Like all other first impressions, this visit to the studio stands out a clear and vivid sketch in my mind. Everyone must have enjoyed meeting Watts, but to those workers who use the pen there is always a kindred interest, an alliance of aim with the brothers of the brush, besides the inspiring pleasure derived from the presence and helpful words of a master of his art. From 1886 to the year of grace 1910 is a leap indeed: all but a quarter of a century! Likewise, from the awe-inspiring canvases of Watts, the master, to the witty, delightful, crisp illustrations of that past-craftsman of Art, Harry Furniss, is a change of subject well-nigh as great. At the thought of him gravity forsakes one’s visage, gives way to a smiling mien and expectation of wholesome fun, of delicate enjoyment. What a worker, oh, but what a worker! as the French would phrase it, is the well-known and popular _Hy. F._ I think I can lay claim to being a fairly busy person, but I feel ashamed, stunned, when I think of the stupendous amount of work accomplished by Harry Furniss. Anyone who has seen those five hundred illustrations to the eighteen volumes of Dickens must have admired the delicate draughtsmanship, the characterisation, the comedy and tragedy, and, above all, the penmanship of the artist. Five hundred illustrations! Yes, nearly all full-page, most of them containing several figures, and yet—but read in his letter below. No wonder he was up with the first streaks of dawn for months, no wonder he became ill. Harry Furniss achieved a Herculean piece of work, if ever artist did. “THE MOUNT, HIGH WICKHAM, “HASTINGS, “_May 7th, 1910_. “DEAR MRS. TWEEDIE, “Just received yours. Nothing I could enjoy better than to enjoy your hospitality for a few days—but alas! I have my nose to the grindstone again. Another big work. I _must keep_ at it until I finish. “If I should find myself away from the British Museum print-rooms (where I fly for references), I shall certainly walk in some afternoon and have tea with you. At present I am here for the next six weeks with models every day. I have to get them from London and pay them whether I work or not. “Glad you like my Dickens. I shall go down on my knees when I see you (you will have to help me up again, though, as I have the gout) and _swear_ the truth, which is, I illustrated the whole of Dickens between the 1st of May last year and New Year’s Day. Eight months, having it read and re-read as I worked, and yet I am alive! “You do not say how you are, but I do hope your eye trouble is over. “Yours very sincerely, “HARRY FURNISS.” Later in the autumn, accompanying a brief note snatched out of the over-busy worker’s day, is the expressive sentence, scribbled beside a pen-and-ink sketch of Father Time bearing the artist’s easel upon his back, as the patriarch squats and smokes, and H. F. breathlessly paints: “Still working _against_ Time.”