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Furniss Harry. The Confessions of a Caricaturist
The Confessions of a Caricaturist
Table of Contents
Volume 1
Table of Contents
PREFACE
CHAPTER I. CONFESSIONS OF MY CHILDHOOD—AND AFTER
CHAPTER II. BOHEMIAN CONFESSIONS
CHAPTER III. MY CONFESSIONS AS A SPECIAL ARTIST
CHAPTER IV. THE CONFESSIONS OF AN ILLUSTRATOR—A SERIOUS CHAPTER
CHAPTER V. A CHAT BETWEEN MY PEN AND PENCIL
CHAPTER VI. PARLIAMENTARY CONFESSIONS
MY POLITICAL CONFESSION
CHAPTER VII "PUNCH."
THE VILLAIN OF ART
A SCENE IN THE LOBBY
PUNCH AT PLAY
THE CARICATURING OF PICTURES
Volume 2
Table of Contents
CHAPTER VIII. THE ARTISTIC JOKE
THE PICTURES BY R. MACBETH. Reproduced by permission of the Artist
"HARRY FURNISS'S "ROYAL ACADEMY, "'AN ARTISTIC JOKE.'"
A portion of my parody of the work of Sir Alma Tadema, R.A
Bankers, Close, Gatherum & Co., Lombard Street. Solicitors, Black, White & Co., Tube Court. Secretary, pro tem. Earl M——, Arrystone Grange
A JOKE WITHIN A JOKE
"PREFACE
CHAPTER IX. CONFESSIONS OF A COLUMBUS
TWELFTH NIGHT GIRLS REJOICE. FURNISS GETS A WARM GREETING. CARICATURIST TALKS TO TWELFTH NIGHT WOMEN. ROTUND ENGLISHMAN TELLS HIS EXPERIENCES IN. HIS BREEZY WAY
Bryan's Campaign
What Bryan Did in One Day
ARMY OF LOYALISTS
GRANDEST PARADE IN ALL HISTORY
PATRIOT ARMY'S GLORIOUS MARCH. WARRIORS OF PEACE, BATHED IN GOLDEN SUNLIGHT, PASS THROUGH STAR-SPANGLED LINES. PARADE'S RECORD-MAKING FIGURES
"IN HIS OWN BLACK ART
"HITTING THE PIPE
CHAPTER X. AUSTRALIA
"A WESTERN PLAGUE SPOT "How Fever Is Raging in Perth
CHAPTER XI. PLATFORM CONFESSIONS
MY FIRST PLATFORM
SOME UNREHEARSED EFFECTS
CHAIRMEN
"'ARRY TO HARRY
CHAPTER XII. MY CONFESSIONS AS A "REFORMER."
GREAT SIX TOES TRIAL
THE OLD BAILEY
I FOUND A SNAKE IN REGENT'S PARK
"Picked up near the Zoological Gardens
CHAPTER XIII. THE CONFESSIONS OF A DINER
JOURNAL. OF. SECTIONAL PROCEEDINGS
"THE LOST (VOCAL) CHORDS
CHAPTER XIV. THE CONFESSIONS OF AN EDITOR
LIKA JOKO
"A FAREWELL FABLE
FOOTNOTE
Отрывок из книги
Harry Furniss
Complete Edition (Vol. 1&2)
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After making the accompanying page of studies, I strolled along the bank of the river; and while sketching some men breaking stones an incident happened which first aroused me to the fact that the lot of the sketching artist is not always a happy one. A fiend in human shape—an overbearing overseer—came up at the moment, and roundly abused the poor labourers for taking the "base Saxon's" coin. Inciting them to believe that I was a special informer from London, he laughed on my declaring that I was merely a novice, and informed me that I ought to be "dhrounded." He was about to suit the action to the word and pitch me into the salmon-stuffed river when he was stopped by the mediation of my models, and I escaped from the grip of the agitator. In due course I found myself in the Claddagh, a village of mud huts, which formed the frontispiece by John Leech to "A Little Tour in Ireland" by "An Oxonian," "a village of miserable cabins, the walls of mud and stone, and for the most part windowless, the floors damp and dirty, and the roofs a mass of rotten straw and weeds." Pigs and fowls mixed up with boats and fish refuse. Women old, dried and ugly; girls young, dark, of Spanish type, scantily dressed in bright-coloured short garments, all tattered and torn; and children grotesque beyond description. I sketch three members of one family clothed (!) in the three articles of attire discarded by their father—one claimed the coat, another the trousers, whilst the third had only a waistcoat. No doubt Leech had seen the same sixteen years before, when he was there; and if "the Oxonian," who survives him—Canon Hole, of Rochester—were to make another little tour in Ireland, he would find the Claddagh still a spot to give an Englishman "a new sensation." All I can say is, that having escaped a "dhrouning" in the river when in Galway in 1873, I have visited many countries and seen much filth and misery, but I have seen nothing approaching the sad squalor of the wild West of Ireland.
The majority of those I sketched were hardly human. Tom Taylor was right—"I would find such characters there not to be found in all the world over," and I haven't. The people got on my overstrung youthful nerves. I left the country the moment I had sufficient material for my sketches. I had shaken off the unpleasant feeling of being murdered in the river. I had survived living a week or two in the worst inns in the world. I had risked typhoid and every other disease fostered by the insanitary surroundings—for I had to hide myself in narrow turnings and obnoxious corners so as to sketch unseen, as the religion of the natives opposed any attempt to have themselves "dhrawn," believing that the destruction of their "pictur'" would be fatal to their souls! I had sketched the famous house in Deadman's Lane—and listened as I sketched it, in the falling shades of night, to the old, old story of Fitz-Stephen the Warden, who had lived there, and had in virtue of his office to assist at the hanging of his own son. And, when in the dark I was strolling back to my hotel, my reflections were suddenly interrupted by something powerful seizing me in a grip of iron round my leg. I was held as in a vice, and could hardly move, by what—a huge dog—a wolf? No, something heavier; something more hideous; something clothed! As I dragged it under a lamp I saw revealed a huge head, covered by a black skull cap—a man's head—a dwarf, muttering in Irish something I could not understand—except one word, "Judy! Judy! Judy!" It was a woman of extraordinary strength thus clasped on to me. I dragged her to the hotel door, where I engaged an interpreter in the shape of the "boots," and made a bargain with "Judy" to release me on my giving her one shilling, and to sit to me for this sketch for half-a-crown. I have still a lively recollection of the vice-like grip.
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