tic, almost tragic, and will be
historical;" and columns of flattering notices must be my excuse for
confessing in these pages that I myself consider it to be the best
portrait of Lord Beaconsfield, and in no way a caricature.

[Illustration: THE LAST VISIT OF LORD BEACONSFIELD TO THE HOUSE.]

A caricaturist is an artistic contortionist. He is grotesque for effect.
A contortionist twists and distorts himself to cause amusement, but he
is by nature straight of limb and a student of grace before he can
contort his body in burlesque of the "human form divine." Thus also is
it with the caricaturist and his pencil. The good points of his subject
must be plainly apparent to him before he can twist his study into the
grotesque; to him it is necessary that the sublime should be known and
appreciated ere he can convert it into the ridiculous, and without the
aid of serious studies it is impossible for him fully to analyse and
successfully produce the humorous and the satirical. Perchance he may
even entertain a feeling of admiration for the subject he is holding up
to ridicule, for serious moments and serious work are no strangers to
the caricaturist.

[Illustration: MR. GLADSTONE. A SKETCH FROM LIFE.]

The famous collars I "invented" for grotesque effect, but I always saw
Mr. Gladstone without them, for to me his head has never been, as some
suppose, a mere block around which to wreathe a fantastic and
exaggerated collar.

"I am told a Japanese artist who wishes to study a particular flower,
for instance, travels to the part of the country where it is to be
found; he takes no photographic camera, no superb sketching pad or box
of paints, but he lives by the plant, watches day by day the flower
grow, blossom, and decay, under every condition, and mentally notes
every detail, so that ever afterwards he can paint that flower in every
possible way with facility and knowledge. I have myself treated Mr.
Gladstone as that Japanese artist treats the beautiful flower. I have
frequently sat for many many hours watching every gesture, every change
of expression. I have watched the colour leave his cheeks, and the hair
his head; I have marked time contract his mouth, and have noted the
development of each additional wrinkle. I have mused under the shade of
his collars, and wondered at the cut of his clothes, sketched his three
hats and his historical umbrella. More than that; during a great speech
I have seen the flower in his button-