A Retrospect
TO THE EDITOR
OF THE “PALL MALL GAZETTE:”
Sir,—The Royal Society of British Artists is, perhaps, by this time again unknown to your agitated readers—but I would recall a brilliant number of the Pall Mall Gazette (July 1888), in which mischievous amusement was sought, with statistics from a newly elected President—Mr. Bayliss (Wyke).
Believing it to be, in an official and dull way, more becoming that the appointed Council of this same Society should deal with the resulting chaos, I have, until now, waited for a slight washing of hands, as who should say, on their part as representing the gentle deprecation of, I assure you, the respectable body in Suffolk Street.
Well, no!—It was doubtless adjudged wiser, or milder, to “live it down,” and now it, I really believe, behoves me, in a weary way, to remind you of the document in question, and, for the sake of commonplace, uninteresting, and foolish fact, to lift up my parable and declare fallacious that which was supposed to be true, and generally to bore myself, and perhaps even you, the all-patient one, with what, I fear, we others care but little for—parish matters.
In the article, then, entitled “The Royal Society of British Artists and its Future—An Interview with the New President”—a most appalling volley of figures was fired off at brûle-pour-point distance. Under this deafening detonation I, having no habit, sat for days incapable—dreaming vaguely that when a President should see fit to wash his people’s linen in the open, there must be indeed crime at least on the part of the offender at whose instigation such official sacrifice of dignity could come about. I was the offender, and for a while I sincerely believed that disaster had been brought upon this Royal Society by my own casual self. But behold, upon closer inspection, these threatening figures are meretricious and misleading, as was the building account of the early Philanthropist who, in the days of St. Paul, meant well, and was abruptly discouraged by that clear-headed apostle.
Mr. Bayliss tells us that: “The sales of the Society during the year 1881 were under,” whatever that may mean, “£5000; 1882, under £6000; 1883, under £7000; 1884, under £8000; in 1885 (‘the first year of Mr. Whistler’s rule’) they fell to under £4000; 1886, under £3000; 1887, under £2000; and the present year, under £1000.”
But also Mr. Bayliss takes this rare occasion of attention, to assert his various qualifications for his post as head of painters in the street of Suffolk, and so we learn that he is:—
“Chairman of the Board-school in his own district,” “Champion chess-player of Surrey,” “A member of the Diocesan Council of Rochester,” “Fellow of the Society of Cyclists,” and “Public Orator of Noviomagus.”
As chess-player he may have intuitively bethought himself of a move—possibly the happy one,—who knows?—which in the provinces obtained him a cup; as Diocesan Councilman he may have supposed Rochester indifferent to the means used for an end; but as Public Cyclist of the Royal Society of Noviomagus his experience must be opposed to any such bluff as going his entire pile on a left bower only!
When I recovered my courage—what did I find?—first my unimpaired intelligence, and then my memory.
Now, to my intelligence, it becomes patent that the chairman of a Clapham School-board, proposes by his figures to prove, that the income of the sacrificed Society had of late years steadily increased:—“In 1881, under £5000; 1882, under £6000; 1883, under £7000; 1884, under £8000,” until, under the baneful reign of terror and Whistler in 1885—“the first year” of the sacrilegious era—the receipts fell to £4000—and have continued to decrease until, in this present year, they fall to the miserable sum of under a thousand pounds—a revelation! discreet, statesmanlike, and worthy the orator at his best!
Unfortunately for the triumph of such audacious demonstration, my revived memory points out that Mr. Whistler was only elected President in June 1886, and, in conformity with the ancient rules and amusing customs of the venerable body, only came into office six months afterwards—that is, practically, in January 1887. Again, with this last exhibition, he, as everybody knows, had nothing whatever to do.
Immediately, therefore, the conclusion is “quite other” than that put forth by the Cyclist of his suburb, and we arrive at the, for once, not unamusing “fact” that the disastrous and simple Painter Whistler only took in hand the reins of government at least a year after the former driver had been pitched from his box, and half the money-bags had been already lost!—from £8000 to £4000 at one fatal swoop! and the beginning of the end had set in! Indeed, this may have been one of the strong reasons for his own election by an overwhelming minority of hysterical and panic-stricken passengers.
Now, though he did his best, and cried aloud that the coach was safe, and called it Royal, and proposed to carry the mail, confidence, difficult to restore, waited for proof, and although fresh paint was spread upon the panels, and the President coachman wore his hat with knowing air, on one side and handled the ribbons lightly, and dandled the drag, inviting jauntily the passer-by, the public recognized the ramshackle old “conveyance,” and scoffingly refused to trust themselves in the hearse.
“Four thousand pounds!” down it went—£3000—£2000—the figures are Wyke’s—and this season, the ignominious “£1000 or under,” is none of my booking! and when last I saw the mad machine it was still cycling down the hill.