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

"Leech," says his friend, "was the most popular boy in the school, and the margins of his grammars were a delight to boyish eyes. After leaving Charterhouse I lost sight of him for many years; but through the medium of our common friend Reynolds, now Canon Hole, we came together again when he was living in Brunswick Square, and we frequently met at each other's houses. On one occasion, after telling me of his sufferings from street bands, he said:

"'May I come to you with wife and family for a few days? I am dying of "Dixie's Land."'

"He came, and the very first day after dinner, on taking our evening stroll round the garden, our ears were greeted with the hateful tune! The village band had just mastered the homicidal air, and were inadvertently making themselves particeps crimines in the murder of my friend. I shall never forget his delightful smile as, when the doleful tune burst upon our ears, he said:

"'Ah, well! "Dixie's Land" in Brunswick Square and "Dixie's Land" at Moulton Grange are two very different tunes; in the latter case a mile of atmosphere intervenes between it and me, and in the former I was in the very bowels of it.'

"He was fond of going to see a meet with hounds, but he was no rider. He once asked me to sell him a horse I was riding, on the ground of its apparent quietness. I declined doing this because it was not right in its wind.

"'All the better,' said he; 'it will not be able to run away far;' and he bought it.

"He was fond of being here (at Moulton Grange), and used to enjoy taking quiet rides along the lanes, and over the many-acred, well-gated grass fields, full of heavy Hertford and Devon cattle; and many a delightful chat have I had with him in rebus Punchibus, its contributors, artists, publishers, editors, etc. I am inclined to think that the man he liked best in the world was R. Hole, and then Thackeray and Millais; but of course I cannot say this with any certainty."

I stop Mr. Nethercote's narrative for a moment for Mrs. Leech to be heard; that lady assured Canon Hole – now Dean of Rochester – after Leech's death, that the two men whom her husband loved best in the world were himself and Millais. Thackeray was asked to name the man he loved above all others, and he named Leech; but on another occasion, when he was asked the same question by his daughter, as recorded in Fitzgerald's "Memoirs," he said:

"Why, Fitz, to be sure; and next to him Brookfield."

We will now listen again to Mr. Nethercote, who says:

"By his desire I accompanied him one night to see 'Lord Dundreary,' and I shall never forget his dismay on seeing that neither the farce nor the acting had 'fetched' me. He could not understand my feeling that the whole thing was non-natural, and that no lord who ever lived was half so great a fool as Lord Dundreary.

"On one occasion he was staying at Moulton Grange on the eve of the great fight between Tom Sayers and Heenan. A lady of great beauty, one of the party, was enlarging overnight on the brutality of all prize-fights, and expressed a hope that this fight might be prevented. On hearing of Sayers' conduct in the fight, the lady could not help expressing her admiration of his bravery, whereon Leech made a charming sketch of his fair friend crowning Sayers with a laurel-wreath, and entitled it 'Beauty crowning Valour.'

"I need not say how greatly the sketch is valued by its possessors.

"Leech used to like hearing his work criticised by friendly amateurs, and seemed to take in and, as it were, masticate their comments.

"I remember once, over our after-dinner cigar, telling him that I considered he failed in portraying the periphery of a wheel – that he made it over-fluffy – and failed also in drawing a stake and bound fence.

"The latter he admitted, and begged me to find him a model to study. This I did, and an excellent 'stake and bound' appeared in the Punch of the following Wednesday.

"He stuck to his wheel, and doubtless he was right and I was wrong.

"The last letter I received from him was in reply to an invitation to come for a week's shooting. I knew that he had been ill, and hoped it might do him good. His answer was:

"'Shoot, my dear Nethercote; I couldn't walk round a turnip.'

"When that was written the end was not far off. The news reached me as I left home to hunt, and heavy indeed was my heart all that day, and for many a succeeding one, and still is when I think of him, the warmest-hearted, most generous, gracious, kindly, hospitable, endearing friend that man ever had.

"Such are some of the recollections of my dear friend, written off in a hurry. If they prove of any use to you, you are most welcome to them.

"H. O. Nethercote."October 12, 1885."

Mr. Ashby Sterry

The name which heads the few words below is one that is very familiar as the writer of many charming verses; and it is no wonder that Mr. Evans, on discovering the sonnet addressed to Miss Rosie Leech, should have mistaken the source of its inspiration, the more readily, as Miss Leech was christened Ada Rose.

In the belief that my readers will be glad to have the verses, and Mr. Ashby Sterry's account of their production, I add them to Mr. Sterry's sympathetic appreciation of Leech.

"For as long as I can remember, I have had the most profound admiration for the genius of John Leech," says Mr. Sterry; "and he gave me as much delight in my childhood as he subsequently did when I became a man. I am grieved to say that I hardly knew him at all; it was many years after his death that I became connected with Punch. I should be most happy for you to quote the lines to Miss Rosie Leech; they, however, do not refer to John Leech's daughter. Several girls that I knew some years ago reminded me forcibly of the works of various artists. I sketched their portraits in sonnets, and added their Christian name to the surname of the master they represented."

Rosie was emphatically a "Leech girl" in all respects, and one that he would have gloried in drawing.

"MISS ROSIE LEECH"Down on the sands there strolls a merry maid,Aglow with ruddy health and gladsome glee;She breasts the breezes of the summer sea,And lets each zephyr trifle with each braid;Laughs gaily as her petticoats evadeHer girlish grasp and wildly flutter free,As, bending to some boisterous decree,The neatest foot and ankle are displayed.Her rounded youthful figure you may traceHalf pouting, as rude Boreas unfurlsA wealth of snowy frillery and lace,A glory of soft golden-rippled curls.Comes blushing with a rare unconscious grace,The bonniest of England's bonny girls!"

Mr. H. Cholmondeley Pennell and Leech.

"PUCK ON PEGASUS."

Mr. C. Pennell (loquitur): "My acquaintance began with his making some illustrations for my book 'Puck on Pegasus.' I found him liberal to generosity in all his professional dealings with me. Indeed, I have since ascertained that, seeing I was a débutant in literature, he only let me pay him about half his usual price – a generosity in which he was equalled by my friend Mr. John Tenniel. The charming drawings of these two inimitable artists on wood were, I have not the slightest doubt, the principal cause of the success of the verses to which they were so unequally mated.

"The Athenæum, I recollect, whilst using the scalping-knife freely on the letterpress, observed that 'the illustrations were of Leech's loveliest.' Naturally, I have always felt towards Leech and Tenniel the gratitude which a young author owes to men who, already famous themselves, so frankly and generously first lent him a helping hand.

"I think Mr. Tenniel and Mr. Leech were at the time I speak of great friends, and I remember their once asking me to go down somewhere to hunt with them – an invitation which I have since regretted not being able to accept. Leech was an enthusiast about hunting, and hence his admirable and accurate delineations of horses and hunting scenes.

"He was a decidedly handsome man; tall, square, and well built, and in manners delightfully genial and frank. I was young when I knew him, and had not had much experience of the world; but I have often thought since that he was one of the most fascinating men it has ever been my good fortune to meet.

"Out of the artists whose pencils graced the pages of 'Puck on Pegasus,' not only those I have mentioned, but also Sir John Millais and Sir Noël Paton, are, as everyone knows, striking instances of exceptional – well, what shall I call it, to spare their blushes? – say 'good looks.' Since I last met the 'Queen's Limner for Scotland,' his hair has become gray, but, notwithstanding, as I told Lady Paton a few weeks ago, her husband is still the handsomest man in North Britain.

"The only little special circumstance I can recall of Leech's 'individualism,' so to speak, is the fondness he had for sitting half on the table – one leg resting on the ground, and one dangling – the attitude in which he is represented in the photograph I have of him."

As the foregoing – found amongst Mr. Evans' Leech material – was evidently intended for publication, I make no scruple in presenting it to my readers. Without presuming to pose as a literary critic, I venture to differ from the author of "Puck on Pegasus" where he relegates his rhymes so far to the limbo of poetical failures as to claim for their chief merit that of having been the cause of some most admirable illustrations. Mr. Cholmondeley Pennell was unusually fortunate in all his illustrators; but surely such brilliantly clever youthful efforts as "Puck on Pegasus" displayed well deserved their good fortune. I confess I was disappointed in finding two drawings only which, from internal evidence, I can attribute to Leech; these, and, indeed, most of the others, strange to say, are unsigned.

Readers of Longfellow will, I think, agree with me that the "Song of In-the-Water" is an admirable imitation of the manner of the American poet's "Hiawatha," without the caricature, not to say vulgarity, which so often disfigures those attempts.

The "Song of In-the-Water" is short, and I am tempted to treat my readers to the whole of it.

I also note the delightful little initial letter W, pictorially rendered, evidently by Doyle:

"When the summer night descendedSleepy, on the white witch water,Came a lithe and lovely maiden,Gazing on the silent water —Gazing on the gleaming river —With her azure eyes and tenderOn the river glancing forward,Till the laughing wave sprang upward,Upward from his reedy hollowWith the lily in his bosom,With his crown of water lilies —Curling every dimpled rippleAs he sprang into the starlight,As he clasped her charmed reflectionGlowing to his crystal bosom,As he whispered, 'Fairest, fairest,Rest upon this crystal bosom!'And she straightway did accordin'; —Down into the water stept she,Down into the wavering river,Like a red deer in the sunset —Like a ripe leaf in the autumn:From her lips, as rose-buds snow-filled,Came a soft and dreamy murmur,Softer than the breath of summer,Softer than the murm'ring river,Than the cooing of Cushawa —Sighs that melted as the snows melt,Silently and sweetly melted;Sounds that mingled with the crispingFoam upon the billow resting:Yet she spoke not, only murmured."From the forest shade primeval,Piggey-Wiggey looked out at her;He, the very Youthful Porker —He, the Everlasting Grunter —Gazed upon her there, and wondered!With his nose out, Rokey Pokey —And his tail up, Curley Wurley —Wondered what on earth the joke was,Wondered what the girl was up to —What the deuce her little game was,Why she didn't squeak and grunt more!And she floated down the riverLike a water-proof Ophelia;For her crinoline sustained her."

We may look, and look in vain, through the long list of Leech's delightful creations for anything more lovely, more exquisitely dainty, than this floating damsel, with grace and charm in every line of her. I am sure my readers will join me in gratitude to Mr. Pennell for having given occasion for a picture that is "a joy for ever."

Leech's remaining drawing illustrates a poem entitled "Rejected Addresses," not in any way, I think, intended as a parody of any of the celebrated "Rejected Addresses" of Messrs. Smith – addresses, it will be remembered, that were written in the manner of various poets who flourished early in this century. Mr. Pennell deals with a certain Alderman, a Sir Toby, who was

"An Alderman of the very first degree,But neither wife nor son had he:He had a daughter fair —And often said her father, 'Cis,You shall be dubbed "my Lady," Miss,When I am dubbed Lord Mayor.'"

"Sir Gobble Grist" was the aged swain of parental choice, but, as is not uncommon in such cases, the choice was not favoured by one of the parties concerned in it. The Alderman was, however, peremptory, for he says to the pretty Cis:

"'The day I don the gown and chain,In Hymen's modern Fetter LaneYou wed Sir Gobble Grist;And whilst with pomp and pageant highI scrape, and strut, and star it bySt. George's in the East, you'll trySt. George's in the West.'"Oh, vision of parental pride!Oh, blessed Groom to such a Bride!Oh, happy Lady Cis!Yet sparks must always strike the match,And miss may chance to lose her 'catch,'Or he may catch a miss!"Such things do happen, here and thereWhen knights are old, and nymphs are fair,And who can say they don't?When Worldly takes the gilded pill,And Dives stands and says, 'I will,'And Beauty says, 'I won't.'    *      *      *      *      *"Alas! that beaus will lose their spring,And wayward belles refuse to 'ring,'Unstruck by Cupid's dart!Alas that – must the truth be told —Yet oft'ner has the archer soldThe 'white and red' to touch 'the gold,'And Diamonds trumped the Heart!"That luckless heart! too soon misplaced,Why is it that parental taste,On sagest calculation based,So rarely pleases Miss?Let those who can the riddle read;For me, I've no idea indeed,No more, perhaps, had Cis."It may be that she found Sir G.Less tender than a swain should be, —Young – sprightly – witty – gay.It might have been she thought his hatOr head too round, or square, or flat,Or empty – who can say?    *      *      *      *      *"I know not! but the Parson waited,The Bridegroom swore, the Groomsmen rated,Till two o'clock or near; —Then home again in rage and wrath,Whilst pretty Cis – was rattling NorthWith Jones the Volunteer!"

Surely the poet has no occasion to blush for these verses, or to think that they needed Leech's aid to preserve them. To me they seem admirable of their kind, and well worthy of affording employment for Leech's inimitable pencil; and how perfectly has he realized for us the happy pair! Let us hope that pretty Cis has made a prudent choice in the handsome Volunteer, whose uneasy glance conveys a fear that the journey 'due North' may still be interrupted. To those who desire to read sprightly verse, and to see the verse illustrated with very uncommon perfection by such artists as Doyle, Millais, Tenniel, Sir Noël Paton, and others, I heartily commend "Puck on Pegasus."

On Tuesday, the 25th of October, 1864, I dined at the house of Mr. Hills, in Queen Ann Street. The party consisted of several gentlemen, most of whose names I forget. I think Landseer and Millais were amongst the guests. I am sure Leech was, for I sat next to him. I cannot say I noticed much difference in his appearance; he was perhaps even quieter than usual, and when he joined in general conversation I fancied I noticed a slight change in his deep voice, which seemed to me to have a kind of far-away sound in it, more noticeable still when he spoke to me. I heard he had not been well, and, in reply to my inquiry, he said he should be well enough if he could get away from the horrible noises that never seemed to cease in his neighbourhood. Back and front of his house, he said, noises of all kinds were incessant; his servant's time was taken up in sending away street musicians; the cries of the hawkers were awful, work was impossible to him except under agonizing conditions – a butcher's cart passed and repassed his house repeatedly with a dog in it that barked continually. He then mentioned other nuisances, and concluded his grievances with a sentence which I can never forget. "Rather, Frith," he said, "than continue to be tormented in this way, I would prefer to go to the grave where there is no noise." Before that day week his desire was accomplished, his ever-to-be-honoured grave had received him, and he was deaf to all noises for evermore.

Leech's doctors had warned him against excitement of any kind; he was forbidden to ride on horseback or to walk rapidly; and he was told that, if he would cease to work, and dismiss all anxiety from his mind, they had good hope of his recovery. Cease to work and dismiss anxiety! What vain words to a man who was consumed by the desire to raise money, which nothing but work would bring! And for whom were these dying energies put forth? Clearly not for himself or "his own household."

The day before his death Leech went to see Dr. Quain, who again prescribed absolute rest as his only chance. And how did the poor fellow follow this advice? He went home and wrote to the Punch office, saying that a messenger might be sent for a drawing in progress, which "he would finish if he could." Strange to say, the fancy was as bright and the imagination as powerful as ever, and, for the moment, the hand itself had lost none of its cunning; but the physical strength failed utterly, and the pencil fell from that wonderful hand for ever. The messenger came, and was sent empty away.

On the day of his death – having spent the rest of the previous day, after his failure to complete the Punch drawing, in bed – he begged to be allowed to draw. "It would amuse me," he said. A medical friend who was present gave a reluctant permission, and seeing no immediate appearance of danger, the doctor left him to his amusement. "Instead, however, of beginning at once," says Miss Leech, "he threw himself upon a couch in the room, and after a little while he was persuaded to go to bed and keep himself perfectly quiet. This he did, but scarcely had he composed himself for sleep than he suddenly started up and, calling to his father and sister, fell back and expired in their arms without a sigh."

Thus, on the 29th of October, 1864, died John Leech, done to death by overwork in his anxiety for others, who, let us hope, were worthy of the sacrifice. It is not too much to say that the death of this inimitable artist was a sorrow to all English-speaking people, and no less to many foreign peoples, who – "as one touch of nature makes the whole world kin" – fully relished the beauty, truth, and humour of all Leech's work. Of this we have ample proof in the elaborately appreciative remarks of French and German writers. Among the former, M. Ernest Chesnau, in the Gazette des Beaux Arts of June, 1875, has an exhaustive article on Leech and his works – too long for reproduction here. Of the loving sympathy felt by his German brethren, the following tribute from the German Punch– the Kladderadatsch– offers ample evidence. It is entitled "A Cypress Branch for the Tomb of John Leech."

"Poor John! Thy German brethren, too, stand in the shape of a weeping willow at thy grave, for our locks are turned to mourning branches that droop down over thy simple cross. Ungrudgingly we behold thy glory, thy 'like nature' which stirred up the foul carp-pond of life. We remember thy fox-hunting and angling gentlemen, thy ladies, the pretty ones and the declining, thy blue stockings, thy gentlemen, thy volunteers, thy sportsmen, thy Flunkeiana, and thy immortal Mr. Briggs, this pearl of English bonhommie. Mr. Punch, too, whose greatest ornament thou wert, sits mourning on thy tomb. He has cast off his merry Punchinello costume, and is nothing but a sorrowing old man. Farewell, merry John, thou boy of endless good-humour.

"We erect this little monument in thy own spirit, with an eye that laughs through tears, for after thou hadst conquered the first bitter pangs of death, thou must surely at thy last moment have smiled at leaving this miserable world."

The English journals vied with each other in expressions of sorrow for this irreparable loss. The death of Garrick, said Dr. Johnson, "eclipsed the gaiety of nations." How much more truly this may be said of the premature death of Leech! Never was man so loved and honoured by his personal friends, never was a man's death more sincerely mourned than that of "dear, kind John Leech" by those who had the delightful privilege of knowing intimately all the endearing qualities of his heart and mind. See what that great man, who was so soon to follow him to the grave, says, and think what the simple words imply! Says Dickens, in a letter to Forster written a few days after Leech's death, "I have not done my number ('Our Mutual Friend'). This death of poor Leech has put me out woefully."

It was predicted that Leech's death would be death to Punch. How false and foolish that prophecy was, none knew so well as Leech himself; but while admitting to the full the great talent of the present Punch staff of artists, it cannot be denied that Leech's place is vacant, and I assume the prophetic mantle and proclaim (I hope mistakenly) that it will never be filled. It should always be borne in mind that though it is impossible to exaggerate the benefit that Punch derived from Leech's pencil, the artist is also deeply indebted to Punch for the exceptional opportunities the peculiar character of the paper offered for the display of his powers. The fact is, the paper and the illustrations were exactly suited to each other, and always worked harmoniously together.

That Leech's death would be keenly felt by all connected with Punch goes without saying, and if tears are evidences of grief, those that fell from the eyes of the whole of the staff as they stood round Leech's grave gave full assurance of their sorrow.

On the 3rd of November, by a notice in the daily papers, the public were informed that the funeral of John Leech would take place at Kensal Green on the following day. At two o'clock on the afternoon of the 4th, great crowds of people lined the ways from the chapel to the grave, which was already surrounded by the friends and acquaintances of the dead. The pall-bearers were Mark Lemon, Shirley Brooks, Tom Taylor, J. E. Millais, R.A., Horace Mayhew, M. Evans (Bradbury and Evans, of Punch), John Tenniel, F. C. Burnand, Samuel Lucas, and Henry Silver (all members of the staff or contributors to Punch). These were followed by John Leech, the artist's father; Dr. Quain, poor Leech's unwearied attendant in his illness; Charles Keene, George Du Maurier, and others, all more or less associated with Leech in their relation to Punch. In attendance were Charles Dickens, W. H. Russell, Perceval Leigh, Edmund Yates, Charles F. Adams, German Reed, H. K. Browne ('Phiz'), Thomas Landseer, A.R.A., George Cruikshank, Godfrey Turner, Creswick (the tragedian), Marcus Stone, J. Phillip, R.A., W. P. Frith, R.A., and many others. The red coats of two soldiers made bright spots amongst the sombre crowd. The service for the dead was read by the Rev. S. R. Hole, now Dean of Rochester, whose warm friendship for Leech distressingly affected him in his delivery of the solemn passages in the burial service. The last words had scarcely ceased when we crowded together, and without a dry eye amongst us, as we took our farewell look into the resting-place of the man we loved so well. One tomb only divides the graves of Thackeray and Leech. Of both these men it may be justly said that, like Saul and Jonathan of old, "they were beautiful in their lives," and but a short time and a small space divide them in their deaths.

Leech's wife and children soon followed him to the grave; and though, to the surprise and regret of all who knew of the immense mass of work that he produced, he was unable to leave even a moderate fortune behind him, it is satisfactory to know that his family did not suffer. Anything approaching privation was warded off by means which it is not necessary to particularize.

The whole world is the inheritor under the will of Leech; and what a legacy he has bequeathed! Posterity will be able to study us in our habits as we lived, in our pleasures and our pains, in our follies and eccentricities, in our sports and amusements – in short, in every condition of life, high and low. A type, or types, of every class, from the very poor to the very rich, from the beggar to the King, spring perfect from Leech's pencil. He revels in beauty; tenderness and manly strength combine in his works, as they did in himself, a love of what is good and pure, and a hatred of the ignoble and the base is shown in all he drew, and in every act of his private life. My endeavour in these pages has been to convey to those to whom Leech will be but a name, as clear an idea as lay in my power of the "life and character" of the author of the matchless works which will be a delight for all time. Death only sanctifies the loving memory in which Leech will be held by those who knew him. The kindly and intelligent of future generations will, I hope and believe, not only appreciate the humour and character, the fun and frolic, in Leech's drawings, but discover also the delightful nature of their producer in many a tender touch, in many a good-natured rendering of matter that was susceptible in other hands of severe or vulgar treatment; and if I can create for him something of the affectionate regard in the future that is universally felt for him in the present, my object in writing this imperfect memoir will be attained.