John Leech, His Life and Work, Vol. 2 [of 2]

In another sketch an elderly paterfamilias is seen sitting upon the beach attempting to read his newspaper under the difficulties caused by a boy with guinea-pigs, and others with something to sell; a sailor proposes a sail, an old woman has a box of baby linen, and the inevitable sweetstuff merchant looms in the near distance. The drawing is entitled "The Bores of the Beach," with the following explanatory lines:

"So, as it's a fine day, you'll sit on the beach and read the paper comfortably, will you? Very good! Then we recommend you to get what guinea-pigs, brandy-balls, boats, and children's socks, to say nothing of shell-work boxes, lace collars, and the like you may want, before you settle down."

Perhaps the drawing that most happily illustrates the terrible suffering that is caused by those wandering minstrels, the Italian organ-grinders, is in double form – two scenes, so to speak. The first represents a dignified, middle-aged father of a family who stands at his door "expostulating with an organ-grinder, who is defying him with extreme insolence, alternated with performances on the instrument of torture," says Leech. The Italian, who is an embodiment of brutal impudence, says, "Ha! ha! P'lice! Where you find p'lice?"

In the second drawing we see why the noise is more than commonly distressing, for it represents a bedroom in the indignant father's house, where a "sick boy, tended by his mother, is suffering from nervous fever."

I dwell at some length upon these drawings, because they greatly aided Mr. Bass in his efforts to put a stop to some extent – alas! only to some extent – to a serious public nuisance. The Bill which that gentleman carried through Parliament still requires amendment before the author, the musician, the artist, or the tradesman even, can pursue his calling in the peace so essential to success.

An eminent artist friend of mine lived in a part of the town where organ-grinders greatly congregate. The interruptions to his work were constant and terrible. After finding that remonstrance, threats of the police, and other inducements, failed to procure relief, he armed himself with a pea-shooter, with which he practised upon his lay figure until he acquired considerable skill in the use of it; and when he considered he was enough of a marksman, he stood by his shutter window and waited; not for long, for the notes of "Champagne Charley is my name" – a favourite melody some years ago – pierced his ears from "an instrument of torture" opposite to his window. Through a narrow aperture made by the shutter the pea-shooter was projected, a smart blow on the cheek of the organ-grinder stopped "Champagne Charley" in the middle of one of his notes; the man rubbed his face and looked about him, up and down and round about, with an expression of pained surprise pleasant to behold. He then took up the tune where he had left it, and had produced a few more notes when a blow upon the grinding hand, and another almost instantly on his face, again stopped the performance. "It was very gratifying," said my friend, "to study the puzzled expression of the fellow as he looked about for the cause of his trouble." After another attempt to play out his tune, and another salute from the pea-shooter, he shouldered his organ and took himself off. "Yes," said the sportsman, "after a while they found me out, but they couldn't get at me, and now I am never troubled by any of them."

I am writing these pages at Lowestoft, where Leech passed several summer holidays. Under the name of "Sandbath," this place had the honour of appearing in Punch as the scene of several humorous incidents, notably of one in which the street-horrors are stigmatized under the heading of "How to Make a Watering-place Pleasant, particularly to Invalids." Time 6.30 a.m. (a hint to the powers that be at Sandbath). The principal performer is an admirably drawn figure of a big burly ruffian – ugliness personified – from whose monstrous mouth one can almost hear "Yah-ha-bloaters!" Two little boys, carrying baskets of shrimps, are yelling "Ser-imps, fine ser-imps!" while two more youths add to the din by ringing bells by way of announcing other delicacies likely to be in request early in the morning. The date of this drawing can be fixed pretty accurately, for I hear from Mr. Adams that several of the sketches in oil exhibited in 1862 were finished at this place, Mr. Adams constantly watching his friend as he worked.

To the unexaggerated truth of the incident I can speak, for the cry of "Bloaters!" arouses me every morning, and precisely at the time indicated by Leech. Added to this, even as I write about the organ-grinder detested of Leech, comes one, as if in revenge, under my window; and in reply to my threat of police, I am told to "go and find a policeman" – an impossibility, as the wretch well knows, for there is but one in Sandbath – as far as my observation goes – and he never appears in this part of it.

A petition, very numerously signed by eminent members of all the professions, and by others, was a formidable weapon in Mr. Bass's hands in his crusade against street musicians and other peace-breakers. The Bill passed both Houses, and became law. Leech signalized the success by an admirable drawing called "The Rival Barrels."

"Three cheers for Bass and his barrel of beer, and out with the foreign ruffian and his barrel-organ."

One of Mr. Bass's draymen is using a cask of beer in the form of a weapon as he rolls it against a foreign organ-grinder, who finds himself perilously near the edge of a cliff at Dover or Folkestone, en route from the country he has tormented so long. The brutal Italian scowls and threatens as the barrel rolls upon him, but we feel he must go; the stalwart, good-humoured drayman is too much for him.

If – as I feel sure – the brilliant powers possessed by Leech were certain to be attended by a highly sensitive and nervous organization, absolute tranquillity and ease of mind were required for the exercise of them; but in this unhappy case what do we find? No repose – no cessation – no peace. The conditions under which these wonderful drawings were produced were no doubt to some extent uncontrollable – the public appetite grew with what it fed on; it was not Punch only who insisted upon his weekly portion, but numberless publications, stories, biographies, poems, taxed the genius of the popular illustrator.

It was not till I undertook this task that I had any idea of the quantity of work done by Leech: to say nothing of the excellence of it, the quantity is astonishing. But surely, I hear my reader say, though Punch required ever-recurring contributions, other demands upon the artist were within his own control. There are men, and plenty of them, who would have turned deaf ears to appeals from relatives and friends; but John Leech was not one of those, and I fear it cannot be denied it was to meet pressing solicitation for money from various quarters that we must look to account for the worn brain and the shattered nerves that throbbed with agony at noises which would scarcely have disturbed a healthy man.

For some years before his death he suffered from sleeplessness, and at length he yielded to the suggestion of his friends and the order of his doctor – that change of air and scene should be tried as a remedy. Mark Lemon became his companion, and the two went to Biarritz, staying a short time in Paris on their way.

"That Leech's pencil was not idle on this holiday," says Shirley Brooks, "two well-known pictures will testify. One of them is a general view of that now famous watering-place, with specimens of its curious frequenters. The other is a very remarkable drawing. It represents a bull-fight as seen by a decent Christian gentleman, and, for the first time since the brutal fray was invented, the cold-blooded barbarity and stupidity of the show is depicted without any of the flash and flattery with which it has pleased artists to treat the atrocious scene. That grim indictment of a nation professing to be civilized will be on record for many a day after the offence shall have ceased.

"This brief visit," continues Mr. Brooks, "to the Continent was his last but one. His strength did not increase, and he no longer found pleasure in hunting, of which he had been exceedingly fond, and later he discontinued riding on horseback. He was then not merely advised, but ordered to travel. About this time the great man who had been to him as a brother, the schoolmate of his boyhood, the chief friend of his manhood – Thackeray – died. He told Millais of his presentiment that he, too, should die suddenly, and soon. In the summer of 1864 he went to Homburg, accompanied by his friend, Alfred Elmore, and afterwards he sojourned at Schwalbach. His mind was amused if his body was not strengthened by these visits to new scenery, and his sketch-book was soon filled with memorials, some of which he embodied in his last large Punch engraving – a view of the place where the residents of Schwalbach meet to drink the waters, and with figures of illustrious political people.

"Soon after his return he resolved to try what pure fresh English air would do for him, and accompanied by his family he went to Whitby. Several friends were also staying there at the same time, and he wrote to London that he liked the place. In September, on his writing to me that he would prolong his stay if I and wife would come down, we went, and remained at Whitby till he left it, on the 3rd of October.

"The scenery round Whitby is varied, and some of it is exceedingly fine; and Leech, when we could induce him to leave the painting in oil – to which he devoted far too many hours – enjoyed the drives into the wild moors, and up and down the terrible but picturesque roads; and he was still more delighted with the rich woods, deep glades, and glorious views around Mulgrave Castle. I hoped that good was being done; but it was very difficult to stir him from his pictures, of which he declared he must finish a great number before Christmas. It was not for want of earnest and affectionate remonstrance close by his side, nor for lack of such remonstrance being seconded by myself and others, that he persevered in over-labour at these paintings, which he had undertaken with his usual generosity, in order to provide a very large sum of money for the benefit of his relatives, not of his own household. It need hardly be said that he was never pressed for work by his old friend the editor of Punch. His contributions to that periodical had not exceeded one half-page engraving for some time, until he volunteered to compose the large Schwalbach picture. Let me note another instance of his kindness to utter strangers. A deputation from the Whitby Institute waited upon him to ask him to attend a meeting, and to speak in promotion of the interests of the association. He was on that day too ill to bear an interview with more than one of the gentlemen, and was, of course, compelled to refuse their request. But it occurred to him that they might think his refusal ungracious (as I am sure they could not), and he sent for all his 'Sketches of Life and Character' from London, and presented them to the Institution."

Amongst the party at Whitby was Mr. George Du Maurier, whose charming drawings are familiar, not only to the readers of Punch, but also as excellent illustrations in other newspapers and periodicals; especially good are they in Thackeray's great novel of "Esmond." Du Maurier only made Leech's acquaintance a few months before his death, but he tells me that in the Whitby walks and talks he found him to be the most delightful companion, and the most "lovable" of men. My friend also tells me that he was the last of the craft that shook the hand to which we all owe so much. Du Maurier called upon Leech the day before his death to present a little drawing to him; he seemed "much as usual," and the artists parted, little dreaming that they had parted for ever.

On the day after Mr. Hill's party the weekly dinner of the Punch staff took place. Leech attended as usual, but the readiness with which he was wont to make suggestions, or to discuss those already made, seemed to have deserted him. He was dull, silent, and appeared, says Shirley Brooks, "scarcely to understand what was going on" – requiring a question to be repeated two or three times before he could frame a reply to it, and then his answer was often wide of the mark. This condition, I suppose, showed the alternations of the disease that was killing him, for he was perfectly free from such a distressing symptom only the night before the Punch dinner, and as free from it, according to Du Maurier, the day before his death.

The journeys abroad, and the Whitby sojourn, even if the sufferer could have been prevailed upon to cease work altogether, came too late. The sword had worn out the scabbard. Leech's conversation and letters after his return from Whitby expressed ardent hope, but feeble conviction, that he had materially benefited by the change of air and scene. I think he knew that his prophecy, so mournfully spoken to Millais by the death-bed of Thackeray, was near its fulfilment. In common with all Leech's friends, I knew that he had suffered from attacks of angina pectoris, or breast pang; but in our ignorance of the serious character of the disease, most of us thought lightly of its attacks. One idea amongst us was that he had strained, and perhaps injured, some muscle in one of his hunting tumbles. That the agony of the spasms was very dreadful we knew, because on one occasion, after a severe attack, he said, "If it had lasted a little longer, I must have died." But how often have sufferers used the same words when they were in no danger whatever!

I approach the end of my endeavour to show my illustrious friend in his true colours, with sad feelings, grievously increased by the conviction that under happier circumstances he might have been the delight of all who did – and did not – know him for many years beyond the time so cruelly shortened. The letter to a friend which follows – written at Kensington after his return from Whitby – gives us in his own melancholy words a sad account of his condition.

"6, The Terrace, Kensington,"October 6, 1864.

"My dear – ,

"I received your most kind note last night on my return from Whitby in Yorkshire, where I have been with my family since I came from Germany; and I assure you I have so many things to put in order, that to go away from my work would be impossible just now. I was amused with Homburg, and to some extent I think the waters did me some good; but I am sorry to say I can give but a sorry account of my health. Nothing seems to quiet my nervous system, and I suffer still from sleeplessness dreadfully. Alas for Sheldrake! Why, I could not ride him if I had him; anything out of a walk would bring on a spasm that would occasion me to drop from his back. I trust I may be able to ride some time yet, but do not see my way. As for shooting, you would see me disappear amongst the turnips in about five minutes from exhaustion. But, however, I look forward with hope, and with a will, shall try and make myself a better man; and I am not yet incapable, thank God, to enjoy the society of a friend, and hope you will find me out – no, not out, but at home – should you come to London this autumn or winter. You must see a pantomime, you know. I have one great consolation – that the air of Yorkshire did my wife and children great good; and hoping that you and all your kind relations at … are well,

"Believe me,"Yours faithfully,"John Leech."

CHAPTER XXIV.

MILLAIS AND LEECH

The way to a certain place is said to be paved with good intentions. If that be so, a large space in the pavement must be filled by intentions to write the life of Leech. In the Dean of Rochester – the intimate friend of the artist when known as the Rev. Reynolds Hole – the intention still exists, as I gather from a letter received from him in reply to my appeal for assistance. The Dean tells me he possesses "above a hundred letters" by Leech – one and all denied to me – barred by the "intention," which seems to have come to life again, after being resigned by him many years ago in favour of Dr. John Brown; who in his turn relegated his intention to its place in the pavement.

I think it was about the year 1882 that, when calling on my old friend Sir John Millais, I was introduced to a Mr. Evans, who was presented to me as a literary man engaged in writing the life of Leech – a stranger to Millais in quest of information. Though I felt that Millais, in the genial and hearty way peculiar to him, over-estimated the importance of my assistance in his advice to Mr. Evans to tax my memory, "and he would find the tax paid in full," I promised to try to remember something of interest, and communicate with him further. The result of the "taxation" was a paper, which I sent to the address given to me at Manchester.

Years passed, and as I heard nothing I concluded that the Evans life was abandoned, and thought no more of the matter. Alas! events proved that the Evans intention was destined to take its place amongst the others, for the promoter died; but not till he had collected a quantity of material, to which I have been greatly indebted in writing this memoir. After my interview with Mr. Evans at Millais', I never saw or heard from him, except in acknowledgment of my contribution; and it is strange to me, that with every requisite for the carrying out of the intention, into which, judging from his manner, he entered enthusiastically and lovingly, he should have made such little way with it – probably from ill-health – when the material fell into the hands of Messrs. Bentley, and from theirs into mine.

Amongst the papers I found the following from Sir John Millais, of all the friends of Leech one of the dearest, the most loving and steadfast, and the best able to appreciate his qualities as an artist and a man. In a letter to Mr. Evans – February, 1882 – Millais says:

"I knew John Leech intimately, and I think saw more of him than any other of his friends. He was one of the very best gentlemen I ever knew, with an astounding appreciation of everything sad or humorous. He was both manly and gentle, nervous and brave, and the most delightful companion that ever lived. I loved John Leech (and another who is also gone) better than any other friends I have known."

In a further communication, Sir John says:

"I will endeavour to find some letters which may be of interest. Unfortunately, I have given most of them away at the time I received them, many containing sketches; I cannot remember now where they are. I am sure I had more than anyone, as I was for years his daily companion. There is another friend of his – Percival Leigh, attached to Punch– whom you do not mention. You should see him, as he could give you a great deal of information. Mr. Adams was a hunting friend, and many times Leech and myself stayed with him. Mr. Parry was the master of the Puckeridge hounds, and most of the hunting sketches were the upshot of scenes in Hertfordshire.

"Leech stayed with me twice in Scotland, and out of those visits came Mr. Briggs's exploits in deer-stalking, salmon-fishing, and grouse-shooting.

"The late Duke of Athole asked him to Blair, and took him for a deer-drive. Previously to that there had been a good deal written in the papers against the Duke, in consequence of his Grace having stopped two University men from crossing the forest; and Leech made a drawing in Punch by no means complimentary of the Duke, who was represented turning back the tourists, exclaiming, 'I am the regular Do-Dhu.' But you must turn to Punch, and you will find the illustration for yourself. I speak from memory as to the exact words; but I well recollect Leech, in his jocose way, asking me whether I thought he would be safe in the Duke's hands after that squib. I afterwards heard his Grace was delighted with it, and carried the woodcut about in his pocket to show to his friends.

"I have seen Leech make his first sketch (of which I have specimens), and trace them on to the block, scores of times. The first was rapid; but on the wood he was very deliberate, knowing how necessary clearness of execution is to the engraver.

"The late Mr. Trelawney – the intimate friend of Byron and Shelley – speaking one day to me of his recollections, said that Shelley and Leech were the two men he had loved best, and that he cared to know me only because I was a great friend of the man he admired so much."

Here I may interpose to remind my readers that the figure of the sailor in Millais' superb picture of the North-West Passage was painted from Trelawney, who is supposed to say, "It should be done, and England must do it." The man's head, painted with all Millais' power, is a most perfect likeness of Shelley's friend.

Millais goes on to tell us that "some of the happiest days we spent together were at the Peacock Inn at Baslow, in Derbyshire, close to Chatsworth, where every kindness was shown to Leech by the Duke and Sir Joseph Paxton – shooting, fishing, and cricketing."

I again interpose to say that the portrait given as frontispiece to this volume was drawn on one of the "happy days" at the Peacock Inn at Baslow.

"We played together in a match with a neighbouring village, and at a supper which he gave to the teams he sang 'King Death' with becoming gravity, and was much entertained by the local amorous ditties sung by the young farmers."

In further advice to Mr. Evans, Sir John says:

"You cannot dwell too much on his tender anxiety for his wife and children, almost distressing at times to those about him."

The great painter continues:

"I should tell you that he was always careful in his dress, and always went to the best houses for everything he purchased, probably from having early in life discovered the wisdom of such a course – see his satire of everything shoddy – but chiefly from inherent good taste. His choice was so quiet that one only felt he was perfectly attired. Leech was six feet high, slim, well but rather delicately made. Strangers felt when they were introduced to him that they were in the presence of a gentleman grave and courteous always, and a merry fellow when harmless fun was demanded. Like Landseer, he had the power of telling a story in the fewest words, and with astonishing effect upon his hearers; but as a rule he was averse to taking the initiative in conversation. He would sit placidly smoking his cigar in an easy-chair, and only chime in to cap what was said by some voluble speaker, and then retire again into the full enjoyment of his weed and silence."

In his evidence before a Committee of the House of Commons which was formed to inquire into the constitution and working of the Royal Academy, with a view to certain changes in that body, Millais said that he thought Leech was deserving of full membership in the institution, for, indeed, said he:

"Very few of us painters will leave behind us such good and valuable work as he has left – work which is in great part historical. His appreciation of the pathetic was as strong as his sense of the ridiculous, and you will never find a bit of false sentiment in anything he did."

Landseer is reported to have said – after expressing enthusiastic admiration of Leech's genius – that the worst thing he ever did deserved to be framed and placed before students as an example for their emulation and improvement. Sir John Millais concludes his remarks upon his friend – remarks for which I am sure my readers will be as grateful as I am – by a few pathetic words heralding the sad and final scene:

"He became so nervous latterly that he used to take my arm when we were walking together, jerking it perceptibly at any sudden noise, or at any vehicle passing rapidly near us; lingering an unnecessary time at the street crossings; and the morning he came from Thackeray's house, on coming downstairs after seeing his dead friend, he said, 'I also shall die suddenly.'

"I arrived from a Continental tour," concludes Millais, "the day of his death, and by arrangement went immediately to his house to dine with him. His wife told me he had been asking for me; but I did not think it wise to disturb him then. A little later I returned, ran upstairs to his bedside, and found him dead."

CHAPTER XXV.

MR. H. O. NETHERCOTE AND JOHN LEECH

For the following interesting paper my readers are indebted to Mr. Nethercote, of Moulton Grange, Northamptonshire, who sent it to my predecessor, Mr. Evans, amongst whose Leech material I found it. As Mr. Nethercote's anecdotes were intended for publication, I reproduce them without alteration or abbreviation. Mr. Nethercote and Leech were at Charterhouse together.