ims and the late Mr. Fred Barnard
published work of a similar breadth and boldness with signal effect.

Visiting slums, seeing death from want and misery on all sides, is
certainly not the most pleasant way of spending the festive season. In
company with detectives, clergymen, or self-sacrificing district
visitors, you may swallow the pill with the silver on; but try it
single-handed, and it is a very different affair. I was taken for some
demon rent-collector prowling about, and was peered at through broken
windows and doors, and received with language warm enough to thaw the
icicles. The sketches I made during the weeks I spent in the haunts of
want and misery would have made a startling volume, but time and money
were thrown away, and only the perfunctory pictures were published. The
public have no idea, or seldom think, of the great trouble and expense
incurred in faithfully depicting everyday scenes. Still, it is not
possible for a "special" even to see everything, or to be in two places
simultaneously; and consequently, in ordinary pictorial representations,
dummy figures are frequently looked upon as true portraits. One boat
race, for example, is very much like another. Some years ago I executed
a panoramic series of sketches of the University Race from start to
finish, and as they were urgently wanted, the drawings had to be sent in
the same day. Early in the morning, before the break of fast, I found
myself at Putney, rowing up to Mortlake, taking notes of the different
points on the way--local colour through a fog. Getting home before the
Londoners started for the scene, I was at work, and the drawings--minus
the boats--were sent in shortly after the news of the race. The figures
were imaginary and unimportant, but one correspondent wrote to point out
the exact spot where he stood, and complained of my leaving out the
black band on his white hat, and placing him too near a pretty girl,
adding that his wife, who had not been present, had recognised his
portrait.

Yes, I must confess, one has often to draw upon the imagination even in
serious "realism," Some years ago I went with a colleague of the pen to
illustrate and describe the dreadful scenes which were said to take
place in St. James's Park, where the poor people were seen to sleep all
night on the seats. We arrived about 2 A.M. It was a beautiful moonlight
night, but though we walked up and down for hours not a soul came in
sight. My companion said, "It