THE PHIL MAY ALBUM

BLOWING A CLOUD

COLLECTED BY
AUGUSTUS M. MOORE

METHUEN & CO.
36 ESSEX STREET, W.C.
LONDON
1900

CONTENTS

PHIL MAY AND HIS ART

now, Mr. Whistler, what about Black and White Art?" said an interviewer. "Black and White Art," said Mr. Whistler, "is summed up in two words—Phil May!" Nor is this merely a New School of Art paradox. It is one which is held by artists of all grades alike, and even by the art editor who professes to know and supply what the public likes. That a youth who never had a lesson in drawing in his life should have earned such a reputation between the ages of seventeen and thirty, and should have gone above men as honoured in their profession as Sir John Tenniel and Mr. George du Maurier, and on a level with Charles Keene, Mr. Abbey and Mr. Gibson, is enough to make Mr. May's art extremely interesting. But his art is not nearly so instructive as Mr. May himself; he is a human document to the hand of the realist, and the student of heredity—if ever there was one. He has been interviewed in a sketchy fashion by the journalistic Mrs. Mangnall innumerable times; the high-art magazines have added him to their lists of "Our Graphic Humorists," "Black and White Artists," and "How Caricaturists Draw." The world is familiar with his own grotesque sketches of himself, and, whether he is attired in riding breeches, a straw hat perched on the back of his head, as he drives a coster's cart, or is being flung out of a cab, his long cigar and his hair cut in a bang straight across his forehead, are unchangeable and unmistakeable. The public no doubt thinks that this is only one of Phil May's jokes at his own expense, for the bold Rabelaisian roundness of his humour suggests a man the very reverse of the lean and hungry Cassius. But Phil May's humour does not consist of making fat people thin, thin people fat, exaggerating features, putting big heads upon little legs, and such methods of distortion as we have so often seen resorted to. This we learn from a glance at his home, which is his studio life.

Mr. May's artistic treasures are none of them the old masters of a millionaire, but purely personal household gods, each with a little story of a friendship, a reminiscence of hard-up times, or some personal taste. The volumes in the old oak book-case are not first editions, but they show a fine appreciation for the best literature, and even the blue china is not wired and hung-up. The drawing-board seems to act as an address-book, and the grandfather's clock by the fireplace in its old age has given up making a nuisance of itself by repeating "For ever, never." The mantelpiece is peopled with little Japanese dolls, little bronzes and brasses, and figures carved in yellow ivory. These, with a few plaster casts of arms and legs which hang on the walls, a line of Japanese prints put around the ceiling "to try an effect," a few Japanese lanterns hanging from the roof, some Japanese lay-figures in armour standing round the walls, and a few sketches, are about all the decoration of this long sky-lit room. But most important of all is the index to as remarkable a story as was ever told by a successful man, a story which has never been told before. It is only an old mug. The substance is earthenware, the decoration obviously pseudo-oriental, and the design and glaze nothing marvellous. It clearly comes from the English potteries, but it has no mark, and it is certainly not Chelsea, Derby, Yarmouth, Bristol, Lowestoft, or any of the rarer and higher-priced wares. The hand of Wedgwood, Voyez, or Elers is not seen in its design, and, indeed, it is difficult precisely to locate its origin. And yet, it should now take its place in Chaffers and Church who know it not. Our dilemma is solved by Mr. May himself, who seems, in his usual casual modest way, to have attached no importance to it, and who, from subsequent inquiries, has only a very superficial knowledge which would not satisfy a ceramic maniac, to say nothing of a family historian. "That mug was made," says Mr. May, "by my grandfather. I don't know much more about him than he knows about me; but if you are interested in china, you may care for some details which may help you to hunt it up. He was a potter in the Midlands—if you want to be particular, at Snead, in Staffordshire—and, I believe, was fairly well off; for the design, which is that of a hunt, was made to commemorate his becoming the master of the local hounds. If you say that his name is not given in any of the handbooks, I am sure you are right; but all I know is, the firm, whatever it was called, came to grief owing to the war—and I can't tell you what war; but it was not the China war." Here the student of heredity will discern the rude germ of the artistic temperament which has so developed in the third generation. It was in the interests of the hereditary artistic strain that Mr. May was induced to tell the story. He is not so impressed as are many people with the necessity of having a grandfather, and knows no more about him than is related above. Mr. May's father was apprenticed as an engineer to George Stephenson, and worked in the drawing office of the great engineer at Newcastle, where he met his wife. She was a Miss Macarthy, and her father was Eugène Macarthy, who belonged to an old theatrical family connected with the management of the New Theatre, Wolverhampton. An old bill on satin struck to commemorate a "Bespeak" performance, "under the distinguished patronage of Lord Wrottesley," gives Eugène Macarthy as playing Lord Tinsel in The Hunchback, and Jenkins, in Gretna Green; or, The Biter Bit, on Friday, May 9th, 1845. In this bill Mr. James Bennett was the Master Walter; H. Lacy the Modus; Mrs. W. Rignold the Julia, and Miss Fanny Wallack, Helen.

Mr. May's father was unlucky in life. He started a brass-foundry, but, as your host puts it, his partner cleared off with all the brass; and a consulting-engineer business was not much more satisfactory. Mr. Phil May was born in 1864, shortly after the collapse of the brass-foundry, at Wortley, an outlying manufacturing district of Leeds. His father died when he was nine years old, and his schooldays, as he tells you, commenced early in the School Board era. At that time the new officials were very alert, so he had one year's scholastic education. He was a little delicate fellow, and was made a butt of by the other boys; and he was the victim of many practical jokes.

"My artistic career," Mr. May tells you, "may be said to have begun when I was about twelve, at which time the Grand Theatre, Leeds, opened. The local scene-painter was a man called Fox, a brother of Charles Fox, and I became acquainted with his son, who helped to mix the distemper. Young Fox and other boys called Ford, Sammy Stead, and I used to rehearse pantomimes. Our stage was a back street, and our scenery was designed with a stick in the gutter; but we omitted nothing. The star-traps were all marked out, and we made our descents by flinging ourselves on our faces in the muddy road. I was always a sprite, and carried 'The Book of Fate,' which had a prominent place in all our pantomimes."

Mr. May used to sketch sections of other people's designs of costumes for use in the ward-robe room, and eventually got to designing comic dresses and suggestions for masks and make-ups in the property-room. This brought him orders for actor's portraits, for which he received at first a shilling, and later five shillings. Remuneration bred independence, and he took to living with three or four other boys, their lodgings costing five shillings a week. After a year or two of this life, the late Fred Stimpson, who had a travelling burlesque company, engaged May to play small parts and do six sketches every week to serve as window-bills in the various small towns they visited. His remuneration was twelve shillings a week, and on this he lived for two or more years. After that, about 1873, he got an engagement to draw for a small local comic journal, called The Yorkshire Gossip, which died after four weeks. In 1882 Mr. May was engaged to design the dresses for the Leeds pantomime, and flushed with success, or sickened with the squalid hand-to-hand life he had led since he was a boy—he was then a full-grown man of seventeen—he made up his mind to burn his boats and come to London, and there he became a tragedian. His finances consisted of one sovereign. Fifteen shillings and five-pence halfpenny bought him a third-class ticket, and vanity and temptation cost him four shillings and sixpence at the Gaiety Bar. "But what," he adds, "did it all matter? I was in London—the lap of luxury. I remembered my aunt, Mrs. Hanner, who had married again, an actor called Fred Morton, and I looked them up at St. John Street Road, Islington." Mr. May does not think they were very glad to see him; but they took him in, gave him food and a night's lodging, and next day his new uncle, after showing him the sights of London, put him in the Leeds train. He got out, however, at the next station and walked back. Chance led him towards Clapham way. It was winter and he tried to get work, till he was too tired to walk and too cold and hungry to speak. He begged the broken dry biscuits at the public-houses; he quenched his thirst at the street fountains. The best bit of luck he had was when he induced a child on the Suspension Bridge to part with his bread and bacon in exchange for a walking-stick. He led a terrible life of privation, and by night slept in the Park, on the Embankment, or in a cart in the Market near the stage-door of the Princess's Theatre. He was too proud to go to his relations or to Mr. Wilson Barrett. The first bit of real luck he had was in meeting with the keeper of a photograph shop near Charing Cross. He took May's drawing of Irving, Toole and Bancroft, and published it. It was a partnership arrangement, and the publisher lost about £5 in the venture. But though he was nearly as hard up as Mr. May was, when he had any money, he used often to take him to a shop near the old Pavilion and give him a dinner of beef à la mode. "It was good!" Mr. May tells you. A Mr. Rising who played at the Comedy Theatre, introduced Mr. May to Lionel Brough, who purchased the original sketch of Irving, Bancroft and Toole for £2 2s., and introduced him to a little paper called Society, for which he did some drawings. But between these periods Mr. May suffered long spells of penury, when he would have been glad to have taken up his position with a handkerchief full of broken chalks and drawn on the pavement. At last a drawing of Mr. Bancroft in Society brought him an introduction to Mr. Edward Russell, who introduced him to the management of the St. Stephen's Review. It was not then an illustrated paper, but a Christmas Number was being issued. The illustrations were already arranged for, so there was nothing for him to do. The disappointment, or long privation—for he was only eighteen at the time—or both, brought on an illness, and he returned to Leeds. A telegram from Mr. Russell brought him to London. The illustrations for the Christmas Number would not do, and Mr. May was asked to do them all himself—cartoon, illustrations, cover, and initials—in a week! He hired a room in a small hotel near the Princess's, and worked day and night, finished the whole thing, and was paid. He remained in his humble lodgings till his money was gone, and he used, as he says, to "go out for breakfast and dinner," which meant walking about for appearances' sake. The proprietor of the hotel in question, who was also a waiter at a club, found him out, and when he came home at three or four in the morning used to dig him out to share his supper; and when, through sheer shame, May confessed he could not pay him, he insisted on his remaining in his house. Mr. Brough introduced Mr. May to Alias the costumier, who engaged him as designer of the Nell Gwynne dresses, and kept him on to design pictures for a book, The Juvenile Shakespeare, on which they were to collaborate; but it came to nothing. Then the St. Stephen's started illustrations, and he was employed by it till an agent came from Australia to discover an artist for the Sydney Bulletin. Mr. May seized the opportunity of going to the antipodes, and went. The fine air, the warm climate, and the regular food made, as he tells you, a man of him; but it was the starvation, he adds, which made him the artist he is.

The rest of Mr. Phil May's story has been told before, and is not interesting, being one long series of successes, which culminated in his winning the blue ribbon of black-and-white art, an appointment on Punch, which leaves him free to draw for any other paper that appreciates his art and can pay his prices.

The story of his early life and struggles is not exceeded in interest, perhaps, by that of anybody except that of Henri Murger or that of Honoré de Balzac. The hard life he once led has left his features somewhat hard, but it has not soured his disposition. There is nothing of the cynic in him. He is still careless of everything but his art, generous to a fault not only with his money, but with his lavish praises of the work of those who aspire to be his rivals. High and low, everybody speaks of him as "dear old Phil," and the applause, even of princes, has not made him a snob. His talents and his temptations would have made many a boy of more severe training a pickpocket, burglar, or a gaol bird, as François Villon was. It made Phil May an artist, and his story is one to be remembered as an encouragement instead of a warning.

Of the one hundred and twenty drawings collected in this volume, there is little to say, for they speak for themselves. For some of them, I am indebted to Mr. Louis Meyer of 13a Pall Mall, who has enabled me to complete the series of drawings done at a time when Phil May was, as I have described him above, a poor, struggling artist. Youth and enthusiasm, made these drawings bolder than most of his later work, and the lack of pence, when every line meant pennies, made them more elaborately finished than those which of late he has made us accustomed to. But though everyone is satisfied with his present work, I can only trust that the artistic majority will think with me that he has never done better than these drawings which are here collected. That at least is why I have published them.

AUGUSTUS M. MOORE

THE LEGITIMATE

"'Ow's business, Jacko?"

"Damned bad. What can you expect with this bloomin' opposition!"

A QUESTION OF HOSE

FALLEN GREATNESS

Native: "Well, yer see, mum, I was once in a very 'igh persition, my missus used to do all the washin' for the Royal Hotel."

"NOT GOLDEN, BUT GILDED"

NEW VERSION

The Temptation of Anthony

ON THE BRAIN

Mrs. Martha Ricks—"Aunt Martha"

FATE!

"Owth's Ikey?"

"Vy, Ikeyth's dead."

"You don't thay so. Vy I thor him goin' ter the thinagogue lathst week."

"Vell, ith's all along of that thinagogue that Ikeyth's dead. They was a-justh coming out, ven someone outside shouted out, 'Sale goin' ter commenth,' and Ikey was killed in the crush!"

ON THE BRAIN

H.R.H. The Prince of Wales

THE NOBLE ART

ON THE BRAIN

The Duke of Cambridge

PRO BONO PUBLICO

Discontented Artist: "I wish I had a fortune. I would never paint again."

Generous "Brother-Brush": "By Jove, old man, I wish I had one. I'd give it to you!"

ON THE BRAIN

The Duke of Fife

ACCOMMODATING

Customer: "I want a respirator, please."

Chemist: "I'm afraid, sir, we haven't one your size in stock, but if you will wait until I go and get a tape-measure, I will get you one made!"

ON THE BRAIN

The German Emperor

AT A PROVINCIAL BANQUET

Flunkey: "Excuse me, mum, but the banquet has commenced, and I can't admit you. Them's my orders."

She: "But the Mayor is here, isn't he?"

Flunkey: "Oh, yes, he's here right enough."

She: "Well, but I'm his lady."

Flunkey: "It makes no difference, mum; I couldn't admit you if you were his wife."

ON THE BRAIN

The Duc d'Orleans

ALL THE DIFFERENCE

Barmaid: "I beg pardon, I have taken twopence too much. I didn't know you were an actor. I thought you were only a gentleman!"

THREE MEN IN A BOOT

A FRIEND IN NEED

Invalid: "I sometimes feel inclined to blow my brains out."

Friend: "I shouldn't advise you to try it, old chap, you know you're a bad shot, and there's nothing much to aim at!"

Cousin Jane: "I want ma to have her portrait painted. Who would you recommend?"

Cousin George: "Stacy Marks."

ON THE BRAIN

Mrs. Besant

AN UPRIGHT COURSE

Parson: "Tell me, my good man, do you know the way to heaven?"

Old Cantankerous (who doesn't like parsons): "Well, I sh'd think if you was to follow your nose, it 'ud be a short cut!"

ON THE BRAIN

Mr. Henry George

A BENEVOLENT CONNOISSEUR

"You are!"

ON THE BRAIN

Sir Charles Ewan Smith

ON THE SANDS

Machine Man (to bather who has been complaining that he was not taken out far enough): "Why, lor bless yer, Sir, I once know'd a man who could dive in two foot of water."

Bather: "And where's he buried?"

ON THE BRAIN

Mr. George Grossmith

WOMANLY

First Philanthropist: "Cannot we start a society for the employment of the poor Russian Jews?"

Second Ditto: "Well, you see, what could they do? You know that they can't speak English."

First Ditto: "Oh, get them something to do on the railway, to call out the names of the stations, for instance."

ON THE BRAIN

Mr. Arthur Roberts

OUR CLIMATE

"Look here, that barometer you sold me a month ago has got out of order, it won't work."

"Well, you see, sir, look what a lot of wear and tear 'e's 'ad lately."

ON THE BRAIN

Sir George Newnes

CHEEK

Urchin: "Hi, governor, remember the warning afore yer starts!"

ON THE BRAIN

Sir George Dibbs

INFORMATION WANTED

Fat Party: "Say, boy, do my boots want cleaning?"

ON THE BRAIN

Mr. Horace Sedger

FRENCH, AS SHE IS SPOKE

French Professor: "How would you pronounce t-o-u-t-a-f-a-i-t?"

Pupil: "Totty Fay."

ON THE BRAIN

The Marquis of Queensberry

HARD LINES

Day Policeman (relieving night-man): "How's the missus?"

Night Policeman: "I don't know. 'Aven't seen her for ten years."

Day Policeman: "But ye're living together, aren't yer?"

Night Policeman: "Yes, but she's a charwoman, an' is out all day, an' I'm out all night. So we've never met since we came back from our honeymoon."

ON THE BRAIN

Mr. W. T. Stead

MUTUAL CONSIDERATION

Art Critic: "What do you think of Alma Cadmium's painting?"

Artist: "Oh, I think it is superb."

Art Critic: "I'm surprised to hear you say that. He says just the reverse of yours."

Artist: "Ah, well, perhaps we're both mistaken!"

ON THE BRAIN

Mr. William Morris

BRITONS IN PARIS

First Englishman: "Where shall we go?"

Second Englishman (who does not know that 'relâche' means that the piece is taken off): "Let's go to the Eden and see 'Relâche'!"

ON THE BRAIN

Sir Henry Parkes

READY FOR THE BALL

"Phwell and phwat do ye think of me, darlint?"

"Shure ye look jist illigent, but I phwish it wur a mask ball!"

ON THE BRAIN

Lord Dufferin

BEFORE HIS FRIENDS

Brown (who likes to be thought a swell, and who has been entrusted with a friend's brougham for the night): "Home, John."

John: "Where's that, sir?"

ON THE BRAIN

Sir Augustus Harris

SAINTLY POLITENESS

ON THE BRAIN

Sir Edward Lawson

OH, LISTEN TO A TALE OF "WO"

ON THE BRAIN

Mr. Rudyard Kipling

THE NEW JEW

"And so you're going to marry a Christian and disgrace your poor old father."

"Yeth, but I'm goin' to change my name to Smith."

"But what are you goin' to do with that nose?"

"Oh, I say! Ain't 'e in a bloomin' 'urry; 'e wants to git there before the 'orse."

"Yes, I was three months in the dessert, with nothing to drink but camel's milk."

"Didn't it give you the hump!"

ON THE BRAIN

The Right Hon. W. V. Harcourt, M.P.

THE VICTIM OF CIRCUMSTANCES

Pious Friend: "Dear me, I'm sorry to see you coming out of a public-house, Mr. Brown."

"Couldn't help it, ole fel' (hic), I was chucked out!"

ON THE BRAIN

Monsieur Ernest Renan

A PAIR OF SOILED KIDS

LIP.

New Arrival (in Australia): "What's good for mosquitoes?"

Resident: "You are!"

ON THE BRAIN

The Late Lord Randolph Churchill

THE CAPE MAIL

Clerk: "The letter is too heavy. It will require an extra stamp."

She: "Won't that make it heavier?"

ON THE BRAIN

Lord Russell of Killowen

"What the deuce are you smoking, old chap?"

"Well, you see, the doctor has limited me to one cigar a day!"

ON THE BRAIN

Mr. H. M. Stanley

INFORMATION

Obliging Driver (to country visitor, who is trying to see London from the top of a 'bus in an intense fog): "That there's the Halbert Memorial, but you can't see it!"

ON THE BRAIN

Lord Alington

INQUISITIVE

"Oh, ma! Are those what they call sea legs?"

A HOWLING SWELL

ON THE BRAIN

The Rt. Hon. A. J. Balfour, M.P.

AN IDLE FELLOW

Visitor: "I hear you've had the celebrated Mr. Abbey, the artist, staying with you down here."

Proprietor of Old-Fashioned Inn: "Yes, sir, an' he be the laziest man I ever came across. He do nothing but dror and paint all day!"

ON THE BRAIN

The £1,000 per Night-ingale

Grandpapa (to Tommy, who has just come home from school): "And did you get a good place in your class at the last examination?"

Tommy: "Yes; next to the stove."

POODLES

A PLEASANT PROSPECT

"Grandma, shall I have a face like you when I get old?"

"Yes, my dear, if you're good."

ON THE BRAIN

The Rt. Hon. W. E. Gladstone

ON THE SANDS

"Lor', 'Arry, ain't it 'ot?"

"Well, sit down, an' I'll blow yer."

ON THE BRAIN

Mr. Joseph Chamberlain, M.P.

REALISM

Comedian: "The critic of the Back Alley Chronicle described me as giving a very 'saponaceous' rendering to my part. What does 'saponaceous' mean, dear boy?"

Tragedian (with learned dignity): "Cudgel not thy brains with words higher than thy bloomin' salary."

ON THE BRAIN

Monsieur Emile Zola

AT THE RIDING SCHOOL

Nervous Pupil: "When do you think I shall go on the road?"

Riding Master: "Very soon, if you don't sit better than that."

ON THE BRAIN

Lord Tennyson

NO CHANCE

"Always take care of your money, my son."

"I can't, you never give me any."

She: "But I really thought you were much taller than you are, Mr. Smith."

He: "Oh, no! Not a bit, I assure you!"

A PROMINENT FEATURE

"Hillo, Bill! What's the matter with your nose?"

"I don't know. Think my conscience must have pricked it."

ON THE BRAIN

Sir Blundell Maple, M.P.

FORCE OF HABIT

Prison Photographer (who has just obtained the post, to sitter, who is about to undergo twenty years' penal servitude): "Now sir, look pleasant!"

ON THE BRAIN

Mr. Albert Chevalier

THE UNKINDEST CUT

He: "I grew a beard and moustache for ten years, and I forgot what I was like without, so I just shaved to see."

She: "And weren't you shocked?"

"Hillo, Bill—blind again?"

"I beg pardon, I'm not blind at all; asha-matterer-fac, I can see twiche-ash-much as you."

"Say, would you be so stupid as to lend me 5s.?"

In Her War-Paint

FAST AND LOOSE

OBVIOUS

MONSIEUR SARDOU

PLEASANT MEMORIES

"Ah, it's many a day since I 'ad it!"

She: "It must be a dreadful thing to become old and ugly. I should much prefer to die young."

He: "You'll have to hurry up then!"

"I have a Song to Sing O."

ON THE BRAIN

Mr. Beerbohm Tree

A NASTY ONE

Wrymug: "I assure you the blamed fog was so thick I couldn't find the way to my own mouth."

Quizzer: "What! When it's just round the corner!"

ON THE BRAIN

General Booth

NEW USE FOR A CLOTHES-PEG

How to obtain a good French accent

Mistress (to new cook): "Now are you sure you have had experience?"

Cook: "Oh, yes, mum! I've been in 'undreds of places."

PICKSOME

Little Spriggins: "Yes, we always dine at a private table. You see, my wife is so fond of picking bones."

Old Joker: "I suppose that's why she picked you."

ON THE BRAIN

Lord Mayor Savory

THE WRONG SHOP

(Carol singing in Hatton Garden) "Christians Awake!"

ON THE BRAIN

Mr. George Augustus Sala

BAKERS' STRIKE

They've recently discovered that they'll never want a feed
As long as they think fit to loaf the less our bread we knead.

She: Oh, John, we're next the engine."

He: "Never mind, we'll get there all the quicker."

The Boy: "Grandpa, is a Jewess a She-brew?"

SAVAGE SOUTH AFRICA

A Prior Engagement.

THE NORTH POLE

SUGGESTIVE

Small Boy: "Hi! Can you spare a copper?"

LEG-ISLATION

INTELLIGENCE DEPARTMENT

Yokel: "Say, sir, does I put this 'er stamp on meself?"

Post-Assistant: "On yourself. No, on the letter, you booby."

THE CONSUMING PASSION

"Have you heard that Jones has given up 'booze'?"

"No, I wouldn't believe it."

"But he has, and he's dead."

THE DOWN TRAIN

Crossing Sweeper: "'Ere, if you're goin' to sweep the bloomin' crossin' yerself, I'm hoff."

Retired Burglar: "Oh, my son! Always remember that it is wrong to steal on Sunday."

ON THE BRAIN

Mr. Punch