice of his friend, Sir Edwin Landseer.

“I should risk going on a weekday, if I were you,” said Sir Edwin. “Wrap yourself up carefully, come and have breakfast with me in St. John’s Wood Road, and then we will go together to the engraver.”

This they accordingly did, and, greatly to Landseer’s relief, the Count passed through the streets unrecognised.

Not content, however, with escaping thus far, d’Orsay found his freedom so delightful that he became reckless, and did not seem at all disposed to return in any haste to his captivity.

“It is so long since I have seen London on any day but Sunday, I will enjoy myself now,” said he. “Can’t we go to some place of amusement together?”

SIR EDWIN LANDSEER, R. A.Celebrated animal painter, though best known for his paintings of dogs, his work was very varied and included the modeling of the celebrated lions at the foot of the Nelson Monument in Trafalgar Square.

SIR EDWIN LANDSEER, R. A.

Celebrated animal painter, though best known for his paintings of dogs, his work was very varied and included the modeling of the celebrated lions at the foot of the Nelson Monument in Trafalgar Square.

Landseer suggested Madame Tussaud’s, an Exhibition which d’Orsay had never before seen; and to Baker Street they went. The Count, charmed with the novelty of the wax figures, was childishly delighted with all he saw, until a moment when he became conscious that his footsteps were being dogged by two suspicious-looking individuals.

“Do you see those men?” said d’Orsay. “They never take their eyes from me.”

“Yes, I see them,” answered Landseer, who had really noticed them for some time, but thought it wiser not to say anything on the subject to his friend. “Let us go into the Chamber of Horrors.”

Accordingly they paid their extra sixpences and entered the mysterious inner room. The two men followed them. Landseer gave up his friend for lost. After a few moments of suspense one of the two men advanced towards d’Orsay, hat in hand, and, making an elaborate bow, said:

“Have I the honour of speaking to M. le Comte d’Orsay?”

No escape seemed possible now, so the Count drew himself up and answered with much dignity:

“Sir, I am he.”

“Then, if M. le Comte will be so very kind as to allow me, Madame Tussaud presents her compliments, and she will be greatly honoured if M. le Comte will give her some sittings and will permit us to add his illustrious figure to those already in our establishment.”

Finding that all his anxieties were at an end, d’Orsay forgot his dignity in a moment, almost embracing the man in his sudden joy, and exclaiming, with his accents of broken English:

“My dear fellow, you shall do what you like.”

The handsome face and distinguished figure of the Count were, of course, sufficiently remarkable to attract attention anywhere, and Madame Tussaud had too keen an eye for business ever to let slip so excellent an opportunity.

This may be regarded as an interesting reminiscence of the old rooms in Baker Street and the people who used to frequent them three-quarters of a century ago.

Although we know that Queen Victoria came to visit the Exhibition in Baker Street as Princess Victoria, there is no direct evidence that she ever came as Queen.

There is, however, a story that on one occasion Her Majesty paid a private visit with her children. When it is remembered that the Cattle Show used to be held in the rooms underneath the Exhibition, and that Her Majesty used to pay it at least one annual visit in those days, it is quite reasonable to suppose that the Queen would take an opportunity of going upstairs.

The story goes that seventy years ago, a fortnight after an auctioneer had murdered Mr. Jermy, Recorder of Norwich, and his family, at Stanfield Hall, near Wymondham, a Norfolk farmer came to London for the Cattle Show, and was an unconscious interviewer of Queen Victoria in the Exhibition.

I will give the narrative in his own words, being unable to vouch for its authenticity.

“After,” said the farmer, “I had been to the show and carefully examined the different animals, and given my meed of praise to the breeders and their feeders, I thought I would devote a spare hour to Madame Tussaud’s celebrated Exhibition. Accordingly I presented myself at the door, and paid my money.

“On entering, I was surprised to find that I was the only spectator. Undisturbed for some time, I wandered about, looking with astonishment at the waxen effigies, habited in their gorgeous apparel.

“In a few minutes some ladies and children arrived, and, standing near to one of the former I said, ‘What ugly, grim-looking people some of those kings and queens are!’ The lady smiled and answered, ‘I perfectly agree with you; they are!’

“My attention was soon arrested by hearing one of the party, pointing to a figure, mention Lord Nelson, when, proud of having been born in the same county as the illustrious sailor, I could not help exclaiming, ‘Ah, he was from my neighbourhood!’ Upon which one of the ladies, advancing, said to me, ‘Then you are from Norfolk? Pray can you tell me anything about poor Mrs. Jermy with whose melancholy fate I sodeeply sympathise? Have you any information different from that which has appeared in the public papers?’

“To this I replied, ‘No, madam, for I have been some days from home.’

“Scarcely had this conversation ended when Madame Tussaud herself entered, and seeing me there asked me how I got in, and if I did not know she had forbidden the entrance of anyone. I replied I did not; but, having paid my money had walked in as a matter of course.

“Judge of my surprise when she informed me I had had the honour of speaking to no other than our good and gracious Queen, and that the lady whose tender anxiety had been so warmly expressed for the injured widow of Stanfield Hall was the same illustrious person whose exalted rank does not, however, so elevate her but that the misfortunes and afflictions of others can reach her heart and excite her generous commiseration.

“The party who accompanied Her Majesty were the royal children and their attendants.”

Wellington visits the effigy of the dead Napoleon, and sits to Sir George Hayter for historic picture—Paintings from models—Is the photograph “taken from life,” or——?

Wellington gazing upon the effigy of Napoleon is one of the many instances of a really fine picture being produced from an original work executed in our studios. Upon it hangs an interesting story.

WELLINGTON VISITING THE EFFIGY OF NAPOLEONFrom the celebrated picture by Sir George Hayter.

WELLINGTON VISITING THE EFFIGY OF NAPOLEON

From the celebrated picture by Sir George Hayter.

Early one morning, soon after the Exhibition had been opened for the day, Joseph, Madame Tussaud’s son, who had been wandering through the rooms, as was his habit, perceived an elderly gentleman in front of the tableau representing the lying-in-state of Napoleon I.

The model of the dead exile rested—as it does down to this very day—on the camp bedstead used by Napoleon at St. Helena, and was dressed in the favourite green uniform, the cloak worn at Marengo (bequeathed by Napoleon to his son) lying across the feet. In the hands, crossed upon the chest, was a crucifix. In those days it was the custom to lower at night the curtains that enclosed the bed, in order to exclude the dust, whereas now the whole scene is encased in glass.

Observing that the visitor was desirous of seeing theeffigy, and no attendant being at hand, Joseph Tussaud raised the hangings, whereupon the visitor removed his hat, and, to his great surprise, Joseph saw that he was face to face with none other than the great Duke of Wellington himself.

There stood his Grace, contemplating with feelings of mixed emotions the strange and suggestive scene before him.

On the camp bed lay the mere presentment of the man who, seven-and-thirty years before, had given him so much trouble to subdue.

No feeling of triumph passed through the conqueror’s mind as he looked upon the poor waxen image, too true in its aspect of death; he rather thought upon the vanity of earthly triumphs, of the levelling hand of time, and how soon he, like his great contemporary, might be stretched upon his own bier.

Mr. Joseph Tussaud used frequently to recall this dramatic meeting between the Iron Duke and the effigy of his erstwhile foe, and to imagine the feelings of the old General as he gazed upon the couch. It was probably the first of the Duke’s many visits to the Exhibition.

A few days after this most interesting visit Mr. Tussaud, who was an old friend of Sir George Hayter, related the incident to that artist.

Hayter was immediately struck with the potential value of the event for the production of a painting of the historic scene, and the Tussaud brothers at once commissioned him to execute the work for them.

SIR GEORGE HAYTERWhose painting of Wellington visiting the effigy of Napoleon is now on exhibition in the Napoleon rooms at Madame Tussaud’s.

SIR GEORGE HAYTER

Whose painting of Wellington visiting the effigy of Napoleon is now on exhibition in the Napoleon rooms at Madame Tussaud’s.

Sir George thereupon communicated the idea to theDuke, who readily responded, and offered to give the necessary sittings. We have the sketches made by Hayter in preparation for the work, and among them appears a drawing of Joseph Tussaud himself, although he does not enter the actual picture.

Hearing that the artist was making progress with the painting, the Duke visited his studio, and, having expressed himself warmly in appreciation of the picture (the figures had been but lightly limned in at the time), said:

“Well, I suppose you’ll want me to sit for my picture here?”

Hayter has given us a most characteristic portrait of Wellington as he then appeared. He is dressed in his usual blue frock-coat, white trousers, and white cravat, fastened with the familiar steel buckle. He stoops a little as was his wont, his head is lightly covered with snow-white hair, and his manly features are marked with an expression of mingled curiosity and sadness as, hat in hand, he looks upon the recumbent Napoleon. The picture was completed early in December, 1852, and has been on view in the Napoleon Rooms at the Exhibition ever since.

The engravings of the picture have been circulated in thousands throughout the world, and, strange to say, they are exceedingly popular in Austria. It is an interesting fact that the painting in question was the last portrait for which the Duke ever sat.

This story brings to mind several instances in which the members of the Tussaud family, especially in days gone by, have produced subjects for other artists topaint from. For example, the model of Marat stabbed in his bath—which has been shown in our Exhibition ever since it existed in Paris—was modelled expressly to assist the famous David to paint his picture representing the death of the miscreant.

Strange to say, a replica of this painting was offered to us a year or so ago, and the dealer who submitted it insisted that it was the picture from which our model was copied. He looked wofully incredulous when it was explained to him that the boot was on the other foot, and that the picture had been copied from the model.

On one occasion, in a newsagent’s shop, a lady customer asked for a picture postcard of King Edward. Several were shown to her, but after inspecting them she pushed all the direct photographs on one side, and selected the print of a figure that had been modelled. The shopkeeper subsequently stated that this card was almost invariably chosen in preference to others.

In recent years there has grown a curious disposition on the part of certain publishers to exploit for their own purposes work produced in our studios. This is not to be wondered at when photographs of our models have been so often mistaken for portraits taken direct from life.

We have ourselves on many occasions photographed our likenesses for reproduction by the Press; and, apart from this, newspaper representatives, times out of number, have requested permission to take a photograph of figures in the Exhibition for the use of their own journal.

There is also the inevitable snapshotter, who neither asks permission nor cares whether it is granted or not. Such individuals seize an opportunity when few persons are about and take an illicit “negative” without risking a verbal one. The result has been that the photographs thus secured—all subject to copyright fees never collected—have been made use of for all kinds of purposes; they have turned up as blocks in newspapers and magazines, illustrations in books, and portrait postcards, besides being treasured in albums and framed as pictures.

Only very occasionally has a statement accompanied publication acknowledging the source from which the picture has originated—a circumstance that has more than once led to a curious and, so far as the artist is concerned, a somewhat vexatious contretemps.

It has so happened that we have had sometimes to send a member of our staff in quest of all the latest photographs of a favourite celebrity whose figure we have desired to remodel and bring up to date. Not infrequently has he brought back with him “photographs” purporting to have been taken from life, but which have been instantly recognised as reproductions of figures in the Exhibition.

A droll incident once occurred illustrative of this strange situation.

Many years ago, when Mr. Joseph Tussaud, under pressure of time and with very meagre material to go upon, produced a portrait of the late Pope Leo XIII directly after he was elevated to the papal chair, a certain well-known firm of photographers were at theirwits’ end to obtain a portrait of the new Pontiff, and the novel idea suggested itself to them of arranging to borrow for a short time Madame Tussaud’s model, and therefrom obtain an original negative that might fulfil their requirements. This they accordingly did, and the object was achieved with remarkable success, for the portrait challenged detection. So lifelike was the picture that when it was placed upon the market beholders concluded that the Pope had sat for it.

Another firm of photographers, some time afterwards, and at great trouble and expense, succeeded in obtaining sittings from the Pope himself.

When the portrait taken from life appeared, and was compared with the photographs from the model, very grave doubt was raised as to whether the new portrait was really a good likeness, and many persons questioned its genuineness, much to the chagrin of the photographers who produced it.

The story of Colour-Sergeant Bates’s march through England to prove Anglo-American goodwill—Start from Gretna—The dove of peace.

An ephemeral celebrity of a bygone day, who fittingly comes into the picture at the present time—for we are still dealing with events that happened in the seventies—was Colour-Sergeant Gilbert H. Bates, of the 24th Massachusetts (U. S. Artillery) Regiment.

COLOR-SERGEANT GILBERT H. BATES OF THE 24TH MASSACHUSETTS (U. S. ARTILLERY) REGIMENTHis famous pilgrimage, in November, 1872, from Gretna Green to London, bearing aloft a large American flag, brought forth striking testimony to the undercurrent of cordiality in England for all things American. Photographed from the wax model at Madame Tussaud’s.

COLOR-SERGEANT GILBERT H. BATES OF THE 24TH MASSACHUSETTS (U. S. ARTILLERY) REGIMENT

His famous pilgrimage, in November, 1872, from Gretna Green to London, bearing aloft a large American flag, brought forth striking testimony to the undercurrent of cordiality in England for all things American. Photographed from the wax model at Madame Tussaud’s.

This gallant soldier of the Federal Army, after carrying the Star-spangled Banner through the Southern States of America to prove that the war had not killed the respect felt for the national flag, crossed the Atlantic, in fulfilment of a wager, and bore the Stars and Stripes from Gretna Green to London, amid most enthusiastic scenes, demonstrating that Bates was right when he insisted that John Bull and Uncle Sam were the best of friends at heart.

Mr. Joseph Tussaud modelled a portrait of the sergeant, who had an honoured place in the Exhibition for several years.

Bates was a patriotic American who had a firm belief in the friendship of the English people for their American brethren.

For 1,500 miles through States whose streets had been stained with the blood of civil carnage he had marched with the national flag to the strains of patriotic music, an eloquent tribute to his countrymen’s deep-rooted love of peace. His passage was a triumphant success, and the exploit is handed down to posterity in Captain Mayne Reid’s stirring poem “From Vicksburg to the Sea,” the first of its five verses being:

Bear on the banner, soldier bold!How Southern hearts must thrillTo see the flag, so loved of all,Waving above them still!What chords ’twill touch, what echoes wake,Of that far truer time!Who knows but it the spell may breakThat maddened them to crime.

Bear on the banner, soldier bold!

How Southern hearts must thrill

To see the flag, so loved of all,

Waving above them still!

What chords ’twill touch, what echoes wake,

Of that far truer time!

Who knows but it the spell may break

That maddened them to crime.

This was remotely the origin of Bates’s English expedition. Calumny was rife in the States. No theme had been so often discussed for the two years then past as that of the feeling of John Bull towards Uncle Sam. The malicious craft of certain politicians had led them to foster elements of hatred towards the Old Country, and a corrupt section of the Press had lent itself to the unworthy task of exaggerating trifles and distorting facts to suit the fancies of gullible readers.

It was in the course of one such discussion as to the feeling of the English towards Americans that this lover of concord was led to make a wager of 100 dollars against 1,000 dollars that the people of England would not insult the flag of America, but would welcome it heartily wherever it should be borne by an American soldier. Not a few of his compatriots were incredulous of his success, and they predicted that he would miserably fail; while one said, “I bet he don’t travel twelve miles before he sets face homeward and leaves his bean-pole in the custody of some parish beadle.”

The gallant sergeant was determined and confident, however, and, taking passage in the Anchor linerEuropa, he crossed the Atlantic.

Bates was a small but well-built man, 5 feet 7½ inches in height, square-shouldered and square-headed, clean shaven, with clear grey eyes, dark hair, and swarthy skin. His age was thirty-four, and he wore the uniform of a sergeant of the Federal Army. He is described as modest, intelligent, well-informed, and a very good specimen of the unassuming, matter-of-fact, and practical Yankee.

The flag he carried was from a piece of army bunting from the headquarters of General Sheridan. It was of regulation size, 6 feet by 6½ feet, and the hickory staff measured 9 feet. Before he left he was assured by a Member of Parliament in Chicago that as the Americans had honoured the English Prince when he visited that country, the English people, in return, would honour the American “prince”—which was their flag. And so it turned out.

On the 5th of November, 1872—Guy Fawkes Day and the anniversary of the Battle of Inkerman—Sergeant Bates left Edinburgh for Gretna Green, that romantic spot at the southern extremity of Scotland.It was with difficulty that he managed to leave the northern city without unfurling the flag, as his Scottish friends felt that they should have an opportunity of testifying their good feelings to the banner which waved over so many of their kindred in homes beyond the Atlantic. But his mission had been planned, and he had decided to begin his march from the border of England itself.

With no quiver of fear and with a heart full of gladness, he stood upon Sark Bridge and, uncovering his head, gave the Star-spangled Banner to the breeze. A few merry rustics greeted him with cheers, and the historic march was begun. The country before him was England, the mother-country, the home of the English language, the freest and most peaceful country in Europe.

He reached Carlisle that evening without anything more important happening than a rigid cross-examination by an excited old woman as to whether he was heralding a Fenian invasion, and an anxious inquiry from a little boy as to when the circus would arrive.

At the Bush Hotel at Carlisle a party of commercial travellers gave him a right hearty British welcome, and this henceforth became the order of the day at whatever town or village he put in an appearance. News of his coming preceded him, and his progress was one continuous ovation, culminating in a veritable furore when he reached his journey’s end.

Through Penrith and Shap, where he was cheered by the miners, who had sent men from the quarries to watch for his approach, he made his way to Kendal,where, at a dinner given in his honour, he announced that he had written to cancel the wager he had made. He did this in token of the purity of his motives, and to prove that he was not actuated by mercenary considerations.

From Kendal he proceeded to Lancaster, which city he entered followed by an enormous crowd, a similar concourse escorting him to the outskirts on his departure.

Garstang, between Lancaster and Preston, at that time enjoyed the peculiar distinction of having a Mayor and capital burgesses without its having been constituted a borough. Here he was entertained at a sumptuous repast, and the streets were full of people, the church scholars, drawn up in line, cheering the flag and its bearer as they passed.

The streets of Preston were lined with spectators; at Chorley cheers were given for the Queen and President Grant; and at Bolton the flag-bearer was presented with a pair of clogs, and given a live turtle-dove to take back with him to the American President.

He was almost carried by an eager, applauding crowd along Bradshawgate on his way to Manchester, and theBolton Evening Newsof the 14th of November, 1872, records that “there was more hand-shaking than we have ever seen bestowed on any person. Far from insult, every respect was shown to the flag of the great Republic, and,” the newspaper facetiously adds, “if the bearer is rewarded all along his journey as he was at Farnworth, his pockets will be filled with the metal that makes the mare to go.”

Sergeant Bates’s journey finishes in London amid a remarkable demonstration—His gift to Madame Tussaud’s.

In this chapter we conclude the story of the gallant sergeant’s historic march with the American flag from Gretna Green to London.

At Bolton he was presented with a piece of silver-plate, and a pedestrian gave him a pocket-knife; but this gift was followed immediately afterwards by a letter in which the writer said that as the giving of a sharp instrument was regarded as a bad omen and portended to cut friendship, he asked Sergeant Bates to forward a penny stamp in the enclosed envelope in order that the knife might besoldand not given. The penny stamp was sent.

Five miles from Cottonopolis Bates was met by a man who had been a lieutenant in the 24th Massachusetts Volunteers during the Civil War, who took off his hat and said, “God bless our flag.” Manchester was reached on the 14th of November, and here the flag had an immense reception, the crowd in Market Street being so dense that the open carriage which the sergeant was obliged to enter could scarcely make headway.

Lodged at the Royal Hotel, he was presented with a Union Jack, and was pestered by several enterprising showmen, one of whom offered him as much as £60 a night for five weeks if he would only consent to lend himself and the flag; but this he resolutely declined to do.

From Manchester to Macclesfield he met with a repetition of the same hearty ovations. The crowd kept slapping him on the shoulders, shaking hands, slipping money into his pockets, hurrahing, singing, and even dancing with joy before the glorious old flag.

At Macclesfield he was treated like a prince, royally entertained, and presented with a gold breast-pin by the Mayor. Through Congleton, Burslem, Stafford, Wolverhampton, and so on to Birmingham, the march was like that of a triumphant warrior, the crowds at Bates’s heels, marshalled in military order, tramping along singing the national melodies of the two countries, “Rule Britannia” and “Yankee Doodle” being the favourite airs.

At West Bromwich, where the flag-bearer stood for a moment to salute the Union Jack, a man rushed out and crowned his flagstaff with laurel. He entered Birmingham escorted by a crowd of all classes, both sexes and all ages, and the proprietor of the “Hen and Chickens” Hotel placed the house, the wine-cellar, and even his cash-drawer at his guest’s disposal.

The crowd from Birmingham followed him for some miles out of the town. There was a vast amount of hand-shaking, and several women insisted on embracing him, one old lady hugging him so unmercifully that she,he, and the flag were nearly sent sprawling in the mud.

One workman, bareheaded and without his coat, headed the procession in a perfect frenzy of excitement, and shook hand with Bates about every five minutes. It appeared that he had served on theAlabama, and seemed to think that he was atoning for past transgression and ridding himself of the stigma of having fought against the Union.

Warwick was visited, and the castle inspected. The sergeant was shown over Shakespeare’s birthplace at Stratford-on-Avon by a Mrs. Hathaway and a lady aptly quoted to him the line:

Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace.

At Leamington he was presented with an address and a silver Maltese Cross. Southam and Banbury were passed through, and then he came to Oxford, where, it had been predicted, his mission would fail ignominiously.

But he was met by students from New College, who treated him with great gentlemanliness, one observing:

“Sergeant, you surely never expected that the people of England would fall upon one man, did you?”

“No,” replied Bates drawing himself up. “I have come through England not only believing that my flag would not be insulted, but feeling sure that Englishmen would show it such respect everywhere that my countrymen would hail my coming as a step full of joyful hope for the future.”

“Bravo!” exclaimed the undergraduate.

Invitations poured in upon the happy soldier. He supped in University College and breakfasted in Trinity.

At a levee in the reception-room at the “Roebuck” the toast was given, “May the stars never shine with less lustre, nor the bars ever grow shorter,” which was received with musical honours:

It’s a way they have in the Army,It’s a way they have in the Navy,It’s a way we have in the ’VarsityTo drive dull care away.

It’s a way they have in the Army,

It’s a way they have in the Navy,

It’s a way we have in the ’Varsity

To drive dull care away.

On through High Wycombe and Uxbridge passed the soldier with his flag, and the crowd was great as he set out for Shepherd’s Bush, whence he was to proceed through London.

There were incidents humorous and pathetic.

At one place an aged woman tottered up to him from a wayside house and, leaning on her stick, said:

“Let me touch the flag and give my blessing to the bearer. My youngest boy fought for that flag and died for it in your country. He fell with that flag in his hand.”

Her son, an Englishman, had given his life fighting for the Union.

At another place a grimy sweep, fresh from a job, embraced the American most affectionately.

Bates’s quarters at Shepherd’s Bush were at the “Telegraph,” and during the Friday evening the hotel was in a state of siege. Sir John Bennett, an ex-Sheriff of the City of London, had offered to lend the soldiera carriage; but it was ultimately decided to use an open equipage drawn by a pair of greys, one of them mounted by a postilion.

The daily papers of the 2nd of December, 1872, give a full account of the proceedings. Seated in the carriage was Sergeant Bates, holding his beloved flag, while two other flags, the Union Jack and the Star-spangled Banner, trailed behind, the horses’ trappings being decorated with international symbols.

Up Notting Hill, along Bayswater Road, and through Oxford Street passed the carriage, surrounded and followed by a huge and demonstrative crowd.

In Bond Street the horses were taken out, and the carriage was dragged by some twenty-five persons along St. James’s Street, Pall Mall, by Charing Cross, and through the Strand and Fleet Street, up Ludgate Hill, and along Cheapside, to the Guildhall.

A dense mass of people had congregated in the Guildhall yard, where a British sergeant was carrying the English standard. The scene beggared description. The Guildhall itself was full to overflowing, and having alighted, Bates had perforce to be lifted on shoulders and hoisted, flag and all, back into the carriage, from which place of vantage he made a speech before refurling his banner.

He was delighted with his reception in the heart of the great Metropolis, and never forgot the sea of faces, the endless crowds, the fluttering flags, the waving handkerchiefs, the cheers, and the kindly greeting of that memorable day. His hand seemed to have been wrung into pulp, and he was struck with the phrasingof the oft-repeated salutation, “Give us your hand, old pal.”

Cabmen had little American flags mounted on their vehicles or pinned to their horses’ heads, ladies had the Stars and Stripes for carriage-aprons, and children waved toy flags.

Sergeant Bates was somewhat annoyed by relic hunters, who, could they have had their way, would soon have whittled his flagstaff into imperceptible pieces and riven the banner into a thousand shreds.

He gave a piece of flag and his boots to Madame Tussaud’s Exhibition as a small offering to those of the British public “who,” as he quaintly remarked, “worship such things, and who find at Madame Tussaud’s perhaps the best field for the satisfaction of their curiosity.”

Writing from the Langham Hotel, where he was staying, he observed that Madame Tussaud’s had previously voted him a niche among the immortal heroes who adorned their Exhibition, a mark of honour for which he was told he ought to feel no small pride.

And what had Sergeant Bates accomplished? He claimed to have succeeded in bringing the two great nations’ hearts near to each other, till they seemed to beat in unison, and the pulsation of the one was for a while that of the other.

“God grant,” he said, “that work so begun may not willingly be laid down.”

Although he was called at one and the same time “a hare-brained visionary,” “a patriot,” “a fool,” “a man of courage,” and “a remarkably shrewd, thoughtful individual,”there can be no doubt that he did at least something to promote international amity, and to cement the feeling of warm friendship which was found to exist in this country towards her daughter America.

The continuation of that tie has been, and is still being, abundantly manifested ever since the United States joined the Allies in their recent determined fight for freedom; and there are thousands who echo Sergeant Bates’s words:

“May the flags of both countries ever wave in freedom and peace till that ‘far truer time’ when there shall be but one flag, because but one people on the face of the earth!”

My first model—Beaconsfield’s curl—Gladstone’s collar—John Bright and the Chinaman.

We now come to a period when I may well speak of my own personal knowledge concerning men and events in association with Madame Tussaud’s Exhibition.

The year 1872 was remarkable for several noteworthy events. Two or three, in addition to the National Thanksgiving Day for the recovery of the Prince of Wales from serious illness, vividly recur to memory. Among them was the assassination of the Earl of Mayo, Viceroy of India, who was stabbed by a convict while inspecting the settlement at Port Blair on the Andaman Islands.

The models of the Prince of Wales and the murdered Viceroy were introduced to the Exhibition within a few days of each other, and the sympathetic public responded in great numbers.

A startling and remarkable tribute to the Viceroy’s portrait was “unconsciously” paid when the Earl’s housekeeper fainted on suddenly finding herself in the presence of the model of her late master.

The first portrait I was entrusted with, as my father’s understudy, was that of Prince Milan of Serbia,the memory of whom has long since passed into oblivion, like that of many others whose stay has been brief among the figures. This was followed by a head of perennial interest, that of Benjamin Disraeli, which I was called upon to remodel on several occasions in after years. Clearly do I recall his characteristic features, so marvellously grasped by Tenniel, whose cartoons inPunchI never tired of studying.

It will be remembered that one of the marked peculiarities of Disraeli’s general appearance was the famous curl he wore upon his forehead. Of that circumstance I am at this moment somewhat forcibly reminded by a letter disclosing the remarkable fact that the curl is still in existence, almost forty years after the great statesman has passed away. Here is an extract from the letter offering the forelock to us as a relic:

Obersley, Near Droitwich, Worcester, March 7, 1918.My aunt, Miss Louise Hennet, nursed Lord Beaconsfield during his last illness, and the two locks (one the celebrated curl) were given to her. She was sent to nurse him from the nursing institution of St. John the Divine. The hair is enclosed in paper, which is endorsed in Miss Hennet’s writing, and this can be identified.

Obersley, Near Droitwich, Worcester, March 7, 1918.

My aunt, Miss Louise Hennet, nursed Lord Beaconsfield during his last illness, and the two locks (one the celebrated curl) were given to her. She was sent to nurse him from the nursing institution of St. John the Divine. The hair is enclosed in paper, which is endorsed in Miss Hennet’s writing, and this can be identified.

The letter is duly signed.

It may be easily understood that the modelling of the features of celebrated people stamps the memory of the artist with a deep and abiding impression. Ihad but shortly seen my father produce a very striking portrait of Marshal Bazaine, solely remembered now for his dramatic surrender at Metz on the 27th of October, 1870.

A small knot of interested people attracted my attention towards a stout, elderly man of military bearing as he was leaving Mr. Adams-Acton’s studios in Salisbury Place, Regent’s Park. I was astonished to recognise in him the living counterpart of the before-mentioned model.

It was Marshal Bazaine himself, who had but recently escaped from the fortress of Ile Ste. Marguerite, near Cannes. I was much struck by the fact that the ill-starred soldier of the Second Empire looked in no way dejected, despite the disaster that had befallen his reputation.

I am often asked what are the qualifications people must possess for a place in Madame Tussaud’s. I can give no better answer than that the public shall demand to see them, for should the portraits of such people be omitted they are invariably inquired for by disappointed visitors.

It is astonishing how great a hold must be taken of the public mind by candidates for inclusion in Madame Tussaud’s Exhibition before their election to our house would be welcomed by our patrons.

Of course, we are now associating our minds only with reputable society. As regards the Chamber of Horrors—of which I shall have something to say when the time comes—I may here remark that it is the notorious characters solely who seem to have a prescriptiveright to enter that abode of gloom, which used to be called in the old days the “Dead Room,” hardly so telling a title as the “Chamber of Horrors,” for which, by the way, we are indebted to our dear old friend “Mr. Punch.”

As to those people who retain a permanent place in the Exhibition, I suppose the secret is that, either by the example of their lives or through the medium of their works, they have deeply touched the heart or stirred the imagination of the people.

I suppose the British public never looked on two such political gladiators as Beaconsfield and Gladstone, and while these two statesmen dominated people’s minds it was natural that they should both have a pedestal at Madame Tussaud’s. I can neither say who was first to appear in the Exhibition, nor prophesy who will be the last to go. They are both there now, and still attract much notice from persons of all shades of political opinion.

So often had these figures to be remodelled, to keep pace with the changes worked by time and the strenuous nature of their public service, that there must now repose, carefully stowed away in our “catacombs,” impressions of their features sufficient to cover the whole gamut of their political careers.

For more than a generation the Beaconsfield curl and the Gladstone collar exercised a subtle influence in the political world, mainly through the cartoons and caricatures of John Tenniel and Harry Furniss.

One has to be meticulously careful with regard to important details such as these; and when Mr. Gladstone’sfigure had to be remodelled in later years, it was thought advisable, in order to be quite correct, that a collar actually belonging to the “G. O. M.” should be inspected.

Mr. Gladstone was living at Carlton House Terrace at the time the new portrait was in progress; and our “Master of the Robes,” who was responsible for the accuracy of detail respecting all Exhibition costumes, called there, and, on examining the statesman’s collars, was surprised to find that they were of quite normal size, and not so high as the caricaturist represented them to be.

As a matter of fact, the collars were made to fit loosely round the neck, and thus allowed the wearer’s chin to sink behind their upstanding ends. It is gratifying to record that permission to view her husband’s collars was graciously given to our representative by Mrs. Gladstone herself.

On a certain occasion when Mr. Gladstone had been notified that Mr. Harry Furniss, the originator of the big collar, would be at a dinner to which he himself was invited, the Liberal leader purposely wore a collar of more than usually modest dimensions, possibly as a gentle rebuke to his caricaturist.

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