JOHN BRIGHTAnti-Corn Law leader, whose model stands near that of Richard Cobden in the Exhibition.
JOHN BRIGHT
Anti-Corn Law leader, whose model stands near that of Richard Cobden in the Exhibition.
RICHARD COBDENEnglish statesman and political economist.
RICHARD COBDEN
English statesman and political economist.
The model which approached nearest to these in popularity at the time was that of John Bright, the great Anti-Corn Law Leaguer and apostle of Free Trade. His portrait has long since stood beside that of Richard Cobden, and these two inseparable reformers must remain together for good, as they laboured together in their lives.
It was on one of the occasions when Bright’s likeness had been brought up to date that an incident, rather flattering to the modeller, occurred in the House of Commons.
An influential Chinaman, on being shown the sights of London, was taken to the Houses of Parliament, where he happened to notice a prominent member passing through one of the lobbies. Without ceremony the Chinaman pounced upon John Bright, and shook him heartily by the hand. The genial statesman was highly amused at the spontaneous greeting, and inquired how it was the Chinaman knew him.
“Oh,” he replied, “I knew you at once. I have just come from seeing you at Madame Tussaud’s.”
The Tichborne “Claimant”—Nearly an explosion—The big man’s clothes—The real heir—The Claimant’s release from prison—Confession and death.
The Tichborne “Claimant”—Nearly an explosion—The big man’s clothes—The real heir—The Claimant’s release from prison—Confession and death.
I can hardly allow this period to pass without making some reference to the fact that from 1872 till 1874—when he was sentenced, on the 28th of February, to fourteen years’ penal servitude—the name of the “Claimant” to the Tichborne baronetcy and estates was on every lip, and it seems to me that no trial in my time has ever engrossed public attention to such a degree.
THE TICHBORNE “CLAIMANT”Central figure in a famous perjury trial in England. An impression was made of him before his conviction to penal servitude and another model was made eleven years later on his return.
THE TICHBORNE “CLAIMANT”
Central figure in a famous perjury trial in England. An impression was made of him before his conviction to penal servitude and another model was made eleven years later on his return.
People flocked to see the Claimant’s portrait when it was added to the collection, and perhaps that was the first time one saw queues assembled outside the doors of Madame Tussaud’s.
The various incidents of this historic case absorbed my youthful attention, and I recall how, at his house in Kentish Town, the Claimant submitted to the ordeal of having an impression taken of his hands to show the curly thumbs and a scar on his wrist which formed subjects of comment in the courts.
I was struck by the Claimant’s enormous size, which yet did not seem to hinder his movements, for theagility of the bulky man was indeed extraordinary; and equally surprising were the acuteness of his mind and the suavity of his manner.
To save him the inconvenience of fulfilling appointments in the Exhibition studios, my father had a special gas-light fixed at the Claimant’s house that sittings might be taken in the evenings.
This device, curiously enough, once put the life of the Claimant in jeopardy. An old gasfitter in our employment, named Dallender, who had done some stage work, introduced an apparatus such as was used in the theatres. Something went wrong with the manipulation of the arrangements, and the room became charged with gas. A servant was about to enter the apartment with a light, when the Claimant himself stopped her on noticing the strong smell. But for this fact the famous Tichborne trial might have had a sudden and tragic termination.
The Claimant showed certain qualities which hardly tallied with the character of the “uneducated butcher” he was declared to be. Proof that he had some refinement of feeling—or was he merely actuated by that vanity frequently found among men of his class?—may be inferred from an incident that greatly impressed my father.
The Claimant had promised that he would provide a fresh suit of clothes for his model in the Exhibition, and, in fulfilment of his promise, after the sentence had been passed upon him, he beckoned from the table at which he was seated in court to an attendant, and handed him the suit of clothes, saying:
“Please see to these being delivered at Madame Tussaud’s, as they are expected there.”
This fact strikes one as being remarkable, having regard to the anxiety of mind he must undoubtedly have suffered at the close of the trial.
It was a curious coincidence that I revisited my old college at Ramsgate about this time, and there had pointed out to me, among the students, the young heir to the Tichborne estates, whose title had been made clear by the conviction of the Claimant for perjury.
The students were on their way to the refectory, and the youthful heir appeared more concerned over the prospect of a good dinner than the result of the case upon which his future depended.
Stories of the Claimant were countless as he strode like a Colossus through the country in the long interval between his civil case and the criminal trial that succeeded it.
He was mobbed by sympathisers everywhere, and men and women shook hands with him, as if it bestowed a distinction on themselves. There was one amusing story at the time of a wealthy Yorkshire manufacturer whose wife said to him when they entertained the Claimant to dinner:
“John, how we are slithering into Society!”
After he had served eleven years’ imprisonment, his sentence having been reduced through good conduct, the Claimant came to the Exhibition to learn if he could be of any further service to us, or we to him. His ponderous bulk was so much reduced by prison fare that we should not have known him. He saidhe was none the worse for the period of enforced “banting,” which reduced his weight without injuring his health.
The Claimant gave me several sittings at this time, and a new model was substituted for the old one. He spoke freely of his prison experiences, and said:
“It was not easy to be philosophical when set to tease oakum, but eventually I bowed to my fate cheerfully enough. It is some consolation to know that thousands still believe in the justice of my claim to the Tichborne estates.”
Notwithstanding this, the Claimant published in a Sunday newspaper his signed confession, which he is said to have afterwards recanted.
He survived his liberation from prison fourteen years, and, gradually sinking into poverty, died in obscure lodgings in Marylebone, not far from the Exhibition, on the 2nd of April, 1898. The name engraved on his coffin was “Sir Roger Charles Doughty Tichborne,” thus maintaining his claim to the very last.
H. M. Stanley sits to Joseph Tussaud—The story of his life—How he found Livingstone—A mysterious veiled lady—The Prince Imperial.
H. M. Stanley sits to Joseph Tussaud—The story of his life—How he found Livingstone—A mysterious veiled lady—The Prince Imperial.
In 1873 the nation was saddened by the death at Ilala of Dr. Livingstone, the great missionary-explorer, who, some time before, had disappeared in the trackless wastes of Central Africa while preaching the gospel to savages and making surveys of the great continent. The name of Livingstone will always be bracketed with that of H. M. Stanley, who, as the emissary of theNew York Herald, “discovered” him.
DAVID LIVINGSTONEMissionary and African Explorer, whose model is in the Tussaud collection.
DAVID LIVINGSTONE
Missionary and African Explorer, whose model is in the Tussaud collection.
When my father wrote to Stanley asking for a sitting, he replied that he was too heavily engaged at the time writing his bookHow I Found Livingstone, and he proposed that the artist should call and make a study of him at his desk. This he did, with the happy result that he produced a very striking portrait.
The story of Stanley’s life is a romance in itself.
Born of poor parents at Denbigh, in Wales, about 1840, he at first bore the name of John Rowlands. When about fifteen years of age he worked his way as a cabin boy to New Orleans, where he was employed by a merchant, name Stanley, whose name he assumed.
He served in the Confederate Army, contributed to several journals, and in the year 1867 began his connection with theNew York Herald. As its special correspondent he accompanied Lord Napier’s Abyssinian Expedition, and the first news of the fall of Magdala was conveyed to this country by his paper. He next went to Spain for theHerald, and he was in Madrid in October, 1869, when he received the peremptory telegram “Come to Paris on important business.” He immediately complied, and there received from Mr. Bennett, junior, the laconic instruction and valediction, “Find Livingstone! Good-night, and God be with you.”
In January, 1871, Stanley reached Zanzibar, and two months later marched into the heart of Africa.
It was on the 10th of November that he “found” Livingstone at Ujiji. Well, indeed, as Stanley himself admitted, was he repaid for all the dangers he encountered on his journey when he grasped the hand of the grey-haired old missionary—aged by climate and exposure—whose whereabouts he had been sent to discover.
We placed in the Exhibition portrait models not only of Stanley, attired in a facsimile of the explorer’s suit worn by him on the occasion of the historic meeting, but also one of Dr. Livingstone himself. Probably many more persons have gazed upon the figure of Livingstone in the Exhibition than ever paid a pilgrimage to see his final resting-place in Westminster Abbey.
Together with the model of Stanley was placed afigure of his boy, Kalulu, concerning whom the explorer wrote a book in 1873 (My Kalulu).
NAPOLEON III.
NAPOLEON III.
The death of Napoleon III in the January of this year was associated with one of the most impressive tableaux in the long history of Madame Tussaud’s. The Emperor was represented as lying in state, and I find myself still wondering as to the identity of a tall, stately lady, dressed in black and wearing a thick veil, who came to the Exhibition on several occasions, bringing a bunch of violets which she placed on the steps of the catafalque, after having obtained a vase containing water in which to put the flowers.
THE PRINCE IMPERIALSon of Napoleon III., killed by the Zulus on Whit Monday, 1879. From the painting by Pichat.
THE PRINCE IMPERIAL
Son of Napoleon III., killed by the Zulus on Whit Monday, 1879. From the painting by Pichat.
The son of the Emperor Louis Napoleon, the Prince Imperial, who was killed in the Zulu War, was made the subject of an equestrian memorial at Madame Tussaud’s some years later. The tableau closely conformed with authentic details of the Prince’s attempt to mount his horse and escape from the Zulu hordes, who pierced him with many assegais.
It had been suggested in the House of Commons that an effigy to his memory should be erected in the Abbey, in view of the fact that the young Bonaparte died in one of England’s wars while serving under English officers. A reference inPunchto this proposal suggested that a much more suitable repository for a memorial would be Madame Tussaud’s along with the other memorials of the Bonaparte period on view there.
Count Léon—The Shah of Persia’s visit—A weird suggestion; no response—King Koffee—Cetewayo.
Count Léon—The Shah of Persia’s visit—A weird suggestion; no response—King Koffee—Cetewayo.
About this time I met Count Léon, the natural son of Napoleon the Great. The Count was then nearing seventy years of age, and had taken refuge in this country after the greatdébâcleof 1870. He lived in modest lodgings at Camden Town, and to pay his way set about selling the last remaining relics of the Imperial Family he had in his possession.
In a diary I now have before me I find that my father visited him on the 31st of January, 1873, the Count having expressed a wish to show him the family heirlooms, with the view to their finding a permanent resting-place among the many Napoleonic memorials at Madame Tussaud’s.
The Count offered him a fine miniature of Napoleon I’s brother, Lucien; a terra-cotta bust of Napoleon’s mother, “Madame Mère”; and a snuff-box left by Napoleon with Count Léon’s mother. The box contained a portion of the snuff which the Emperor had been using. There was also a lock of hair belonging to Napoleon’s son, the Duc de Reichstadt, known in high Imperial days as the King of Rome. One or two of these relics were acquired for the Exhibition.
COUNT LÉONNatural son of Napoleon Bonaparte. A Portrait Study by John T. Tussaud.
COUNT LÉON
Natural son of Napoleon Bonaparte. A Portrait Study by John T. Tussaud.
The Count bore a striking resemblance to the Emperor, except in two particulars: his figure was cast in a larger mould, and his eyes were hazel, whereas Napoleon’s were blue-grey. Count Léon returned to France, leaving behind him in London his son Charles, for whom I obtained a position in a City warehouse, where he remained engaged for several years, being at no pains to disguise his identity. My readers will readily see that the name granted to his father by the Emperor was composed of the last four letters in “Napoleon,” a whimsical touch of Imperial humour.
Count Léon finally settled at Pontoise, some twenty miles north-west of Paris, first at the Villa Davenport in the Rue l’Hermitage and afterwards in the Rue de Beaujon. This was his last stage. The room that he made his final refuge he adorned with four portraits of Napoleon, “my glorious father.”
To what depths had the Emperor’s son fallen! The old man’s shirts were in rags; he could not afford clean linen; he had to forgo tobacco. He died on the 14th of April, 1881, and without pomp or ceremony his body was laid in a pauper’s grave. His only memorial was a grassy mound and a little black wooden cross that soon rotted and fell to pieces.
On the 2nd of July, 1873, the Shah of Persia, accompanied by his numerous suite, visited Madame Tussaud’s, and was accorded a private view with some pomp and formality. His visit to the Exhibition was deemed of such importance that it gained the unusual distinction of a special reference in theCourt Circular. Members of our Royal Household in considerable numbersattended in state, and formed an imposing assemblage. The public was excluded.
The domes of the building were specially darkened to give effect to the internal illuminations, which were very beautiful. None enjoyed the function more than the Shah himself, who laughed heartily as he pointed at models he was able to recognise, and several times turned from a figure to a person present, indicating by a gesture and a chuckle his pride at discerning the likeness. The merry monarch even went so far as to pose among the figures as a real, live royal model.
Before leaving the Exhibition the Shah called for pen and paper, and, surrounded by the distinguished company, wrote in Persian the following: “Whilst staying in London I visited Madame Tussaud’s Exhibition, and wrote these words here by way of memorial to my visit.—Nasserdin Chah Kadjar, 1290 Haegira (1873).”
The above free translation was there and then made by one of His Solar Highness’s secretaries, and it possesses the charm of its own defects.
The “king of kings” was in his most humorously autocratic vein among the unhallowed figures of the Chamber of Horrors. He seemed to gloat over the collection of criminals and notorieties, examining with unaffected delight the guillotine which cut off so many heads during the French Revolution.
The lunette in which the necks of the victims were held in position greatly fascinated the Shah, who hinted that a condemned prisoner should be brought from one of the English gaols to be decapitated onthe spot for the edification of himself and his attendants.
It was pointed out, as an evasive measure, that no condemned man was available at that moment, whereupon His Majesty turned to the members of his suite and called for volunteers.
Such a thing, however, as an execution at Madame Tussaud’s was out of the question, even to gratify the whim of so illustrious a personage; and the Shah’s retainers looked genuinely relieved when they gathered that their royal master was not to have his way.
This period seemed to inaugurate a series of little wars, which, nevertheless, then excited the interest of the people, whose descendants may well remark how comparatively small these wars were. The Ashantee campaign ended in the fall of Coomassie on the 4th of February, 1874, and Sir Garnet Wolseley added fresh laurels to his fame. It was with real regret that the public looked in vain for the portrait of King Koffee at Madame Tussaud’s. As the dusky potentate had evidently never had his photograph taken, and as “sittings” were out of the question, we could not very well gratify the public curiosity for lack of the necessary data.
Not only did people expect to discover King Koffee’s portrait, but they also clamoured to see his famous umbrella, which Wolseley “borrowed” from His Majesty’s mud-palace at Coomassie, and obviously failed to return, for the umbrella was accepted as a gift by Queen Victoria from the gallant Commander of this brief and brilliant expedition. We confessed thento a twinge of envy that the celebrated gamp had not found its way to Madame Tussaud’s. We were, however, amply compensated by the public favour with which the portrait of Sir Garnet was received.
KING CETEWAYODeposed King of the Zulus, who visited England as the “guest of the Government” and whose image in wax remains at Madame Tussaud’s as a memorial of his visit.
KING CETEWAYO
Deposed King of the Zulus, who visited England as the “guest of the Government” and whose image in wax remains at Madame Tussaud’s as a memorial of his visit.
The deposed King of the Zulus, Cetewayo, who was subsequently restored to a portion of his kingdom, made a considerable stir when he visited this country as the “guest of the Government.” A friend who was appointed to take shorthand notes when Cetewayo attended at the Foreign Office enabled me to gain a view of the burly black monarch, and I had an opportunity of comparing the original with the many published portraits.
He was a handsome type of a fine race, and looked a king even among the stalwart members of his suite, everyone of whom seemed to be six feet at least in height and well-proportioned.
Cetewayo’s figure had been in the Exhibition some time before, and it now became possible to bring it up to date. Everything was done to impress Cetewayo with the strength of the British Empire; but it was discovered that the objects which appealed most to his savage taste were the cattle in the fields, the cloth in the factories, and the gewgaws and jewels in the shop windows.
“He is uglier than that,” said an envoy of the Induna King, Gungunhana, critically scrutinising Cetewayo’s figure, when he visited the Exhibition in June, 1891.
This native envoy rejoiced in the name of Huluhulu-Untato, his companion being Umfeti-Inteni.They thought the figures were really dead bodies which had been preserved from decay. When told that they were merely waxen images the Indunas expressed disappointment that the white man had not completed his work by putting breath into the bodies.
When Huluhulu came before the figure of Queen Victoria he saluted Her silent Majesty, and stood audibly worshipping her for a minute or two.
The Berlin Congress—Lord Beaconsfield and the “Turnerelli wreath”—“The People’s Tribute” finds a home at Tussaud’s—The sculptor’s despair—He constructs his tombstone and dies.
The Berlin Congress—Lord Beaconsfield and the “Turnerelli wreath”—“The People’s Tribute” finds a home at Tussaud’s—The sculptor’s despair—He constructs his tombstone and dies.
The year 1876—in which we find the Prince of Wales arriving at Calcutta, the commercial metropolis of India; “Empress of India” added to the royal titles of Queen Victoria; and Disraeli’s elevation to the Upper House as Earl of Beaconsfield—gave us subjects that kept our studios extremely busy, and also brought a constant stream of visitors to the Exhibition.
The portrait of the Queen had now to be remodelled; that of the Prince of Wales appeared in the garb of a big-game hunter; and Disraeli’s doffed its ordinary attire for the robes of a peer.
Following these “moving” events, we now come to a period when the country became apprehensively aware of ominous happenings in the Balkan States.
Russia declared war on Turkey in 1877, and forced a clear road to Constantinople. This threat to our Eastern Empire aroused the spirit of war, particularly in London, and “gentlemen of the pavement,” as Bismarck styled the men in the street, gloried in the ultra-patriotic sentiment which obtained the name of“Jingo”; while music-halls and taverns rang with the rousing chorus embodying that distinctive epithet:
We don’t want to fight,But, by jingo, if we do,We’ve got the ships, we’ve got the men,And we’ve got the money too.
We don’t want to fight,But, by jingo, if we do,We’ve got the ships, we’ve got the men,And we’ve got the money too.
We don’t want to fight,But, by jingo, if we do,We’ve got the ships, we’ve got the men,And we’ve got the money too.
We don’t want to fight,
But, by jingo, if we do,
We’ve got the ships, we’ve got the men,
And we’ve got the money too.
Lord Beaconsfield’s prompt demand that a halt should be called to hostilities, for the adjustment of differences between the belligerents, led to the Berlin Congress, and gave us an excellent opportunity of adding an imposing group of the European statesmen who framed the Berlin Treaty.
Yet, so mercurial is the public taste, and so pronounced is the love of the British race for anything that is amusingly abnormal, that I doubt whether ten people did not come to see the “Turnerelli wreath” for one who came to scan the features of these great peace-makers.
“What was the ‘Turnerelli wreath’?” the present generation may ask. It was the pivot of a political comedy that set the whole nation laughing.
EDWARD TRACY TURNERELLIPromoter of “The People’s Tribute” refused by Lord Beaconsfield.
EDWARD TRACY TURNERELLI
Promoter of “The People’s Tribute” refused by Lord Beaconsfield.
Edward Tracy Turnerelli, a sculptor’s son, and himself a sculptor, instituted a penny subscription to present Lord Beaconsfield with a gold laurel wreath, which he called “The People’s Tribute,” in appreciation of his many services to the State and in commemoration of his great part in the deliberations of the Berlin Congress.
Fifty-two thousand workmen subscribed their pennies in vain, for Lord Beaconsfield courteously, but firmly, declined the gift, and it was left on Turnerelli’shands; while he, of course, could hardly be expected to refund the copper contributions.
I am indebted to Mr. J. H. Bottomley, Conservative agent for Clapham, for a copy of the following interesting autograph letter from Lord Beaconsfield, expressing his satisfaction that the course he had adopted in declining to accept the wreath had met with the approval of many who had been induced to sanction the proposed gift:
10 Downing Street, Whitehall, August 11th, 1879.Dear Sir,I have the honour to acknowledge your letter of the 9th inst.It gives me much satisfaction to learn that the course I felt it my duty to take with respect to a certain pseudo-testimonial has met with the approval of many of those who, originally, by misleading representations, were induced to sanction a surreptitious gift.I am gratified by the suggestion, which, on behalf of various Conservative associations, you put before me, that I should receive a National Address of confidence as a substitution for the rejected offering, but when I call to mind that the present policy of Her Majesty’s Government, unchanged and unshaken, is precisely the same as that which, scarcely a year ago, received an unanimous and most honourable expression of approval from the Conservative Association of this country, I hope I am not presumptuous if, without now troubling them for its renewed avowal, I still venture to count on the continued confidence, which, then, was so welcome and so cheering.Faithfully yours,Beaconsfield.
10 Downing Street, Whitehall, August 11th, 1879.
Dear Sir,
I have the honour to acknowledge your letter of the 9th inst.
It gives me much satisfaction to learn that the course I felt it my duty to take with respect to a certain pseudo-testimonial has met with the approval of many of those who, originally, by misleading representations, were induced to sanction a surreptitious gift.
I am gratified by the suggestion, which, on behalf of various Conservative associations, you put before me, that I should receive a National Address of confidence as a substitution for the rejected offering, but when I call to mind that the present policy of Her Majesty’s Government, unchanged and unshaken, is precisely the same as that which, scarcely a year ago, received an unanimous and most honourable expression of approval from the Conservative Association of this country, I hope I am not presumptuous if, without now troubling them for its renewed avowal, I still venture to count on the continued confidence, which, then, was so welcome and so cheering.
Faithfully yours,
Beaconsfield.
The postman who delivered this letter to Mr. Bottomley offered him all his savings (£19 5s.) for the letter.
Mr. Bottomley received in five days, in 1879, more than 3,000 pennies from the working men of Oldham, together with the personal signature of each contributor, and he holds Mr. Turnerelli’s receipt for the £13 5s. he sent him for the tribute.
The wreath was offered to us, and purchased at its gold valuation.
I looked at it to-day, and renewed my admiration of its artistic design and remarkable beauty. Every leaf is of gold, and under each one is inscribed the name of a town where a committee collected the pennies. The “tie” bears the inscription “Tracy Turnerelli, chairman.”
THE TURNERELLI WREATH“The People’s Tribute” offered to and declined by Lord Beaconsfield in 1879.
THE TURNERELLI WREATH
“The People’s Tribute” offered to and declined by Lord Beaconsfield in 1879.
While London roared and cynics wrote satirical quips, the promoter of “The People’s Tribute” took its rejection very much to heart. I have seen a cabinet-size photograph of the disappointed sculptor, taken immediately afterwards, showing him with head thrown back, resting on his left hand, in a theatrical posture of profound despair.
Before the Beaconsfield wreath made the name of Turnerelli a byword, the public-spirited sculptor, who had spent a long time in Russia, vehemently opposed the Crimean War, as did also Mr. John Bright. Turnerelli was received by Lord Aberdeen on the subject, and the Prime Minister was said to have been impressed by the sculptor’s sincerity and the cogency of his arguments. He also saw Lord John Russell, thenForeign Secretary, Lord Clarendon, and Lord Palmerston. In one particular he was vindicated. He declared that Cronstadt was impregnable, and as the war went on this proved to be the case.
Turnerelli, unluckily for himself, thereafter entertained the chimerical idea of presenting the golden laurel chaplet to Lord Beaconsfield, estimating that the cost of each leaf would be about £5. He succeeded, at any rate, in convincing sceptical people that there were at least 52,000 Conservative working men in the country. The wreath was made by Messrs. Hunt and Roskell, who put it on exhibition at their rooms. It was also shown to the Prince of Wales and other members of the Royal Family before being exhibited at the Crystal Palace.
Turnerelli’s own explanation of Lord Beaconsfield’s refusal to accept the wreath was a curious one. He stated that a “high legal functionary” warned Lord Beaconsfield that the wreath was a typical “Imperial diadem” which could only be loyally offered to a sovereign, and that it would be an insult to the Crown if a subject were to accept such a gift.
This same legal authority, Turnerelli said, reminded him that the promoter of such a presentation would have been consigned, in previous reigns, to the Tower of London.
These warnings came too late for Turnerelli, who, had he known about them sooner, might have substituted an inoffensive golden inkstand or a pair of golden candlesticks. But the wreath was allowed to go on to completion, to be put on exhibition, andto be written about in a light and fleering spirit; while the statesman to whom it was to be presented offered no remonstrance until the pennies of the 52,000 working men had been spent on it.
Flippant people suggested that the whole affair was a “plant” on Turnerelli’s part to win from Lord Beaconsfield some honour or emolument; but those who knew Turnerelli well scouted this insinuation, and attributed the whole proceeding to the guileless sincerity of the man.
Had he never embarked upon the wreath project, he might have preserved some reputation as a writer of topical political verse and pamphlets. The wreath, however, may serve to preserve his memory longer, as an episode in the life of the great Conservative statesman whom he artlessly, rather than artfully, desired to honour.
In a curious last will and testament Turnerelli said: “I leave the gold laurel wreath to the nation, provided my generous friends the Conservatives will help me to cover the hundred and fifty pounds or thereabouts I have personally expended upon it.”
To a Birmingham gentleman, with whom he had almost completed negotiations for the sale of the wreath for £245, he wrote: “By the advice of influential friends I have determined to let Madame Tussaud & Sons have the privilege of exhibiting the wreath.” Turnerelli compensated the Birmingham would-be purchaser for alleged breach of contract.
Punch, of the 22nd of November, 1879, contained the following: “What the Wreath has come to.—Thebrows of Lord Beaconsfield at Madame Tussaud’s.Punchsaid it would, and it has.”
Funny Folkssaid: “The Beaconsfield Wreath is at Madame Tussaud’s, probably worn by his lordship’s effigy. Curious that this emblem of popularity should be on the wax, while the popularity itself is on the wane.”
It may be stated that the gold wreath never rested on the waxen brows of Lord Beaconsfield, despite whatPunchsaid to the contrary.
I am reminded that, in his latter days, Turnerelli sought consolation for worldly disdain in designing and constructing his own tombstone. This was erected in Leamington Cemetery about four years before his death, and serves as a monument not only for himself, but also for his father, who was a famous sculptor in the early part of the century, and is buried in London.
After the erection of the tombstone the younger Turnerelli regularly went to gaze at it for an hour or two. The block is surmounted by an imitation in stone of the famous rejected wreath.
Turnerelli died at Leamington on the 24th of January, 1896, aged eighty-four years.
The Phœnix Park murders—We secure the jaunting-car and pony—Charles Bradlaugh—General Boulanger—Lord Roberts inspects the model of himself.
The Phœnix Park murders—We secure the jaunting-car and pony—Charles Bradlaugh—General Boulanger—Lord Roberts inspects the model of himself.
The requirements of the business have often necessitated our sending fairly far afield in quest of exhibits, and this has seldom been done without success, as people with desirable relics to dispose of appear to have recognised the claims of Madame Tussaud’s.
Between seven and eight o’clock on Saturday evening, the 6th of May, 1882, Lord Frederick Cavendish, the newly appointed Chief Secretary for Ireland, and Mr. Thomas Burke, the Permanent Irish Under-Secretary, were stabbed to death in Phœnix Park, Dublin, and twenty “Invincibles” were subsequently tried for the murder, five being hanged, three sentenced to penal servitude for life, and nine to various terms of imprisonment.
LORD FREDERICK CAVENDISHChief Secretary for Ireland, who met his death by assassination in Phœnix Park, Dublin, May 6th, 1882. One of the most noted of the many victims of Irish political agitators.
LORD FREDERICK CAVENDISH
Chief Secretary for Ireland, who met his death by assassination in Phœnix Park, Dublin, May 6th, 1882. One of the most noted of the many victims of Irish political agitators.
James Carey, who turned Queen’s evidence and was acquitted, paid for the betrayal of his associates with his life, for he was shot by Patrick O’Donnell on board theMelrose Castle, near Port Elizabeth, South Africa, on the 24th of July, 1883. The Government, in theirefforts to get Carey safely into another part of the world under an assumed name, were thus outwitted by the “Invincible” avengers.
It had been intimated to the management of the Exhibition that there was a chance of Madame Tussaud’s obtaining from Michael Kavanagh the jaunting-car in which the assassins drove to and from the scene of the crime. Kavanagh was a typical Dublin jarvey, with an almost unintelligible brogue, from whom the car was hired. The assassins drove several miles circuitously about the scene of the tragedy with the object of escaping detection.
Our representative was forthwith sent to Dublin, and soon found himself in possession of Kavanagh’s car. The good-humoured jarvey seemed glad to be rid of the vehicle; anyhow, the price he asked was not a prohibitive one.
One thing was particularly noticeable, namely, that the number on the car differed from the number quoted in the newspaper accounts describing it when taken by the police. It was discovered, however, that the “Invincibles” had changed the number before the fateful journey. A condition was made by Kavanagh that the pony which drew the car should also be purchased, as he wished to have done with them both.
It took only a few hours to complete the transaction, and thereafter Kavanagh drove the purchaser over the ground traversed by the assassins in their endeavours to throw the police off the scent. This was a voluntary act on the part of Kavanagh, and our representative was curiously exercised at the time tounderstand why he imagined the trip should interest him.
To facilitate transit the car was taken to pieces by a coach-builder at Kingstown and wrapped in sacking, in the hope that it would not be observed. It was then put on the night boat for Holyhead.
The pony found a home in stables belonging to the Exhibition, and soon afterwards came to an untimely end from too little exercise and a too liberal allowance of provender. Why we did not sell the pony for what it might fetch is more than can be told to-day; it may be surmised that such an expedient did not occur to our minds.
On the voyage across passengers whispered to each other that the Phœnix Park car was on board, and on its arrival in London there appeared among the latest telegrams in an evening paper: “Kavanagh’s car goes to Madame Tussaud’s.” Evidently the Irish correspondents had wired the news of which we ourselves had hoped to make a special announcement.
The car was soon put together, and placed on view at the Exhibition in one of the rooms adjacent to the Chamber of Horrors, and in another part of the Exhibition were shown the portraits of Lord Frederick Cavendish and Mr. Burke.
After being exhibited many years the car was given to a gentleman who manifested an interest in it. Its new owner had it renovated for his own use as a private conveyance, and he might often have been seen driving it in the streets of London, no one suspecting its notorious history.
CHARLES BRADLAUGHEnglish radical politician and advocate of secularism.
CHARLES BRADLAUGH
English radical politician and advocate of secularism.
Charles Bradlaugh sat many times to my father, and proved an entertaining and patient subject, sincerely desirous that his portrait should be a true representation of himself. He discussed the troubles he was then passing through in the political arena over the oath, for which, after much contention, he was permitted to substitute an affirmation.
I remember him in his comings and goings, wearing a frock-coat and silk hat, tall and of commanding appearance, always affable and chatty.
A humorous writer of the day made fun of Mr. Bradlaugh’s advent at Madame Tussaud’s as follows:
Tremendous excitement on the admission of Mr. Bradlaugh in wax into Madame Tussaud’s establishment. Cobbett’s figure gave an extra kick of delight, and as he offered his snuff-box to the unwelcome guest he assured him that he was a friend at a pinch. Oliver Cromwell, Cranmer, and Charles I were indignant. The Russian giant is annoyed, and Tom Thumb threatens to make the place too hot for him. Figures waxing wrath!Latest telegram from Baker Street: “Bradlaugh cool; great heat. Cromwell showing signs of melting; all melting. Sleeping Beauty undisturbed.”The latest latest: “Threatened with the guillotine in the Chamber of Horrors if they are not quiet. Tranquillity restored.”
Tremendous excitement on the admission of Mr. Bradlaugh in wax into Madame Tussaud’s establishment. Cobbett’s figure gave an extra kick of delight, and as he offered his snuff-box to the unwelcome guest he assured him that he was a friend at a pinch. Oliver Cromwell, Cranmer, and Charles I were indignant. The Russian giant is annoyed, and Tom Thumb threatens to make the place too hot for him. Figures waxing wrath!
Latest telegram from Baker Street: “Bradlaugh cool; great heat. Cromwell showing signs of melting; all melting. Sleeping Beauty undisturbed.”
The latest latest: “Threatened with the guillotine in the Chamber of Horrors if they are not quiet. Tranquillity restored.”
On many occasions it has been my office to accompany round the Exhibition visitors whose likenesses were at the time on view—always a trying ordeal.
I call to mind the visit paid by General Boulanger shortly after that Meteoric ex-Minister of War quittedParis for London to avoid arrest. It will be remembered that Boulanger was wounded in a duel with Floquet, his political antagonist, and that he dramatically ended his chequered life by shooting himself on the grave, in Brussels, of the woman to whom he was fondly attached.
GENERAL BOULANGERMeteoric Minister of War for France, who ended his life in Brussels by shooting himself on the grave of the woman to whom he was devoted.
GENERAL BOULANGER
Meteoric Minister of War for France, who ended his life in Brussels by shooting himself on the grave of the woman to whom he was devoted.
As we stood before his facsimile, which had been only recently modelled, and, as it happened, represented him as considerably younger than his years, the General smiled and said, when I invited him to grant me a special sitting, “It is very, very good; do not touch it.” I fancied that, like most people, Boulanger had no objection to a flattering youthful reproduction of himself.
Boulanger’s inclusion at Madame Tussaud’s was the subject of a full-page cartoon by Tenniel inPunch, showing the be-medalled General standing in his stirrups on horseback and waving his hand as though in the act of delivering an important command. The cartoon was entitled “ChezMadame Tussaud’s.” An Exhibition employé was represented as saying to the little black-bonneted Madame—with a covert allusion to the General’s political reverses—“Where is he to be putnow, ma’am?”
It was with a certain amount of surprise that I realised a short time ago, when the question was put to me by a prominent member of the Press, that during the thirty years I have been exclusively responsible for the modelling here, together with the fifteen or sixteen years in which I was working under my father,I must have produced, with studies, close upon a thousand models.
It is, of course, quite natural that many celebrities who pay a visit to the Exhibition, well knowing that their likenesses, have a place within it, are not escorted round the galleries. For the most part, coyly and shyly they seek out their own models, and, more often than not, approach them with a concern born of a too-studied indifference that is sometimes extremely amusing.
“Bobs” was not of that order; he was a notable exception to the general rule.
“Where’s my figure?” he asked plump and plain, and around it he stepped, quizzically examining it from various points of view. When he had satisfied himself that it was a fairly true representation, he ejaculated, “Not at all bad! Not at all bad!” and walked off to inspect the relics of the great Napoleon.
Lord Roberts’s figure had been installed soon after his famous march from Kabul to Khandahar in the Afghan War.
My favourite portrait—Lord Tennyson poses unconsciously before my wife—“This beats Tussaud’s”—Sir Richard Burton—His widow clothes the model.
My favourite portrait—Lord Tennyson poses unconsciously before my wife—“This beats Tussaud’s”—Sir Richard Burton—His widow clothes the model.
Of all the portraits of my own modelling, I think, if I may be permitted to express an opinion, I like that of Lord Tennyson as well as any. It revives pleasant memories, and I will ask my readers if I may bring my wife into this part of my story. By a coincidence, as I raised my eyes at this moment, my glance fell upon a bust of Tennyson resting on a shelf in my studio.
HEAD OF LORD TENNYSON (POET LAUREATE 1850-1892)The bust modeled by John T. Tussaud, first exhibited at the Royal Academy, London, in 1892, now in the Tussaud collection.
HEAD OF LORD TENNYSON (POET LAUREATE 1850-1892)
The bust modeled by John T. Tussaud, first exhibited at the Royal Academy, London, in 1892, now in the Tussaud collection.
About the time when I was engaged with the model of the great Victorian poet I had rented a farm cottage near Freshwater, Isle of Wight, and I remember my wife telling me that she frequently saw Tennyson in the neighbourhood.
On several occasions the poet, who lived at Farringford, near by, while taking his daily constitutional, came and leant upon the garden gate, evidently charmed with the beauty of the place. The old thatched roof and the quaint attractiveness of the cottage might well have given rise to reflections in less imaginative minds than that of a poet.
I had not the opportunity of studying Tennyson’sfeatures at that time; but my wife, coyly hidden in a favourite spot in the garden, was able to observe him closely. Being herself an artist of no mean ability, she thus afforded me considerable help in the production of his portrait.
It seems strange that perhaps the most reclusive of men should have unwittingly come forward and posed, as it were, at the very door of the artist who was then desirous of obtaining sittings.
One day, while I was at work in the studio on Tennyson, I was visited by Father Haythornthwaite, rector of the Catholic Church at Freshwater. The priest was greatly interested, and he must have conveyed to the poet the intelligence that I was about to place his figure in Madame Tussaud’s, for very shortly afterwards I learned that Tennyson was particularly desirous that I should bear in mind that, in spite of his four-score years, he had not a grey hair in his head—a touch of nature that seemed to me particularly human.
A nice but unintentional compliment was paid to one of our tableaux about this time by the present King, when he was Duke of York. We complied with a request to furnish a representation of the scene of the death of Nelson in the cockpit of theVictoryfor the Royal Naval Exhibition at Chelsea in May, 1891. This tableau was founded on the famous picture by Devis, which found a permanent home at Greenwich Hospital in 1825; and it was very well received by the visitors to the Exhibition. The compliment towhich I allude was not heard by me, but it was reported in the Press at the time that the Duke of York, while looking at the tableau, exclaimed, “Why, this beats Tussaud’s!”
The tableau has been in our Exhibition ever since, and is a great favourite with all. When the present Prince of Wales and his brother Albert paid us a visit, the Sailor Prince looked long and intently at the historic scene. Both boys were also a good deal moved as they gazed on the tableau showing the murder of the two little princes in the Tower of London—a representation over which many impressionable people have been unable to keep dry eyes.