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

In corroboration of this, I may mention an accident that happened to Mr. Elmore (brother of the R.A. and great friend of Leech), who was terribly injured by a blow on the head in a railway accident on the Marseilles line.

"I was reading a novel," said Mr. Elmore to me, "and the next instant, as it seemed, I found myself suffering great pain in a strange bed, with strange surroundings, in what I afterwards found was a French cottage."

The sufferer also found that more than three weeks had elapsed between the blow and the recovery of consciousness from it. Where, in my blind ignorance I venture to ask, was the ever-living soul all this time?

One of the amusements of the visitors at Folkestone consists in watching the arrival of the French packet; and I have noticed that the more stormy the day, the greater is the crowd that forms itself into an avenue, through which the voyagers must pass in landing. This amusement, I think, is not very creditable to us, because it is derived from an enjoyment arising from the sufferings of our fellow-creatures. The rosy passenger, who is evidently "a good sailor," attracts no attention – we rather resent his condition as inappropriate to the occasion; but the man from whose face every vestige of colour has flown, whose legs can scarcely support him as he walks up the gangway, is an object of great delight to us. We are generally – not always – silent in our enjoyment, scarcely ever receiving a poor sea-sick creature as Leech was once welcomed at Boulogne.

In 1854, Leech and his wife went to Boulogne to stay with Dickens. The day was stormy, and when the artist stepped ashore, he was received with cheers by a crowd of people, mostly English, who loudly congratulated him as looking more intensely miserable than any of the wretched passengers who had preceded him. Leech told Dickens that he had realized at last what an actor's feelings must be when a round of applause greets his efforts.

"I felt," he said, "that I had made a great hit."

My intimacy with Leech led to the usual exchange of hospitalities. I recall with pleasure the occasions on which I had the great delight of welcoming him at my house in London or at the seaside. He never varied from the simple, modest demeanour of the perfect gentleman, was never noisy or argumentative, and always considerate of the feelings of others; prodigal in his praise of his brother artists; never, if he could avoid it, speaking of himself or his works, but if, in course of conversation, allusion had been made to some cut more than commonly attractive, he would meet it with: "Glad you like it, my dear fellow; don't see anything particularly funny in it myself;" or, "Ah! I wish you could have seen it on the wood; they seem to me to have cut all the prettiness out of the girl's face."

The first time I dined with Leech was at his house in Notting Hill Terrace, on the occasion of some Highland sports that took place in Lord Holland's park hard by, out of which Leech made some capital sketches, that afterwards appeared in Punch. Leech's dinners, without being too lavish or extravagant, were always unexceptionable as to food, and notably so as to wine; of the latter, being no judge himself, he took care it should be supplied by "one who knew," and who was also reliable. One of the guests at this particular dinner was the Rev. Mr. White, whose acquaintance our host had made at the Isle of Wight. I mention this gentleman because he was not only a very jovial clergyman, but a great friend of Leech and Dickens, and the author of some plays which had more or less success – one of them, with the title of "The King of the Commons," was played under Phelps' management, and had a considerable run.

"White," Leech whispered to me, "is a great judge of port. I hope to goodness he will like some I have got on purpose for him – and for you, my boy; only you know nothing about it, do you?"

"Not a bit," said I.

When the port appeared we watched the clergyman, and, judging by his expression, the port was successful; but Leech was not satisfied till in reply to his inquiry as to its qualities the clergyman, smacking his lips, said:

"Sir, the Church approves."

At one of the delightful dinners at Leech's double-windowed house – double-windowed to keep out noise, which distressed him all his life – on the Terrace, Kensington, I first met Shirley Brooks, thus commencing a life-long friendship with one of the most charming companions, one of the wittiest men and the best story-tellers that ever made "the hours go by on rosy wing." One of the strongest men on the Punch staff – afterwards editor – Brooks and Leech became somewhat intimate, but whether the intimacy ever became merged into close friendship, I doubt. I frequently dined at Brooks's, but never met Leech there – indeed, from what I have heard, I am pretty sure that, with the exception of his old fellow-student, Percival Leigh, who was one of his nearest and dearest friends, Leech's feeling towards his brother members of the Punch staff never reached friendship in the true meaning of the word. Albert Smith, of whose entertainments Leech said one of the severest things I or anyone ever heard him say – "After all, Frith, it is only bad John Parry" – was a loud, and, to me, a rather vulgar person – too antagonistic to the gentle Leech for the growth of friendship. At the Punch meetings, however, I have it from one who was occasionally present, that Albert Smith always addressed Leech as "Jack," being the only one of the company who used the familiarity. This provoked Douglas Jerrold, who had often winced under the infliction, to ask Leech one day, "How long is it necessary for a man to know you before he can call you 'Jack'?"

After this remark "Jack" was less frequently heard. My authority for the above is the late Mr. George Hodder, an author who I fear has left no "footprints in the sands of time." It was said of him that, on being introduced to a very distinguished artist, he remarked – perhaps feeling the necessity of making a complimentary speech – "Art is a grand thing, sir." This unfortunate gentleman died from injuries received by the upsetting of a coach in Richmond Park.

It is not at all uncommon for middle-class entertainers – though they may possess a fair staff of servants – to seek outside assistance when they gather an unusual number of guests round their hospitable boards. On one occasion – and very likely oftener – Leech sought such supplementary aid, and found it in the form of his parish clerk, a solemn person who was not too proud to add to his stipend by "going out to wait." As is usual with his class, the clerk-waiter arrived in good time to help in furnishing forth the dinner-table, having an eye to the placing of the flowers, plate, etc. The guests, amounting to ten or twelve, were announced in due course, all old acquaintances, and all expecting their dinners with the punctuality for which their host was noted. Hungry men, though they may be good talkers under happier circumstances, are seldom brilliant; on this occasion, though Dickens and Jerrold may have been amongst the guests, the conversation languished at last into silence. Half an hour passed. What could have happened? Suddenly one of the guests – was it Dickens or Jerrold? – sprang from his chair, and going to Leech, with extended hand, said:

"Well, it's getting late; I'm afraid I must go. Thank you, dear boy, for a delightful evening; the dinner was capital, the turtle first rate – never tasted finer salmon; and as to the champagne – "

The puzzled looks of Leech and his guests ended in a roar of laughter, in the midst of which a black and solemn figure appeared, and in the tones in which he would have given the responses at church, said:

"Dinner is served."

The assembled guests received the welcome announcement with a chorus of "Amen!"

CHAPTER XV.

SPORTING NOVELS

Amongst the many books illustrated by Leech are some sporting novels, written, I think, by a Mr. Surtees. "Ask Mamma," "Handley Cross," "Plain or Ringlets," "Mr. Romford's Hounds," etc., owe their origin to this prolific gentleman. As these works are ornamented by coloured steel engravings and innumerable woodcuts by Leech, it has been my duty to look into them; read them, I cannot. I hope if the author is still living he will attribute my want of appreciation to a want of sympathy with his heroes and heroines, though I admit, in the portions I have read, that he shows considerable humour as well as power in expressing it. This, from one who knows his own ignorance of the subject in question, should be gratifying to Mr. Surtees.

Though to my mind Leech is quite at his best in "Pictures of Life and Character," there are examples of his powers in all these books which quite justify my selection of some of them for the gratification of my readers. "Mr. Romford's Hounds" is "embellished" with twenty-five large steel plates, in one of which a certain Mr. Facey, who has a charming Miss Lucy for his hunting companion, is checked by an obstacle which causes him to exclaim to Lucy, "Dash it! this is a rum customer," "as he stood in his stirrups, looking at what was on the far side."

"Oh, throw your heart over it," said Lucy, "and then follow it as quickly as you can."

"Heart!" muttered Facey. "I shall never find it again if I do. It would be like looking for a needle in a bundle of hay."

"Let me try, then," said Lucy.

It would be difficult indeed to surpass the beauty of the girl's figure in this drawing, exquisitely drawn, true in character and action as it is. Mr. Facey's expression, too, exactly conveys the idea that the longer he looks at the awkward place the less he likes it. The horses – notably the action of the one ridden by the young lady – are in every way admirable. The background, with a few slight touches, gives us a stretch of country – a withered tree, a flock of birds, and the cloudy sky, with no doubt the southerly wind that "proclaims the hunting morning."

"Mr. Romford's Hounds" gives us another sportsman, who rejoices in the name of Muffington. This gentleman is possessed for the moment of a horse called, or, rather, miscalled, Placid Joe, whose former name, Pull Devil, seems better-suited to his propensities, as shown in the drawing, in which Placid Joe has taken the bit between his teeth, to the discomfiture of Mr. Muffington. From the following telegram it would seem that Placid Joe had been borrowed for the day's hunting. Thus it ran:

"Mr. Martin Muffington, at the White Swan, Showoffborough, to Mr. Green, Brown Street, Bagnigge Wells Road, London.

"That brute Placid Joe has no more mouth than a bull. He's carried me right into the midst of the hounds, and nearly annihilated the huntsman. I will send him back by the 9.30 a.m. train to-morrow, and won't pay you a halfpenny for his hire."

The character of Mr. Muffington, together with his action as he tugs in vain at Placid Joe, are admirable; but the horse, good as it is in action, appears to me less well proportioned than Leech's horses almost invariably are, the head and neck being too small. But what could surpass the huntsman and his steed just recovering from the "cannoning" received from Placid Joe? The scattered hounds, the riders behind, and the landscape leave nothing to be desired.

"Plain or Ringlets" contains twelve coloured plates and no less than forty-three woodcuts. Judging from a slight acquaintance with the letterpress and a careful study of the illustrations in this book, I find that the author deals less exclusively with the feats of the hunter than in "Mr. Romford's Hounds"; shooting, racing, etc., are allowed to figure prominently, and the pursuit of "lovely woman" – in which there seem to be as many false scents and heavy falls as beset the chasing of the fox – plays an important part in "Plain or Ringlets." Unlike the policeman's, I have often thought that the riding-master's life must "be a happy one." I am borne out in this, I think, by the illustration, in which Leech is delightfully at home. Says our author:

"Smiling, cantering bevies of beauties, with their shining hair in gold or silver beaded nets, and party-coloured feathers in their jaunty little hats, alone imparted energy to the scene as they tit-tupped along with quickly following tramp, led by the most magnificent and affable of riding-masters, who thus advertise their studs, just as Howes and Cushing advertise their grand United States Circus. Bless us, what a pace some of them go!"

What life and motion there are in this group! How is it, by what occult influence do we find those two lovely creatures right and left of the riding-master, instead of one place of honour being reserved for the stout middle-aged lady, who, strange to say, seems quite contented with her position? I don't believe those two girls want any teaching, for do they not sit their horses with perfect grace, as safely at home in their saddles as they would be in one of the lounges in their drawing-rooms, which either of them would fill so charmingly? Look what pretty creatures the magician Leech can call up for us by a few scratches of his pencil, in the rear of this cantering procession!

The Duke of Tergiversation (Phœbus, what a name!), says the author of "Plain or Ringlets," found on inheriting his estate that "the life had been eaten out of it" before the death of his father put him in possession of his ancestral property. The Duke, however, seems to have made the acquaintance of a banker, named Goldspink, who yielded to his persuasions and promises to the extent of allowing his aristocratic customer to overdraw his account to such a formidable amount as seriously to imperil the stability of the bank. Mr. Goldspink then seeks an interview with his Grace, which the Duke, after endeavouring by all sorts of shifts to avoid, was at length compelled to grant.

"Ah, my dear Mr. Goldspink!" exclaimed the Duke, advancing with outstretched hands and all the cheerful cordiality imaginable as our "crab-actioned" friend followed the smoothly-gliding butler, Mr. Garnett, into the presence. "Ah, my dear Goldspink, this is indeed most kind and considerate! First neighbour that has come to greet us. How, may I ask, is your worthy wife and your excellent son?" taking both the banker's hands and shaking them severely.

The banker makes a mental calculation of the Duke's liabilities, with a clear understanding that "his Grace is on the gammon-and-spinach tack," and then says:

"Thank your Grace – his Grace – my Grace – that is to say – they are both pretty well. Hope the Duchess and Lord Marchhare – "

"The Duchess and Marchhare are both at this moment enjoying a quiet cup of tea in her pretty little boudoir, where, I am sure, they will be most happy to see Mr. Goldspink," said the Duke, motioning him to the gilt-moulded white door opposite.

This cut seems to me to show Leech's power of marking the difference of character in the persons represented in a degree noticeable by the most ordinary observer. The Duke is an aristocrat from top to toe; the insincerity of his welcome even is apparent; while the squat and "crab-like" figure of the banker is no less true to nature; his delight at shaking hands with a Duke making him forget for the moment the serious issues dependent upon the interview.

At the eleventh hour I find myself forbidden to show my readers any of the admirable drawings which illustrate this book.

CHAPTER XVI.

THE "BON GAULTIER BALLADS."

I will here leave the sporting novels for a time and introduce my reader to the "Bon Gaultier Ballads," and if he make his first acquaintance with that work through this introduction, I respectfully advise him to improve it by a more intimate knowledge, for he will not only find excellent reading, but illustrations by Richard Doyle and others, scarcely inferior to those by Leech.

It will be remembered that at the time of the Papal aggression Lord John Russell, according to Leech, chalked "No Popery" on Cardinal Wiseman's door and then ran away. In the "Bon Gaultier Ballads" we find his lordship face to face with Cardinal Wiseman, disguised as a friar, in Sherwood Forest, where Little John is supposed to reign in place of Robin Hood, deceased. The ballad is entitled "Little John and the Red Friar," and begins:

"The deer may leap within the glade,The fawns may follow free —For Robin is dead, and his bones are laidBeneath the greenwood tree.    *      *      *      *      *"Now, Little John was an outlaw proud,A prouder ye never saw;Through Nottingham and LeicestershiresHe thought his word was law,And he strutted through the greenwood wideLike a pestilent jackdaw.    *      *      *      *      *"Now, word had come to Little John,As he lay upon the grass,That a friar red was in merry SherwoodWithout his leave to pass."

Little John inquires from his little foot-page what manner of man is this burly friar who intrudes into his domain.

"'My master good,' the little page said,'His name I wot not well;But he wears on his head a hat so red,With a monstrous scallop-shell."'He says he is Prior of Copmanhurst,And Bishop of London town,And he comes with a rope from our Father the PopeTo put the outlaws down.'"

Little John searches the forest for his scarlet enemy —

"O'er holt and hill, through brake and breere,He took his way alone.    *      *      *      *      *"Then Little John, he strutted on,Till he came to an open bound,And he was aware of a Red FriarWas sitting upon the ground."His shoulders they were broad and strong,And large was he of limb;Few yeomen in the north countrieWould care to mell with him.    *      *      *      *      *"'What dost thou here, thou strong friar,In Sherwood's merry round,Without the leave of Little JohnTo range with hawk and hound?'"'Small thought have I,' quoth the Red Friar,'Of any leave, I trow;But Little John is an outlawed thief,And so, I ween, art thou!"'Know I am, I am Prior of Copmanhurst,And Bishop of London town,And I bring a rope from our Father the PopeTo put the outlaws down.'"Then out spoke Little John in wrath,'I tell thee, burly frere,The Pope may do as he likes at home,But he sends no Bishops here!'""'Up and away, Red Friar,' he said,'Up and away right speedilie;And were it not for that cowl of thine,Avenged on thy body I would be!'"'Nay, heed not that,' said the Red Friar,'And let my cowl no hindrance be;I warrant I can give as goodAs ever I take from thee!'"Little John he raised his quarter-staff,And so did the burly priest;And they fought beneath the greenwood treeA stricken hour at least."

Little John gets much the worst of the fight, and endeavours to come to terms with the Red Friar:

"'There's some mistake, good friar,' he said;'There's some mistake 'twixt thee and me;I know thou art Prior of Copmanhurst,But not beneath the greenwood tree."'And if you will take some other name,You shall have ample time to bide;With pasture also for your Bulls,And power to range the forest wide.'"'There's no mistake!' the friar said;'I'll call myself just what I please:My doctrine is that chalk is chalk,And cheese is nothing else but cheese.'"'So be it then!' quoth Little John"

from his refuge in the tree, to which, according to Leech, he has been tossed by the Popish Bull.

Cardinal Wiseman, as I remember him, was a huge burly figure, not unlike Leech's drawing; a stronger resemblance to Lord John can be traced in the swaggering little figure in the first illustration and also in the second.

Most of the "Bon Gaultier Ballads" are illustrated by Doyle and other hands. Leech's contributions are confined to four of them. The next from which I select drawings is called "The Rhyme of Sir Launcelot Bogle." It appears that "this valiant knight, most terrible in fight," had married the sister of another valiant knight named George of Gorbals, and with his bride he had retired to his castle near Glasgow. For some reason or other this marriage was very distasteful to the brother of the bride – so distasteful, indeed, that nothing but the blood of Sir Launcelot would wipe out the disgrace. In pursuit of his revenge, George of Gorbals armed his followers and approached the castle, where

"A donjon keep arose, that might baffle any foes,With its men-at-arms in rowsOn the towers."And the flag that flaunted there showed the grim and grizzly bear,Which the Bogles always wear for their crest.And I heard the warder call, as he stood upon the wall,'Wake ye up! my comrades all,From your rest!"'For, by the blessed rood, there's a glimpse of armour goodIn the deep Cowcaddens Wood, o'er the stream;And I hear the stifled hum of a multitude that come,Though they have not beat the drum,It would seem!"'Go tell it to my lord, lest he wish to man the fordWith partisan and sword just beneath;Ho, Gilkison and Nares! Ho, Provan of Cowlairs!We'll back the bonny bearsTo the death.'"To the towers above the moat, like one who heedeth not,Came the bold Sir Launcelot, half undressed;On the outer rim he stood, and peered into the wood,With his arms across him gluedOn his breast."And he muttered, 'Foe accurst, thou hast dared to seek me first?George of Gorbals, do thy worst; for I swearO'er thy gory corpse to ride, ere thy sister and my brideFrom my undissevered sideThou shalt tear!'"    *      *      *      *      *

Sir Launcelot, not being sure that Cowcaddens Wood really hides his mortal enemy, despatches a "herald stout," accompanied by

"Sir Roderick Dalgleish, and his foster-brother Neish,With his bloodhounds in the leash,"

to see whether the party in the wood are friends or foes. All doubt on the subject is put to rest by a shower of arrows which

"Sped their force, and a pale and bleeding corseHe (the herald) sank from off his horseOn the plain!"Back drew the bold Dalgleish, back started stalwart Neish,With his bloodhounds in the leash from Brownlee.'Now shame be to the sword that made thee knight and lord,Thou caitiff thrice abhorred,Shame on thee!'"

After this burst of not unnatural rage at the unhandsome treatment of a herald, whose office should have made his person sacred, Sir Launcelot gives orders that there must be

"'Forthwith no end of those heavy bolts;Three angels to the brave who finds the foe a grave,And a gallows for the slaveWho revolts!'"Ten days the combat lasted; but the bold defenders fasted,While the foemen, better pastied, fed their host;You might hear the savage cheers of the hungry Gorbaliers,As at night they dressed the steersFor the roast."And Sir Launcelot grew thin, and Provan's double chinShowed sundry folds of skin down beneath;In silence and in grief found Gilkison relief,Nor did Neish the spell-word 'beef'Dare to breathe."

Then Edith, the bride, made her appearance upon the ramparts.

"And she said unto her lord, as he leaned upon his sword,'One short and little word may I speak?I cannot bear to view those eyes so ghastly blue,Or mark the sallow hueOf thy cheek."'I know the rage and wrath that my furious brother hathIs less against us both than at me.Then, dearest, let me go, to find among the foeAn arrow from the bow,Like Broomlee!'"

To this noble offer of self-sacrifice Sir Launcelot will not listen for a moment. He replies:

"'All our chances are not lost, as your brother and his hostShall discover to their cost rather hard!Ho, Provan! take this key; hoist up the malvoisie,And heap it, d'ye see,In the yard."'Of usquebaugh and rum you will find, I reckon, some,Beside the beer and mum, extra stout;Go straightway to your task, and roll me all the casks,And also range the flasksJust without."'If I know the Gorbaliers, they are sure to dip their earsIn the very inmost tiers of the drink.Let them win the outer court, and hold it for their sport,Since their time is rather short,I should think!'"With a loud triumphant yell, as the heavy drawbridge fell,Rushed the Gorbaliers pell-mell, wild as Druids;Mad with thirst for human gore, how they threatened and they swore,Till they stumbled on the floorO'er the fluids."Down their weapons then they threw, and each savage soldier drewFrom his belt an iron screw in his fist;George of Gorbals found it vain their excitement to restrain,And, indeed, was rather fainTo assist."With a beaker in his hand, in the midst he took his stand,And silence did command all below;'Ho, Launcelot the bold! ere thy lips are icy cold,In the centre of thy holdPledge me now!'    *      *      *      *      *"Dumb as death stood Launcelot, as though he heard him not;But his bosom Provan smote and he swore,And Sir Roderick Dalgleish remarked aside to Neish,'Never, sure, did thirsty fishSwallow more!"'Thirty casks are nearly done, yet the revel's scarce begun;It were knightly sport and fun to strike in!''Nay, tarry till they come,' quoth Neish, 'unto the rum —They are working at the mumAnd the gin!'"Then straight there did appear to each gallant GorbalierTwenty castles dancing near, all around;The solid earth did shake, and the stones beneath them quake,And sinuous as a snakeMoved the ground."Why and wherefore had they come seemed intricate unto some,But all agreed the rum was divine;And they looked with bitter scorn on their leader highly born,Who preferred to fill his hornUp with wine."

Like the fateful moment at Waterloo, the time had now come to strike, and Sir Launcelot and his friends took full advantage of it.