And while the armèd bandsDid clap their bloody hands,He nothing common did, nor mean,Upon that memorable scene;Nor called the gods, in vulgar spite,To vindicate his helpless might;But, with his keener eyeThe axe’s edge did try;Then bowed his comely headDown, as upon a bed.
And while the armèd bandsDid clap their bloody hands,He nothing common did, nor mean,Upon that memorable scene;Nor called the gods, in vulgar spite,To vindicate his helpless might;But, with his keener eyeThe axe’s edge did try;Then bowed his comely headDown, as upon a bed.
And while the armèd bandsDid clap their bloody hands,He nothing common did, nor mean,Upon that memorable scene;Nor called the gods, in vulgar spite,To vindicate his helpless might;But, with his keener eyeThe axe’s edge did try;Then bowed his comely headDown, as upon a bed.
And while the armèd bands
Did clap their bloody hands,
He nothing common did, nor mean,
Upon that memorable scene;
Nor called the gods, in vulgar spite,
To vindicate his helpless might;
But, with his keener eye
The axe’s edge did try;
Then bowed his comely head
Down, as upon a bed.
Others narrate that the Queen ascended the steps of the scaffold in great haste, and with apparent impatience, and turned her eyes with much emotion towards the Palace of the Tuileries, the scene of her former greatness, and that she made some slight resistance before submitting to the executioner. My own impression is that she was two-thirds dead—that therigor mortiswas upon her before she reached the scaffold;that she was lifted out of the cart and half carried to the guillotine, and that she did not give the headsman and his assistants the slightest trouble.
It is, at all events, certain that at half past twelve her head was severed from her body. One of thevalets du bourreau, or executioner’s men, lifted and showed the head streaming with blood, from the four quarters of the scaffold, the mob meanwhile screeching “Vive la République!” and it is asserted that a young man who dipped his handkerchief in the blood, and pressed it with veneration to his heart, was instantly apprehended. The corpse of Marie Antoinette was immediately flung into a pit filled with quicklime, in the graveyard of the Madeleine where the remains of her husband had also been interred.
At the Restoration in 1814, diligent search was made for the ashes of the King and Queen in the cemetery, on the site of which was subsequently erected an Expiatory Chapel. Some half calcined bones and a few scraps of cloth and linen were found; and these last having been identified by experts as having been part of the apparel of Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette, the relics with a considerable quantity of the surrounding earth, were inhumed with much pomp and solemnity, in the Royal Vault of the Cathedral of St. Denis.
Touching the executioner, it may be expedient to record that Marie Antoinette was guillotined, not by Charles Henri Sanson, who beheaded Louis XVI, but by his son, Henri, who died in Paris in 1840, aged seventy-three. The elder Sanson died only a few weeks after he had executed Louis, and the Royalist historiansmaintain that his death was hastened by remorse for the deed which he had been constrained to commit, and that in his will he bequeathed a considerable sum for the celebration of an annual Expiatory Mass. But this is very doubtful. It has been shown, however, without the possibility of doubt, that the Sanson family were of Florentine origin, and that the ancestors of Charles Henri and of Henri Sanson came to France in the train of Catherine de Medicis. For two hundred years, without intermission, had members of this gloomy historic family been executioners in ordinary to the city of Paris.
In addition to Marie Antoinette, the younger Sanson decapitated the Queen’s sister-in-law, Madame Elisabeth, and the eloquent advocate, Malesherbes, who undertook the defence of Louise XVI. He likewise beheaded the Duke of Orléans (Philippe Égalité), and last, but not least, Maximilien Robespierre. The so-calledMemoirs of the Sanson Familyare more than half suspected to be mainly apocryphal, and to have been written by one D’Olbreuse, a bookseller’s hack; and, according to a writer in the ParisTemps, in 1875 the last of the Sansons was a remarkably mild, flaccid and stupid old gentleman, who was certainly incapable of writing any “Memoirs” whatever, since his own memory was hopelessly decayed, and whose circumstances in his old age became so embarrassed that he was arrested for debt, and confined in the prison of Clichy, whence he only procured his enlargement bypawning the guillotine itselffor 4,000 francs!
Shortly after the conclusion of this singular transaction,a murderer had to be executed, and the usual instructions were issued by the Procureur General to Henri Sanson, to have his death dealing apparatus ready on a certain morning in the Place de la Roquette. It then became necessary to explain to the authorities that the fatal machine was practically in the custody of My Uncle. Justice, however, had to be satisfied, and the murderer’s head was duly cut off on the appointed morning; but simultaneously with the signature of the Minister of Justice of a draft for 4,000 francs to release the hypothecated guillotine, there was issued an order dismissing Sanson from his post.
And Marie Antoinette? I have drawn her picture as faithfully as I could, not without much toil and more perplexity for the memoirs of the period in which she lived and died absolutely bristle with falsehoods, the inventions now of Royalist and now of Republican writers. Comparatively few are the facts concerning her which have been exactly ascertained and are altogether indisputable; whereas the name of the unfounded assertions, the insinuations, the hypotheses, and the downright lies, is legion. By some this most unhappy woman has been represented as an angel of goodness and purity, a faithful spouse, a fond parent, a kind mistress, and a most pious and charitable princess. By others she has been depicted as a crafty, unscrupulous and vindictive woman, as perfidious as Borgia and profligate as Messalina.
This is no place in which to discuss at length a most intricate question, all hedged about by obscurity, uncertainties and mysteries which will, perhaps, neverbe solved. At all events, the story which I have told of her trial and her last moments is true. For the rest, both Royalists and Republicans agree that Marie Antoinette was born at Vienna, in 1755, and was the daughter of Francis of Lorraine, Emperor of Germany, and of Marie Theresa of Austria. In May, 1770, she married the Dauphin Louis, who was grandson of Louis XV of France, and who, in 1774, ascended the French throne as Louis XVI. It would not seem that Marie Antoinette was absolutely beautiful, as beautiful, say, as Queen Louisa of Prussia, or as the Empress Eugene, still there is a tolerably unanimous consensus of opinion that she was handsome, lively, amiable, and thoroughly kind-hearted. It is possible that she may have been a little thoughtless in her youth; and the ledgers of Madame Eloffe certainly show that, as regards her toilet, Marie Antoinette was a most prodigal Queen. But is it a mortal sin in a young, pretty and sprightly woman to spend a good deal of money on dress? How many hundred dresses did our chaste Queen Elizabeth leave behind her, in her wardrobe, at her death?
It must be granted that when the dissensions of the Revolution began, Marie Antoinette was on the Conservative side, and that she tried her hardest to incline her husband to that side. Was it so very unnatural that she should do so? Her brother, the Emperor Joseph, used to say that “Royalty was his trade”; and poor Marie Antoinette may have laboured under a similar persuasion. But the times were very bad indeed for the “trade” of Royalty, and there arose a grimconviction among the working millions that the best way of mending matters was to dethrone, plunder, and murder their masters and mistresses.
The influence of Marie Antoinette in the councils of Louis has been, I should say, considerably exaggerated by her enemies. Her husband, naturally disposed to concession, was by temper irresolute, and he allowed himself to be led away by the course of events, instead of striving to control and direct them. There can be little doubt, either, that Marie Antoinette was one of the chief advisers of the flight of the King and Royal Family to Varennes; and that imprudent enterprise served, even more fiercely, to inflame the public animosity against herself and her husband.
But again, I fail to see the criminality of this attempted escape. The King and Queen knew well enough that the Revolutionists intended to deprive them of their crowns, and, in all probability, of their lives, they had no adequate armed force with which to resist the mob. Were they not justified in running away? After the deposition of Louis, all the elements of grandeur in the character of Marie Antoinette began to manifest themselves. She showed the greatest courage during the dastardly attacks made on the Royal Family; and she appeared to be always more anxious for the safety of her husband and children than for her own. She shared their captivity with noble resignation, and her demeanour under the most trying circumstances never lost an iota of its dignity. In the presence of her judges her fortitude never forsook her; her burst of indignant maternal feeling overawed eventhe butchers who were perverting and burlesquing the law to bring her to the shambles; and her behaviour in almost unparalleled misfortunes, has won for her not only the pity and the sympathy, but the reverent admiration of posterity.
More sitters—Mr. John Burns walks and talks—We buy his only suit—Mr. George Bernard Shaw has to work for his living—General Booth—Four leading suffragettes—Christabel’s model “speaks”—The Channel swimmer.
More sitters—Mr. John Burns walks and talks—We buy his only suit—Mr. George Bernard Shaw has to work for his living—General Booth—Four leading suffragettes—Christabel’s model “speaks”—The Channel swimmer.
The most restless of all my sitters was the Right Honourable John Burns, when he was plain John Burns.
I modelled him in the year 1889 or 1890, at the time of the great Dock Strike. Mr. Burns was then throwing all his magnetic personality into the cause of the workers, and he brought some of that magnetic personality into my studio. Only in a technical sense did he “sit” to me. He was walking and talking all the time.
These were very turbulent days, and Mr. Burns had figured in the Trafalgar Square riots. Shipowners and shipbuilders—and everybody, I imagine, having more than £500 a year—were the objects of his implacable distrust. He was a younger and poorer man then.
Mr. Burns wore the blue reefer suit which had survived the jostlings of many a crowd, but he did not bring to my studio the famous straw hat of which so much was written in the Press at that time. When I spoke to him about the hat he rather fenced the question, and to this day I believe that hat to be somewherein Mr. Burns’s possession as a treasured souvenir of his stressful past. I have never seen Mr. Burns wearing any other kind of clothes than blue serge.
I struck a bargain with the dockers’ champion that he should let me have the suit he was wearing with which to clothe his portrait in the Exhibition, and so complete the realism of the model. Mr. Burns demurred at first, and then it appeared he had an extremely good reason for doing so. It was the only suit he possessed, and we agreed that I should have it as soon as I provided him with a new one to take its place on his own back.
Mr. Burns told the story of this transaction in reply to an interrupter at a public meeting.
“Where did you get that suit?” asked the interrogator.
“I got it,” said Mr. Burns frankly, “from Madame Tussaud’s. When my portrait was put in the Exhibition you may, or you may not, have noticed that it was wearing my old suit. As I had no other clothes the management gave me the suit I am wearing now, and I hope you will agree that I made a pretty good bargain.”
The audience cheered the speaker and booed the heckler.
Mr. Burns’s portrait has been brought up to date since then, but it still wears the old reefer suit, and the fact of this being out of the fashion and rather skimpy only adds to the effectiveness of the picture by recalling the working man the late Sir Henry Campbell-Bannerman raised to Cabinet rank.
They tell me Mr. Burns is getting white, but when I modelled him his hair was black and plentiful.
Judycommemorated the suit incident in the following verse, depicting Burns making figure eights on the ice:
’Ave ye seen Johnny BurnsStrikin’ figgers on the hice?’Ave ye seen his twists and turns?—Sure, an’ can’t he do it nice!In his Tussaud’s suit of navy blue’N’ his famous old straw hat,With his Hacmes ’n’ his knobstick too,A reg’lar ’ristocrat!
’Ave ye seen Johnny BurnsStrikin’ figgers on the hice?’Ave ye seen his twists and turns?—Sure, an’ can’t he do it nice!In his Tussaud’s suit of navy blue’N’ his famous old straw hat,With his Hacmes ’n’ his knobstick too,A reg’lar ’ristocrat!
’Ave ye seen Johnny BurnsStrikin’ figgers on the hice?’Ave ye seen his twists and turns?—Sure, an’ can’t he do it nice!In his Tussaud’s suit of navy blue’N’ his famous old straw hat,With his Hacmes ’n’ his knobstick too,A reg’lar ’ristocrat!
’Ave ye seen Johnny Burns
Strikin’ figgers on the hice?
’Ave ye seen his twists and turns?—
Sure, an’ can’t he do it nice!
In his Tussaud’s suit of navy blue
’N’ his famous old straw hat,
With his Hacmes ’n’ his knobstick too,
A reg’lar ’ristocrat!
A contrast to Mr. Burns, though possibly of similar socialistic opinions, was Mr. George Bernard Shaw, whom I long wanted to sit to me.
I had not made the acquaintance of the brilliant satirist, and somehow hesitated about approaching him. Eventually I wrote to Mr. Shaw making known my wish, and, without delay, I received from him a good-humoured letter, in which he said that it would give him much pleasure to “join the company of the Immortals.”
A little later he wrote making an appointment, and, in due course, Mr. Shaw came to my studio and gave me a delightful hour of his company.
He took up his position on the dais in the most natural manner, and there was nothing more for me to do than proceed with my modelling. I do not know who was the more amused, Mr. Shaw or myself—I by his sayings, and he by the novelty of the situation.
He talked freely as I went on with my work, and one thing among his many whimsical sayings I well remember:
“I took to writing with the object of obtaining a living without having to work for it, but I have long since realised that I made a great mistake.”
As we walked through the Exhibition he took a general interest in all he saw, but it was the Napoleonic relics that detained him, as is generally the case with distinguished people.
I thought I detected a certain shyness about Mr. Shaw in the Chamber of Horrors. He was very reserved, and surveyed the faces of degenerate men and women without offering any criticism. I remember that the crafty, and yet not wholly repulsive, face of Charles Peace engaged Mr. Shaw’s attention several minutes.
I have no knowledge whether Mr. Shaw ever called to see his portrait. It is quite likely that he did, and it is no less likely that his visit passed unobserved.
It was inevitable that so prominent a figure in the religious world as the late General Booth should find a place in Madame Tussaud’s Exhibition.
I went to see the General at the instance of some of his friends, who thought that the portrait of him already included would be all the better for being brought up to date. I recollect being impressed by General Booth’s force of character as manifested alike in his manner and in his appearance. He had a keen eye and classic aquiline features.
Though he made no mention of the matter himself,it was pretty plainly hinted to me that permission to include the General’s portrait should be accompanied by some expression of gratitude on the part of the Exhibition authorities “for the good of the cause.”
I also went to Exeter Hall to study the General’s demeanour while addressing a large audience.
What I remember mostly about that visit was that a “converted” sailor mounted the platform and made a rambling speech. So frank were the confessions of the artless tar that General Booth found it necessary to bundle him unceremoniously off the platform, to the great amusement of the congregation.
I was much interested in modelling a quartette of leading suffragettes, Mrs. Pankhurst, Mrs. Pethick Lawrence, Miss Christabel Pankhurst, and Miss Annie Kenney.
The group is conspicuously shown in the Grand Hall to-day. The ladies came separately, several mornings, and took as much interest as I did in the production of their portraits, a process that was in no sense tedious, as their conversation whiled away the time most pleasantly.
I very soon became aware that the suffragette on the political warpath is a very different woman from the suffragette in other circumstances.
None of them in the least degree frightened me or hectored me; in fact, political questions were discussed by them in the quietest, most sensible, and most intelligent manner, giving me the impression then that the extension of the vote to women would not find suchwomen unqualified to make reasonable use of the privilege so long withheld from them.
After the figures were added to the Exhibition, two of the four ladies very good-humouredly hinted to me that the portraits were not very flattering. I remember the ladies in question coming to see the group, and I promised I would make what alterations seemed possible and desirable. As I have not heard from them since, I gather that the likenesses have proved satisfactory.
Months later, after a batch of laughing damsels had left the building, a paper disc, bearing the words “Votes for Women,” was discovered fixed to a button on Mr. Asquith’s coat.
It was soon after the figures of the quartette had been placed in the Exhibition that an incident occurred which comes to me through the medium of a Fleet Street artist in black and white attached to a well-known paper.
This gentleman had been instructed to attend a meeting some distance away from town for the purpose of taking some sketches of Miss Christabel Pankhurst, who was announced to speak. Having left things till the last moment, he discovered, to his dismay, that he had missed his train, and, not knowing what to do, he was bewailing his misfortune to a fellow artist, when the latter slapped him on the back and said:
“Never mind, old fellow, you just go to Tussaud’s Exhibition and take as many pictures of the fair Christabel’s figure as you like. The model is a speaking likeness, and you can take it from me that thesketches will be all right; they will be quite as good as if drawn from life.”
The advice was no sooner given than acted upon, and the result, I am told, was most satisfactory.
Another sitter was Mr. T. W. Burgess, who came to my studio a few days after he swam the Channel.
The burly Yorkshireman laughed as he entered and remarked:
“I am in pretty good training, but I would rather swim the Channel again than sit still for you, Mr. Tussaud. However, I will do the best I can.”
He sold the clothes he took off before he entered the water, and these clothes are worn by his portrait, now in the Exhibition. He also parted with the goggles and indiarubber cap he had worn during his swim, and the cup from which he took nourishment. Unfortunately one of Burgess’s too ardent “admirers” purloined his hero’s cup from us.
T. W. BURGESS, THE CHANNEL SWIMMERModeled from life by John T. Tussaud. In common with many of the models in Madame Tussaud’s, this model is dressed in the subject’s own clothing.
T. W. BURGESS, THE CHANNEL SWIMMER
Modeled from life by John T. Tussaud. In common with many of the models in Madame Tussaud’s, this model is dressed in the subject’s own clothing.
Bank Holiday queues—Cup-tie day—Gentlemen from the north—Bachelor beanfeasts—The Member for Oldham—A scare.
Bank Holiday queues—Cup-tie day—Gentlemen from the north—Bachelor beanfeasts—The Member for Oldham—A scare.
The four regular Bank Holidays of the year are great occasions at Madame Tussaud’s.
On each of them the precincts of Tussaud’s show signs of activity long before the average Londoner is astir. The length of any of the queues has never been actually measured, but it is no exaggeration to say that the people have frequently waited four and five deep in a line extending almost a quarter of a mile—from the doors of the Exhibition to the gates of Regent’s Park.
The crowd at these times consists mainly of Londoners from all the outlying districts of the Metropolis, for Madame Tussaud’s has always been in great favour as a holiday resort for the multitude. Parents also bring their children in great numbers, and the holiday crowds continue to come for days after.
There is, however, at least one morning in the year when the portals of the Exhibition are literally teeming with life while the citizens are slumbering in bed.
On Easter Monday, Whit-Monday, the August Bank Holiday, and even on Boxing Day, holiday-makers may be seen at an early hour waiting in a queue, yetno comparison may be made between these crowds and those of the Cup-tie mornings I have witnessed at the Exhibition.
This day brings into London tens of thousands of men and boys from the densely populated manufacturing towns and mining areas of Lancashire, Yorkshire, Durham, and Northumberland. These football enthusiasts arrive in the Metropolis as early in the morning as two, three, and four o’clock on the day of the Crystal Palace carnival.
It has always seemed to me that Madame Tussaud’s has received the lion’s share of patronage during the long interval between the arrival of the cheap excursion trains at the great railway stations and the time when the Cup-tie is played in the afternoon. The attendance at these hours is extraordinary, and the appearance of a house of entertainment in full swing so early in the morning has an indescribably weird and garish effect.
These north country patrons of ours take up position on the steps of the entrance, and pass the time taking refreshments brought with them from their homes. Though weary with their journey, they are always cheery and well-behaved, and the way in which they banter each other in the broad accents of Oldham, Manchester, Leeds, Bradford, Sheffield, Halifax, Newcastle, etc., has many a time afforded me a good deal of interest and diversion.
I have often stood on the broad open staircase and looked down upon the swarming hundreds in the entrance-hall and the refreshment rooms and it is a happyexperience to dwell on that there has never been occasion to rebuke any of them for roughness or want of good behaviour. It is peculiarly true of the country cousin, so far as my experience of him goes, that he never indulges in horse-play when he comes to Madame Tussaud’s.
There is, however, one very striking contrast between the crowd on a Bank Holiday and that on a Cup-tie day, and this is due to the circumstances that the followers of football do not bring their women-folk or children with them on the occasion of these “bachelor” beanfeasts—a concession, I presume, made to their men by the wives and sweethearts of the north.
Not by a long way do all these excursionists go to see the great football finals at the Palace. Quite a large proportion, taking advantage of the cheap fares, come to see London and its many sights which the average Londoner proverbially overlooks.
It has more than once been remarked by the Exhibition attendants that many Cup-tie visitors spend the greater part of the day at Madame Tussaud’s, lingering for hours among the relics of Napoleon and the figures and exhibits of the Chamber of Horrors, without having the slightest intention of venturing so far as to see the football contest played.
It is a mistake to imagine that the working classes of the north are ignorant of English history, or not concerned with it; and if that impression exists, I should like to correct it. I doubt whether any class takes a keener interest in the Hall of Kings, or makes more use of the information provided by the Catalogue.
The “trippers,” “country cousins,” or whatever one likes to call them, seldom pester the Exhibition attendants with queries, for what one does not know another does. The Catalogues are taken away for further perusal, and one may often search the whole Exhibition in vain the next morning for one that has been discarded.
All day long groups of Cup-tie trippers stand about the Sleeping Beauty, not only for her sake, but also for the sake of Madame Tussaud, whose figure stands at Madame St. Amaranthe’s head, while at her feet sits William Cobbett, wearing his old beaver hat, and holding in his hand the snuff-box which legend credits him with passing to visitors on some weird occasions.
Men from Oldham naturally show special interest in Cobbett, who was, in his day, Member of Parliament for that town.
Cobbett sits on a red upholstered ottoman, with room enough for two other persons, and on a certain Cup-tie day two travel-stained, tired men sat down by him, and, noticing that he moved his head from side to side, took him to be alive. They addressed questions to him, and jumped up very hurriedly as he jerked his head and looked blankly at them through his horn spectacles.
The only two figures in the Exhibition that make any pretence of life are William Cobbett and the Sleeping Beauty.
A wonderful self-made man was Cobbett, who began life as a living scarecrow, armed with a shotgun, in the employment of a farmer, and, after being,among other things, sergeant-major won a great reputation as a writer of English prose and attained the distinction of adding M.P. to his name in those days when Parliamentary honours were less easily achieved than they are to-day.
To be sure, the figures of statesmen have always interested Cup-tie crowds, for the provincial is much more of a politician than the Londoner.
So also literary men like Scott, Dickens, Tennyson, Burns, and Kipling come in for much attention; more, perhaps, than portraits of the clergy.
Sportsmen, too, such as W. G. Grace, Fred Archer, and “Tommy Lipton”—the last-mentioned for his America Cup performances—receive enough notice on Cup-tie days to maintain a good average of appreciation for the year.
As on Bank Holidays, so on Cup-tie days, there are always many more live than wax figures in the Chamber of Horrors from morning till night. Indeed, I have seen the place so crowded that it was difficult to distinguish the effigies from the awestricken observers.
Sometimes I have taken a walk round the Exhibition after it was closed on the night of the Cup-tie to see that all was right. Once I was called in haste to the Chamber of Horrors, where a stranger had been found asleep in a dark corner. After he had been roused and escorted outside, the scared fellow made off as if he had had the hangman at his heels. A return ticket from Bolton was picked up where he had lain. But the man from Bolton had bolted, and did not return to claim the ticket.
The mysterious Sun Yat Sen’s visit—His escape from the Chinese Legation—The Dargai tableau—Sir William Treloar entertains his little friends.
The mysterious Sun Yat Sen’s visit—His escape from the Chinese Legation—The Dargai tableau—Sir William Treloar entertains his little friends.
Once in its long history Madame Tussaud’s Exhibition opened on a Sunday—not, however, to the general public.
The occasion was special and, in a way, mysterious. It had to do with one of the most dramatic personalities of the Chinese Empire and Republic.
A message reached me late on a Saturday night that Dr. Sun Yat Sen, the first President of the Chinese Republic, wished to visit the Exhibition on the following Sunday morning. I was unable to receive him in person, but arranged that an attendant should represent me.
The attendant knew nothing of the name of the visitor till he saw him looking at his own portrait and calling the attention of General Homer Lee—an American soldier holding high rank in the Chinese Army—who accompanied him, to the dimple in the chin of the model by placing his finger smilingly on the dimple in his own chin.
DR. SUN YAT SENFrom a photograph.
DR. SUN YAT SEN
From a photograph.
This was in the year 1911, and Sun Yat Sen was passing through London on his way from America to take up his presidential duties.
His visit to the Exhibition had been planned byDr. (now Sir James) Cantlie, of Harley Street, to whom Sun Yat Sen owed—the greatest of all debts of gratitude—his life.
For it was this same Sun Yat Sen who, eleven years before, was liberated through the exertions of Dr. Cantlie from his prison in the Chinese Legation at Portland Place, a few minutes’ walk from Madame Tussaud’s.
What would have happened to him but for the fact that Dr. Cantlie’s intervention resulted in Sun Yat Sen’s release through Lord Salisbury’s representations to the Chinese authorities can only be conjectured.
It was discovered at the time that a ship had been chartered in the Thames for the removal of Sun Yat Sen to China on a charge of treason against the Emperor—the same Emperor whose successor, under a republican form of government, Sun Yat Sen was destined to be.
Particulars were also disclosed regarding the manner of his incarceration at the Chinese Legation. He was inveigled into the place by the lures of hospitality, and, once inside, the officials relegated him to an apartment which they kept locked for many days.
It was only through Sun Yat Sen’s friendship with Dr. Cantlie, whose suspicions were aroused by “inside” information, that the British authorities learned of Sun Yat Sen’s fate and took steps to have him set free.
DR. SUN YAT SENThe wax model on view at Madame Tussaud’s of the first President of the Chinese Republic.
DR. SUN YAT SEN
The wax model on view at Madame Tussaud’s of the first President of the Chinese Republic.
When the hero of this adventure visited Madame Tussaud’s on the Sunday morning in question to see his model, I wondered what his reason could be, and asked myself whether it had anything to do with the adapting of his disguise, while travelling from this country to China, at a time when his life must have been in danger.
Perhaps, after all, it was nothing more than the natural curiosity which attracts people whose portraits have been recently added to come and see them. The Eastern mind may not differ from the Western in this very human respect.
Touching and dramatic in the extreme was the incident which accompanied the unveiling of the tableau representing the Gordon Highlanders storming the Heights of Dargai. Lieutenant-Colonel Mathias’s words were on all lips at the time:
“That position must be taken at any cost; the Gordon Highlanders will take it.”
Mrs. Mathias was present with her son and daughter at the supper we gave to celebrate the event, and a piper played “The Cock of the North” to recall the deed of the wounded piper who fired his comrades on to victory and was awarded the V.C. When his father’s words were recited, young Mathias sprang to his feet and thrilled all present by saluting in true military fashion.
One of the brightest of red-letter days in Madame Tussaud’s romantic story was the 24th of January, 1907, when Sir William Treloar, “the children’s Mayor,” accompanied by several local Mayors, drove to the Exhibition in all the panoply of civic state to give éclat to the visit of fifteen hundred boys and girlsof the poorest of the poor, whom we made our guests.
THE CHILDREN’S LORD MAYORSir William Treloar entertains his little friends at Madame Tussaud’s, 24th January, 1907.
THE CHILDREN’S LORD MAYOR
Sir William Treloar entertains his little friends at Madame Tussaud’s, 24th January, 1907.
How richly the Right Honourable the Lord Mayor of London enjoyed himself on that occasion, like the large-hearted man he is, and how pre-eminently happy he was among the waifs and strays, many of whom were cripples, whose lives he has done so much to brighten! Sir John Kirk, of the Ragged School Union, was also there, beaming with joy among his little beneficiaries. I remember Sir William Treloar pointing to his civic headgear and calling out to the children, “How do you like my Dick Turpin hat?”
Tea-tables were laid all among the figures, and the picture produced in this way was both striking and amusing as the young people laughed and chatted by the side of the approving mutes. Perhaps the remark which seemed to create the greatest fun was when the Lord Mayor said he would like to see his Sheriffs in the Chamber of Horrors.
It was very touching to observe the boys loyally and reverently take off their caps in front of the little alcove in which Queen Victoria sits, as someone has said, “signing despatches all day long.” At the close of the happy day the halls and corridors of the Exhibition rang with the shrill treble of fifteen hundred young voices singing “For he’s a jolly good fellow,” followed by “Hip hip, hooray; the donkey’s run away.”
A tragedy happened that day not far away, in Westbourne Grove, which caused the gentlemen of the Press who attended the function to leave the Exhibition rather hurriedly. News came of the murder of Mr. William Whiteley, the Universal Provider.
A miscellany of humour—Our policeman—The mysterious lantern—The danger of old Catalogues—Stories of children—Sir Ernest Shackleton’s model.
A miscellany of humour—Our policeman—The mysterious lantern—The danger of old Catalogues—Stories of children—Sir Ernest Shackleton’s model.
Many of our visitors will remember the model of the policeman which stands at the entrance to the main gallery in the Exhibition. Hundreds—I might say thousands—of visitors have been “taken in” by this lifelike officer, who is the embodiment of a genial bobby prepared at any moment to show the way or tell the time.
The fame of this nameless policeman has extended to practically all the grown-ups who bring their children to see the figures, and many times in the day we see laughing parents watching the nonplussed expression on the faces of their offspring whom they have prevailed upon to go and ask where a certain model is to be found.
Immediately opposite is the figure of the programme-seller in somnolent mood, who is frequently offered sixpence for a Catalogue she cannot sell. It is the would-be customer that is sold.
It is most amusing to observe how many adults are deceived who seem to pride themselves on their discernment. For example, on Bank Holidays it iscustomary to have a number of real live constables on duty to regulate the crowd and give directions.
Bobby has a keen sense of humour, and some of them, entering into the spirit of the situation, now and again stand stock-still in the most natural attitude they can command. Not once, but frequently, a visitor, in passing with his friends, has, with an air of superior knowledge, pushed the ferrule of his stick or umbrella into the supposed figure’s side, to be startled by the model’s ejaculating, “Now then, young man, enough of that.”
There is a mystery which has never been cleared up, and that is whether it was a policeman or a burglar who left a bull’s-eye lantern in the Exhibition studio; but it is quite clear that the intruder, whoever he was, fled from the place in fright.
A portrait of the Marquis of Hartington had just been finished, and left fully clothed and ready to be transferred to the Exhibition. By an oversight the door of the studio was left unfastened, and on our return in the morning it was found to have been opened.
MARQUIS OF HARTINGTONThe late Duke of Devonshire.
MARQUIS OF HARTINGTON
The late Duke of Devonshire.
On the floor, at the feet of the model of the Marquis, lay a bull’s-eye lantern that evidently had been dropped by its owner as he rushed from the place. The probability is that the policeman, or the burglar, had flashed his lamp on the figure and had been scared to find, as he thought, a man—or a spectre—confronting him. No claim was ever made for the lamp.
It is not an unusual thing that visitors who wish to save expense should bring with them an old Cataloguewhich they have treasured up at home for a future visit. This is not a safe plan, for with the addition of new figures the older ones have to be renumbered. As a result the visitors in question are sometimes misled, as was the lady in the following story told by a Londoner.
He related that he had occasion to take a country cousin to the Exhibition, and she took with her an old Catalogue.
He paid little attention to her describing King Edward IV as King Henry VIII, and exclaiming that she did not know Queen Mary of Scots dressed like a man. But when she said, “Well, I never! I always thought Gladstone was a man, though my brothers call him an old woman,” then he felt interested, and proceeded to investigate. There it was, sure enough; the model No. 63 was the figure of an old lady, but in the out-of-date Catalogue No. 63 was “William Ewart Gladstone.”
Sometimes we get a rough old country farmer who has got it into his head that everyone in our Exhibition has committed some crime or other.
Visitors, when audibly perusing their Catalogue, are sometimes a source of entertainment to others who overhear them, owing to the curious mistakes they make. One day a jolly-looking countryman came to a standstill before the figure of Henry IV of France, described in our Catalogue as “Henri Quatre.” “’Enry Carter,” said he; “’oo did ’e kill?” and, finding the gentleman in question innocent of murder, he turned away with a disappointed expression, but evidentlywith a fixed determination to discover a genuine criminal somewhere else.
Not only children, but also their elders, constantly mistake the policeman, the programme-seller, and the sleeping attendant for living people; but few children are so simple as the little maiden who, glancing awestruck down the long array of very lifelike effigies of good, bad, and indifferent individuals, asked her mother in a whisper how they were killed before being stuffed.
One day a lady was explaining the different groups to her young nephew. Pointing to one, she said, “Freddy, this is the Transvaal crisis. Here are President Kruger, Mr. Cecil Rhodes, and Dr. Jameson; all those people are alive.”
Indicating the next group, she said, “This is the execution of Mary, Queen of Scots; all these people are dead.”
“I do not see any difference between the live ones and the dead ones,” replied the young hopeful to his auntie, assuming a puzzled expression.
There is no accounting for the actions of children. Several youngsters, for instance, have been observed slyly pinching the figures to see if any were alive.
The story is also told of a small girl who, when asked what she had done with her sweets, replied that she had given them to the baby in the cradle—Prince Edward of Wales.
A child was lost, and found concealed behind the figure of the Sleeping Beauty, trying to discover the mechanism that makes Madame St. Amaranthe’s bosom rise and fall.
Of children’s stories there is no end at Madame Tussaud’s.
Sir Ernest Shackleton once told some amusing stories at a dinner of the Alpine Ski Club.
He said his own small boy was terribly bored with expedition talk. He told his mother that he wanted to hear of something really exciting. “I don’t want to know anything more about papa,” he declared; “tell me about the baby who was drowned in his bath.” Was the boy thinking of Marat, the evil genius of the French Revolution, whom Charlotte Corday stabbed at his ablutions?
Sir Ernest said that his wife and son had recently been to see his model at Madame Tussaud’s, but the child took more interest in General Tom Thumb sitting on the palm of the Russian giant’s hand than he did in the portrait of his father.
“Two ladies,” the explorer said, “were standing by my figure, and the younger one observed, ‘That’s Latham, the airman.’
“‘No,’ replied the other, ‘that is not Latham; it is the man, you know, who went to the North Pole.’
“It is experiences such as these that keep a man modest,” said Sir Ernest. The ladies had forgotten his name and the object of his expedition, which was in the Antarctic and not the Arctic region—a distinction of minor importance to the general public perhaps.
In the days of the Boer War the children of an illustrious couple who were touring the world fell, childlike, to discussing the presents their parents would bring home for them.
“I know what I want,” said the youngest of them. “I want old Kruger’s hat and whiskers, and I believe papa will bring them to me, because I want to send them to Madame Tussaud’s.”
Mr. Cyril Maude, the actor, was taken to the Exhibition when a small boy, and it is recorded of him that the visit inspired him with the determination to become an actor. If that were so, then we may congratulate ourselves.
Some years ago a lady wrote to say that when scolding her child for being naughty, and impressing upon her that bad little girls would not go to heaven, the child naïvely replied, “Well, mother, I can’t expect to go everywhere, but I’ve been to Madame Tussaud’s.”