_JOHN LEECH_ (_Continued_).
_Giovanni._ What do the dead do, uncle?--do they eat,
Hear music, go a hunting, and be merry,
As we that live?
_Francesco de Medicis._ No, Cuz; they sleep.
_Giov._ ... When do they wake?
_Frances._ When God shall please.
WEBSTER'S _White Devil; or, Vittoria Corombona_ (1612), Act 3.
Many of our readers will remember the exhibition at the Egyptian Hall,
in 1862, of John Leech's "Sketches in Oil," the subjects being enlarged
reproductions from selected examples of his minor drawings for _Punch_.
To his friend Mark Lemon is due the credit of this idea, which was
carried out after the following manner:--The impression of a block in
_Punch_ being first taken on a sheet of india-rubber, was enlarged by a
lithographic process; the copy thus obtained was transferred to stone,
and impressions obtained on a large sheet of canvas. The result was an
outline groundwork, consisting of his own lines enlarged some eight
times the dimensions of the original drawing, which the artist then
proceeded to fill up in colour. His knowledge of the manipulation of oil
colours was, however, slight, and his first crude attempts were made
under the guidance of his friend Mr. Millais. The first results can
scarcely be said to be satisfactory; a kind of transparent colour was
used, which allowed the coarse lines of the enlargement to be distinctly
visible, and the finished production presented very much the appearance
of an indifferent lithograph slightly tinted. In a short time, however,
he conquered the difficulty; and, instead of allowing the thick, fatty
lines of printer's ink to remain on the canvas, he removed
them--particularly as regards the outlines of the face and figure--by
means of turpentine. These outlines he re-drew with his own hand in a
fine and delicate manner, and added a daintiness of finish, particularly
in flesh colour, which greatly enhanced the value and beauty of the
work. He nevertheless experienced some difficulty in reproducing in
these enlargements the delicacy of touch and exactness which
characterized the original drawings, and would labour all day at a
detail--such as a hand in a certain position--before attaining a result
which entirely satisfied himself. The catalogue of this exhibition may
be cited in evidence of Leech's characteristic modesty. "These
sketches," it said, "have no claim to be regarded or tested as finished
pictures. It is impossible for any one to know the fact better than I
do. They have no pretensions to a higher name than that I have given
them--'Sketches in Oil.'"
Popular and eminently successful as this exhibition proved to be, it was
undeniably rendered more popular and successful by his staunch friend
Thackeray's article in the _Times_ of 21st June, 1862:--"He is a natural
truth-teller," said the humourist, "as Hogarth was before him, and
indulges in as many flights of fancy. He speaks his mind out quite
honestly, like a thorough Briton.... He holds Frenchmen in light esteem.
A bloated 'Mossoo' walking in Leicester Square, with a huge cigar and a
little hat, with 'billard' and 'estaminet' written on his flaccid face,
is a favourite study with him; the unshaven jowl, the waist tied with a
string, the boots which pad the Quadrant pavement, this dingy and
disreputable being exercises a fascination over Mr. Punch's favourite
artist. We trace, too, in his work a prejudice against the Hebrew
nation, against the natives of an island much celebrated for its verdure
and its wrongs; these are lamentable prejudices indeed, but what man is
without his own?" Thackeray's kindly article delighted Leech; he said
"it was like putting L1,000 in his pocket." The exhibition, indeed, was
so splendid a success that it is said to have brought in nearly L5,000.
Those who, like ourselves, have found it necessary to examine the
_Punch_ volumes from their commencement in 1841, down to the 31st of
December, 1864, cannot fail to be struck by the steady decrease in the
number of cartoons which the artist annually designed and executed for
the periodical. In 1857 the number contributed was 33; in 1858, 30; in
1859, 21; in 1860, 15, in 1861 the number had fallen as low as 10; while
in 1862 it did not exceed 4.[156] This decrease (which is confined, be
it observed, to the cartoons which he contributed to _Punch_) was due to
failing health consequent on the strain of incessant production. Of the
coming evil he himself was distinctly cognizant. It is said of him that
Lord Ossington, then Speaker, once met him on the rail, and expressed to
him his hope that he enjoyed in his work some of the gratification which
it afforded to others. His answer was a melancholy one:--"I seem to
myself to be a man who has undertaken to walk a thousand miles in a
thousand hours." It was certainly not such a reply as one would exactly
look for, looking only at the joyous character of the pictures he
executed for _Punch_. He complained in 1862--the year at which we have
arrived--of habitual weariness and sleeplessness, and was advised to try
rest and change of air. He acted upon the suggestion, and, accompanied
by his old friend Mark Lemon, proceeded in that year on a short tour to
Paris, and from thence to Biarritz. Leech's pencil was not idle on this
holiday, as two of his pictures will testify. The first, _A Day at
Biarritz_, appears in the Almanack of 1863, and among the figures he has
introduced into this delightful sketch is that of the grave and
saturnine Louis, snapping his fingers in the highest _abandon_ and
skipping off with his friend _Punch_ to enjoy his ocean bath. "The
other," says Mr. Shirley Brooks, "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 a record for many a day after the offence shall have ceased."[157]
Leech returned from this brief visit with no appreciable benefit.
Charles Mackay tells us that he met him and his constant friend,
Thackeray, at Evans' supper-rooms in December, 1863. "They both
complained of illness, but neither of them looked ill enough to justify
the belief that anything ailed them beyond a temporary indisposition,
such as all of us are subject to. Leech was particularly despondent, and
complained much of the annoyances to which he was subjected by the
organ-grinders of London, and by the dreadful railway whistles at the
stations whenever he left town. His nerves were evidently in a high
state of tension, and I recommended him, not only as a source of health
and amusement, but of profit, to take a voyage across the Atlantic, and
pass six months in America, where he would escape the organ-grinders,
street-music, and the railway-whistles, and bring back a portfolio
filled with sketches of American and Yankee character. 'I am afraid,' he
replied, 'that B. & E. [Bradbury & Evans] would not like it. Besides, I
should not like to be absent from _Punch_ for so long a time.'
'Nonsense,' said Thackeray, 'B. and E. would highly approve, provided
you sent them sketches. _I_ think it a good idea, and you might put five
thousand pounds in your pocket by the trip. The Americans have never
been truly portrayed, as you would portray them. The niggers alone would
be a little fortune to you.' Leech shook his head dubiously, and I
thought mournfully, and no more was said upon the subject."[158]
Nevertheless, the end of one at least of these steady friends and men of
genius was drawing near with sure and rapid strides. Both were present
at the anniversary of the death of the founder of the Charterhouse,
"good old Thomas Sutton," on the 12th of that same month of December,
1863. At the celebration of Divine service at four o'clock, Thackeray
occupied his accustomed back seat in the quaint old chapel; from thence
he went to the oration in the Governor's room; and as he walked up to
the orator with his contribution, the great humourist, Mr. Theodore
Taylor, tells us, was received "with such hearty applause as only
Carthusians can give to one who has immortalized their school."[159] At
the banquet which followed he sat by the side of John Leech, who was one
of the stewards, and proposed the time-honoured toast, _Floreat AEternum
Carthusiana Domus_, in a speech which was received with three times
three and one cheer more. John Leech replied to the toast of the
stewards. The day is memorable as the last "Founder's Day," which either
of these men--so eminently distinguished in art and letters--was ever
permitted to attend.
Three days afterwards Thackeray was present at the usual weekly _Punch_
dinner on the 15th of December, for, although he had long ceased to be a
regular contributor to the periodical, he not only continued to aid the
staff with his suggestion and advice, but was a constant member of the
council.[160] But ever since the time he was writing "Pendennis," a
dozen years before, he had been visited periodically by attacks of
sickness, attended with violent retching. One of these occurred on the
morning of Wednesday, the 23rd of this same month of December, and he
was in great suffering all day. About midnight of that day, his mother,
Mrs. Carmichael Smith,[161] who slept in the room above his own, had
heard him get up and walk about; but as this was his habit when visited
by these fell visitations, she was not alarmed. The man, however, was
in his mortal agony; and when his valet, Charles Sargent, entered his
master's chamber on the morning of Christmas Eve, and tried to arouse
him, he found that he answered not, neither regarded, having passed into
the slumber from which the spirit of man refuses to be awakened.
Dying Jerrold had time vouchsafed to him to whisper, "Tell the dear
boys," meaning his associates in _Punch_, "that if I have ever wounded
any of them, I've always loved them," and so he went his way. To
Thackeray no such grace was given; the hands peacefully spread over the
coverlet, which stirred not when Sargent bent anxiously over his master,
proclaimed that true hearted noble Thackeray had gone the long journey,
leaving no word of message for those who had loved him. "We talked of
him," said Mr. Edmund Yates, "of how, more than any other author, he had
written about what is said of men immediately after their death--of how
he had written of the death-chamber, 'They shall come in here for the
last time to you, my friend in motley.' We read that marvellous sermon
which the week-day preacher delivered to entranced thousands over old
John Sedley's dead body, and 'sadly fell our Christmas Eve.'" That same
Christmas Eve, the melancholy tidings were conveyed to Mark Lemon by his
sorrowing friend, John Leech. The artist was terribly affected, and told
Millais of his presentiment that he also should die suddenly and soon.
In March, 1864, we notice the death of another author, whose almost
unrecorded name is, nevertheless, intimately associated with that of the
artist. This was Mr. R. W. Surtees, author of the sporting novels which
the genius of Leech has made for ever famous. Mr. Surtees for some years
practised as a London solicitor; but the death of an elder brother
improved his position, and enabled him to quit a profession which he
disliked, in favour of the more congenial employment of literature.
Those of his works best known (he published several others) are, of
course, "Handley Cross," "Sponge's Sporting Tour," "Plain or Ringlets,"
"Ask Mamma," and "Mr. Facey Romford's Hounds." Notwithstanding a
decidedly horsey and somewhat vulgar tone,--a tone which by the way
certainly did not characterize Mr. Surtees himself,--they possess a
certain original humour, which will render their perusal productive of
amusement. He died suddenly on the 16th of March, 1864, in his
sixty-second year.
It has been the habit of the contributors to _Punch_, almost from the
commencement of the periodical, to dine together every Wednesday. In the
winter months the dinner was usually held in the front room of the first
floor of the business premises of the proprietors, Messrs. Bradbury &
Evans, in Bouverie Street, Whitefriars. Sometimes these dinners were
held at the Bedford Hotel, Covent Garden. During the summer months it
was customary to hold ten or twelve dinners at Greenwich, Richmond,
Blackwall, and other places in the neighbourhood of London. On these
occasions the programme (if we may so term it) of the forthcoming number
was arranged and settled, papers were brought out, and the latest
intelligence discussed, so as to bring the "cartoon" down to the latest,
or rather one of the latest subjects of current interest. At the weekly
council dinner John Leech was a faithful attendant. These meetings,
indeed, "he thoroughly enjoyed, and his suggestions, not merely as to
pictorial matters, but generally, were among the most valuable that were
offered, as may be inferred from his large knowledge of the world, his
keen sense of the ludicrous, and his hatred of injustice and
cruelty."[162] One of the most regular attendants of the _Punch_
dinners--I think that in 1864, at least, he scarcely missed one--was the
most indefatigable of the literary staff, Mr. Shirley Brooks. One was
held at The Bedford on the 13th of April, 1864, just about the time when
Lord John Russell was setting out as our representative at the
Conference, and the outcome of this particular _Punch_ dinner, at which
were present Messrs. Mark Lemon, Shirley Brooks, Tom Taylor, John Leech,
and Percival Leigh, was Leech's admirable cartoon of _Moses Starting for
the Fair_. "Let us hope," adds the pictorial satirist, in special
reference to his lordship's unfortunate capacity for getting himself
into a mess, that "he won't bring back a gross of green spectacles." It
was one of the last of Leech's political shafts, and the subject was
suggested (we have his own authority for stating it) by his friend and
literary colleague, Mr. Shirley Brooks.[163]
"Clearly ill," is Mr. Brook's record of the state of John Leech's health
on this same 13th of April, 1864. He no longer found pleasure in
hunting, of which he had been exceedingly fond, and had even
discontinued, at the order of his medical attendant, riding on
horseback. He was affected with nervous irritability, the effect of
incessant application. The ordinary noise of the streets--musicians,
organ-grinders, street vendors, and the like--worried him beyond
endurance. Long before the period at which we have arrived these
annoyances had driven him from his residence in Brunswick Square to seek
shelter from his enemies at No. 3, The Terrace, Kensington. His nervous
irritability is manifested in the designs which he continued to draw for
_Punch_. In one of his illustrations to vol. xlv. (1863), depicting
certain familiar sea-side nuisances, he asks, "Why a couple of conceited
fanatics should be allowed to disturb the repose of a Sunday afternoon
by the sea-side?" and "Why the authorities at Brighton, so sensible and
considerate in keeping the place free from the _detestable_ organ
grinders, should permit the terrible nuisance indicated [in the
illustration] to exist?" "Fresh prawns, whiting, oysters, or
watercresses," remonstrated the persecuted artist, "are capital things
in their way, and we should think that the jaded man of occupation, or
the invalid, would very much rather send to a respectable shop for such
delicacies, than have them 'bellowed' into his ears morning, noon, and
night." His illustrations of this character are so numerous that the
ordinary observer would probably suppose that they were part only of a
series; to the observer, however, who knew Leech, they clearly indicate
the nervous irritability under which he suffered, and which was probably
caused, and certainly intensified, by the nuisances of which he
complained.
The state of Leech's health in May, 1864, seems to me best explained in
the letter which Mark Lemon at this time wrote to Mr. Bass, in relation
to his proposed bill for the regulation of street music. After showing
how he himself was obliged to quit London to escape the nuisance of
street music, the then editor of _Punch_ continues: "A dear friend of
mine, and one to whom the public has been indebted for more than twenty
years for weekly supplies of innocent amusement, and whose name will
find a place in the future history of art, has not been so fortunate. He
lived in Brunswick Square, and remained there until the nervous system
was so seriously affected by the continual disturbance to which he was
subjected while at work, that he was compelled to abandon a most
desirable home, and seek a retreat at Kensington. After expending
considerable sums to make his residence convenient for his
art-work,--placing double windows to the front of his house, etc.,--he
is again driven from his home by the continual visitation of street
bands and organ-grinders. The effect upon his health--produced, upon my
honour, by the causes I have named--is so serious that he is forbidden
to take horse exercise, or indulge in fast walking, as a palpitation of
the heart has been produced--a form of _angina pectoris_, I believe--and
his friends are most anxiously concerned for his safety. He is ordered
to Homburg, and I know that the expatriation will entail a loss of
nearly L50 a week upon him just at present.
"I am sure I need not withhold from you the name of this poor gentleman.
It is Mr. John Leech.
"If those gentlemen who laugh at complaints such as this letter contains
were to know what are the natural penalties of constant brain-work, they
would not encourage or defend such unnecessary inflictions as street
music entails upon some of the benefactors of their age. Such men are
the last to interfere with the enjoyments of their poorer
fellow-labourers; but they claim to be allowed to pursue their callings
in peace, and to have the comfort of their homes secured to them. All
they wish is to have the same immunity from the annoyances of street
music as the rest of the community have from dustmen's bells,
post-horns, and other unnecessary disturbances."
The terrible nature of poor Leech's sufferings will be shown by another
anecdote of Dr. Mackay's. Just about this time he met Mr. F. M. Evans,
one of the proprietors of _Punch_, and asked him how Leech was. "Very
ill," was the reply; "the sufferings he endures from noise are painful
to think of. I took him down into the country a little while ago to stay
a week, or as much longer as he pleased, promising him that he should
hear no organ-grinders there, nor railway whistles, nor firing of guns.
The next morning on getting up to breakfast, I found that he had packed
up his portmanteau and was ready to depart. 'I cannot stay any longer
here,' he said, 'the noise drives me frantic!' 'What noise?' 'The
gardener whetting his scythe. It goes through my ears like a corkscrew.'
And nothing that I could say could prevail upon him to prolong his
visit."
But there was no falling off in the quality of the work which Leech
executed for _Punch_ or other employers at this time; on the contrary,
his drawings seemed to me marked by more than their usual excellence.
Witness more especially the few etchings he lived to finish for "Mr.
Facey Romford's Hounds," and the coloured etching to "Punch's Pocket
Book" of the year. One of the illustrations which he designed for the
1864 edition of the "Ingoldsby Legends," and which shows us one of his
stalwart servant girls drawing up the trunkless head of "St. Genulphus"
from the bottom of the well, appears to me to call for special notice. I
would ask the reader to observe the details of that perfectly marvellous
drawing, executed with all the effect and at a fifth of the labour which
George Cruikshank in his best days would have bestowed upon it. I would
entreat him to mark that wicked, graceless, bald-pated old head, with
its port wine nose resting on the rim of the bucket, and its wicked old
eye suggestively winking unutterable things at the perplexed and
astounded maiden. I would ask him to look at that drawing; to take into
account the health of the genial, failing artist who designed it; and to
tell me, whether in all the range of English comic art he remembers to
have met with anything more intensely comical?
We find John Leech and his able coadjutor, Mr. John Tenniel, present at
the _Punch_ dinner of Wednesday, the 15th of June; but shortly
afterwards he started on the journey ordered by his medical advisers,
and set off for Homburg in the company of his friend, Mr. Alfred Elmore,
sojourning afterwards for a time at Schwalbach. He was absent altogether
about six weeks. A record in the diary to which I am indebted for so
much information in relation to him tells me, under date of 10th August,
"Leech has returned from Germany, but I am sorry to say I don't think he
is stronger." The sole result, in fact, obtained was that his mind was
amused by his visit to new scenery, while his sketch-book was filled
with valuable memorials of the sojourn for future use. He was present at
the _Punch_ dinner on Wednesday, the 17th of August, and suggested to
his colleagues by way of cartoon the subject of _The American
Juggernaut_.
THE DEATH OF ROBSON.
Just at the time when Leech came back from Germany, unbenefited by the
change which it was hoped would recruit his exhausted strength, a great
artist in another and a different walk in art, one who had not used his
_genius_ (we will not say his opportunities, for we doubt whether they
were really given him) to the best advantage, took his departure from
the scene of many triumphs and greater disappointments: this was Thomas
Frederick Robson, the actor. He had been so long absent from the boards,
that the event failed to create the sensation which might have been
expected from the sudden fall of a theatrical star of such
unquestionable magnitude. Full justice has been done to his remarkable
genius elsewhere; and all united in regret that a man who was so great
an artist, and might have been a greater, had been prematurely lost to
the theatrical world. Those who remember Robson and his marvellous
powers,--the lightning-like flashes of energy he was wont to throw into
his parts,--his startling transition from passion to passion,--will
agree with us that, if circumstances had led him to study the higher
drama, his name would probably have occupied a place side by side with
the more prominent names of George Frederick Cooke, Edmund Kean, and our
own Irving. The remarkable power wasted on burlesque, or thrown away in
the delineation of low life character, must assuredly have made itself
felt in tragedy; and the _genius_ manifested in the _mock_ Shylock of
Robson, would have enabled him to offer a splendid presentment of the
real Hebrew, and as perfect a realization of the character of Richard
the Third as has ever perhaps been seen. His comedy--when opportunity
was given him of displaying it--was full of true humour. He had in fact,
in a remarkable degree, all the qualities of a splendid actor; but it
was his peculiar misfortune that he had never a proper opportunity given
him of displaying them. The fact that he was enormously popular was
nothing, for many men are popular with not a tithe of the gifts or power
which distinguished Robson. The favour of the "general," except in a
sordid sense, is not worth much in these days. A proof of this is to be
found in the fact that the name of Robson--after the lapse of twenty
years--is scarcely known to the ordinary playgoer; but his genius, while
he lived, was recognised by those whose applause is not easily earned,
and was therefore worth the earning.
Within a week or ten days after his return from the Continent, Leech
went with his family to Whitby, in the hope that the fresh Yorkshire sea
air would invigorate and brace up his shattered system. Some friends
were staying there at the time, and among them a young artist then
comparatively new to _Punch_, but who has been for years past one of its
leading pictorial supporters[164]--Mr. Du Maurier. During his sojourn
here, I find him writing to his friends the Brookses, that if they would
join him, it would induce him to prolong his stay. They went
accordingly, and remained at Whitby until the artist returned to town on
the 3rd of October. "Leech, when we could induce him to leave the
painting in oil, to which he devoted 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 about Mulgrave Castle. I hoped," continues Shirley
Brooks, in the touching memorial which he contributed to the
_Illustrated London News_ only a few weeks afterwards, "I hoped that
good was being done; but it was very hard to stir him from his pictures,
of which he declared that he must finish a great number by Christmas. It
was not for want of earnest and affectionate remonstrance of those close
by his side, nor lack of such remonstrance being seconded by myself and
others, that he persevered in overlabour at these paintings, which he
had undertaken with his usual generosity, in order to enable himself 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_." For a long time past
his contribution to that periodical had not exceeded one half-page
engraving each week; but at Whitby he elaborated a large sketch,
originally taken at Schwalbach, which is worthy of mention as being the
last of his cartoons. It will be found in vol. xlvii. (1864), and is
labelled _The Weinbrunnen Schwalbach_, and among the company drinking
the waters he has introduced the late Emperor Louis, the late King of
Italy, the late Pope, and other notable political personages. The light
esteem in which he held everything French is notable in this drawing.
Conspicuous in the foreground are several dogs belonging to the English
turnspit breed, one of which views a yapping French poodle with the most
unmitigated disdain. The landscape and surroundings in this composition
deserve particular attention, as they are charming examples of Leech's
oft-admitted talent as a landscape artist.
In the diary I find several reminiscences of the Whitby visit, and of
the walks and drives and dinners with the Leeches. Shirley Brooks and
his wife drove with them to Mulgrave Castle and its "glorious woods," on
the 29th of September; the former afterwards went to a concert at St.
Hilda's Hall, in reference to which I find the following entry:--"Grisi,
Mario, Sainton and his wife. I wrote to the latter, and went round to
see them between the parts. Introduced to Grisi, who was in a vile
temper, something about rooms." Shirley Brooks sent also the following
characteristic account of the entertainment to the _Musical World_:--
"MY DEAR SIR,--
"Owls, like other quadrupeds, must have holidays, and I have flown
hither. But the wind has changed, and the owl, for all his feathers,
is a-cold, as the poet observes. I shall return to the
Metropolis--_templa quam dilecta_--as Plautus might have said in his
_Owlowlaria_, if he had liked. I never thought much of these Latin
dramatists, and indeed I never would read any of their works. For that
matter, the works of few dramatists are worth reading. And while on
the subject, I may add, that few writings of any kind are worth
reading. Herein I am at one with Thomas Carlyle, and show my
admiration of what he says by absolutely declining to read his
'Frederick the Great.'
"Possibly I might not have expended the postage stamp affixed to this
letter had I intended only to offer you the above interesting
information. I could have given you this at the Keppell's Arms during
one of those many refections which I hope to partake with you at that
hostelry. But I wish to record something that may have an immediate
interest. There is a hall here called St. Hilda's Hall, and it is used
for public purposes. It is furnished with a large scene-like painting
of Whitby, is very hot, and is near the harbour, which at low tide
emitteth odours which are odious; and I think that it is always low
tide.
"There was a concert in this hall in the afternoon, and also in the
evening, of the Feast of S. Michael and All Angels. Two of the latter
came here to sing. You know them in London as Madame Grisi and Madame
Sainton-Dolby. With them came Signor Mario and M. Sainton, and also
Herr M. Lutz and Mr. Patey. They all sang or played. Verily, my friend
and pitcher (for thou pitchest stones deftly, as it were), it was a
refreshment, yea, and a consolation, to hear their voices and their
instruments. I will not give you a catalogue of their musical deeds,
for I had a bill, but it was borrowed from me by a large Yorkshireman,
and he was so very large that I did not like to demand it again.
Nevertheless, _La Diva_ sang "The Last Rose of Summer," _a la Flotow_,
and made me think of many things--are they not written in the book of
the Chronicles of Benjamin, whose name is Lumley? Likewise she sang
something out of _Faust_, with il Signor, and other matters, whereof
no matter--is it not enough to have seen and heard her? But commend
me, (not that I need your commendation) to Madame Sainton-Dolby,
inasmuch as that lady sang Handel's 'Lascia ch'o pianga,' and sang it
nobly, and sang Smart's 'Lady of the Lea,' and sang Claribel's
'Maggie's Secret,' and sang it divinely. You know what M. Sainton can
do with his violin, but you do not know what he cannot do with it, nor
do I. Il Signor Mario put forth his powers chivalrously, and broke
many hearts among the fair York roses. _La Diva_ was dressed in white.
Madame Sainton-Dolby was dressed in pink. I was dressed in a black
coat, waistcoat, and trowsers, white cravat, lavender gloves, and
patent leather boots, and the little boys of Whitby, unaccustomed to
such splendour, cheered me as I came out, privately and alone, to dip
my beak in the gascon wine, that is, in some excellent beer, in which
I now drink your health.
"If you have another reporter, your own special, in the town (I saw
two or three persons who looked disreputable and enthusiastic enough
to be musical critics--or even dustmen), and he has kept sober and
sent you a report, you need not print this. I do not care a horse's
mamma whether you print it or not. But I had a delightful evening, and
I do not care who knows it; in fact, I wish everybody to know it, and
that is why I write to your widely circulated (and widely yawned-over)
journal. You have not been over civil to me of late, which is very
ungrateful. You may say, with an attempt at wit, that the owl was a
baker's child, and therefore crusty. I believe that you could win the
prize for the worst conundrum in any circus in Yorkshire.
Receive the assurance of my profound respect.
"Ever yours,
"WHITBY.
"ZAMIEL'S OWL."
While at Whitby, a deputation from the Institute of that town waited on
John Leech, to ask him to attend at a meeting and speak in promotion of
the interests of their association. On that day he happened to be too
ill to bear an interview with more than one of the gentlemen who
composed the deputation, and was obliged in consequence to refuse the
request. But the refusal gave the kindly, failing man serious
disquietude, and fearing it might be thought ungracious, he forthwith
sent for all his sketches of character from London and presented them to
the Institute.
Fechter was the leading dramatic star of that time, and his opening
night differed from the commencement of other theatrical seasons in the
fact that it invariably attracted together some of the best known men in
literature and art. At the opening of the Lyceum on Saturday, the 22nd
of October, were present Messrs. Charles Dickens, Shirley Brooks,
Hollingshead, Oxenford, Horace Mayhew, Edmund Yates, W. P. Frith, R.A.,
Creswick, R.A., Marcus Stone, Mr. Burnand (the present editor of
_Punch_), and Serjeant Ballantine. "The new piece," said Mr. Yates, "was
splendidly mounted, and never, even in Paris, have I seen Mr. Fechter
play so perfectly."[165] The said piece was called "The King's
Butterfly," and Mr. Brooks says of it that, barring the "splendid
scenery," it was "rubbish" pure and simple.
The Leeches left Whitby on the 3rd of October, breaking their journey at
York. The artist seemed somewhat better, and ten days after their return
we find them at a party at the house of Mr. W. P. Frith, R.A., among the
company being Messrs. Elmore, Creswick, Yates, George Cruikshank,
Solomon Hart, and others. Between the date of this party, on Thursday
the 13th, and that of the usual _Punch_ dinner, on Wednesday the 26th of
October, at which the artist was present, a visible change had, however,
taken place in the appearance of John Leech. Shirley Brooks afterwards
had occasion to notice that at this _Punch_ dinner he "complained of
illness and pain, and I saw that it was difficult to make him
completely grasp the meaning of things that were said to him without two
or three repetitions. He left early with Tom Taylor."[166] On the 28th
of October, the artist himself was conscious that something was wrong.
He visited Dr. Quain, who assured him that his only chance lay in
complete and entire rest; and, on returning home, he wrote a note in
pencil addressed to his old friend, Mr. Frederick Evans, in which he
mentioned his interview with the medical man, and added that he hoped to
complete a cut for which a messenger was to be sent, but that he was not
sure of being able to finish it. A messenger was sent in obedience to
his desire, but he returned empty-handed. We return at this point to the
diary of Mr. Shirley Brooks. "I called," he says (29th of October), "at
27, Bouverie Street, and heard from Evans that he was very ill. We went
off to the Terrace, Kensington. He was in bed, but no one seemed
frightened, and there was a child's party--a small one. Mrs. Leech was
in tears, but certainly had no reason to apprehend the worst. He would
have seen us. We remained three-quarters of an hour or so, but an opiate
had been given, so it was of course felt that he ought not to be
disturbed. Arranged to meet Evans at three next day;" but the fatal
messenger, who will call for each and every of us, had already delivered
his summons, and never more (in life) were either of the friends fated
to see John Leech again. "At seven o'clock that night," continues the
narrator (in another place[167]), "it pleased God to release him from
sufferings so severe as even to make the brave, patient, enduring man
say that they were almost more than he could bear."
Mr. Evans called on Brooks the following day (Sunday, 30th October).
"After hearing all he could say, I went with him to telegraph to Mark
Lemon, and also to Leech's. Millais and Leigh at the door--heard much
from them. Mrs. Chester came up--Charles Eaton, Mrs. Leech's brother and
best friend, had come. We went in and saw him ... and the poor mother,
and two of the sisters, and afterwards to the chamber of death. He
looked noble in his calm; the hair and whiskers put back, gave up his
fine forehead and handsome features--and the eternal stillness gave his
face an elevated expression. I looked a very long time on my old
friend's face. We have known one another many years, and he has been
engaged with me in business as well as in pleasure. He was very
kind--very good--and is in heaven, whatever that means."
London was, perhaps, more shocked at the sudden and unexpected death of
John Leech than even when Thackeray was smitten. The shock radiated all
over the country; for there was not a household in the land in which his
name was not familiar as a household word. His personal friends were
deeply affected--none more so than his attached friend, Charles Dickens.
Writing at the time to Forster, in reference to his coming book, "Our
Mutual Friend," he said, "I have not done my number. This death of poor
Leech (I suppose) has put me out woefully. Yesterday, and the day
before, I could do nothing; seemed, for the time being, to have quite
lost the power; and am only by slow degrees getting back into the track
to day." Mr. John Tenniel heard of the loss of his valued _confrere_
that same Sunday, 30th October, and "was stunned at the news, totally
unexpected by him."[168] A special meeting of the _Punch_ staff was
called by Mark Lemon on the following day; himself, Messrs. Percival
Leigh, Shirley Brooks, F. C. Burnand, Tom Taylor, Charles Keene, H.
Silver, John Tenniel,--all were present with the exception of Horace
Mayhew. With the particulars of that meeting we of course have nothing
to do; its melancholy character the reader may well imagine.
On Friday, the 4th of November, 1864, they laid John Leech to rest in
Kensal Green Cemetery, "in the next grave but one to W[illiam]
M[akepeace] T[hackeray]. When Annie Thackeray heard of the death, she
[had] said to Mrs. Millais, 'How glad my father will be to meet him!'
'And he will,'" adds the friend whose note we have transcribed.[169] We
take the account of his burial from Mr. Edmund Yates's impressive and
touching account in the _Morning Star_ newspaper. "The scene round the
grave was a most impressive one. There, ranged round the coffin, stood
the remnant of that famous body of wits who had caused the name of
_Punch_ to be famous at the ends of the earth; there, in the coffin, lay
all that was earthly of him who, more than any of them, had helped to
spread its renown, and to win for himself a name familiar as a household
word in all our English homes. By its side stood Mark Lemon, who, for
two and twenty years has presided over the weekly dinner where the good
things are suggested, and the weekly sheet whereon they are inscribed;
who has seen comrades fall out of the ranks in the march of life, and
perish by the wayside. And such comrades! Gone the brilliant, meteoric
A'Beckett; fiery, impulsive, scathing Jerrold; playfully cynical
Thackeray; and now--_John Leech_! There stood Shirley Brooks, who since
Jerrold's death has been _Punch's_ literary mainstay; Tom Taylor,
working now in other channels, but still attached to the staff; Horace
Mayhew and Percival Leigh, old colleagues of the dead man; F. C. Burnand
and H. Silver, the youngest of the corps; and John Tenniel, who had
taken Mr. Doyle's place on his secession, and worked in thorough amity
with Leech. Over the coffin bowed the handsome head of Millais in
overwhelming grief. All round one caught glimpses of well-known people.
There, in the front rank of the crowd, was the frank, earnest face of
Charles Dickens; by him Alexander Munro, the sculptor; there a group of
artists--Messrs. Creswick, O'Neil, and Elmore;[170] Messrs. Mowbray,
Morris, Dallas, and W. H. Russell, of the _Times_. At the back of the
grave, by the canopy, Mr. W. P. Frith, R.A.; near him a group of
journalists--Messrs. Friswell, Halliday, Gruneison; Mr. Swain, the
engraver, who had had for years the engraving of Mr. Leech's drawings;
Richard Doyle; Mr. Orridge, the barrister; the Rev. C. Currey, preacher
of the Charter House; Lieutenant-Colonel Wilkinson, who had had John
Leech for his school-fellow and fag at Charter House; while amateur art
was worthily represented by Messrs. Arthur Lewis, M. F. Halliday, and
Jopling. And there, in the bright autumn sunshine, they laid him to his
rest. Sir T. N. Talfourd relates that at the burial of Charles Lamb,
'the true-hearted son of Admiral Burney refused to be comforted.' It is
our task to record that round the grave of John Leech there was not a
dry eye, and that some of his old companions were very painfully
affected. The most beautiful part of the service was read by Mr.
Hole,[171] in an earnest manner, broken occasionally by convulsions of
grief which he had some difficulty in repressing, while here and there
among the crowd loud sobs told of hearty though humble mourners."
On the 12th of November, 1864, there appeared in the pages of the
periodical he had so well served, whose pages he has permanently
enriched with some of the choicest specimens of graphic satire, and with
whose fortunes he had been associated from the commencement, the
following touching notice from the pen of his friend, the late Shirley
Brooks:--
JOHN LEECH,
OBIIT OCTOBER XXIX, MDCCCLXIV,
_AEtat 46._
"The simplest words are best where all words are vain. Ten days ago a
great artist, in the noon of life, and with his glorious mental
faculties in full power, but with the shade of physical infirmity
darkening upon him, took his accustomed place among friends who have
this day held his pall. Some of them had been fellow-workers with him
for a quarter of a century, others for fewer years; but to know him well
was to love him dearly, and all in whose name these lines are written
mourn as for a brother. His monument is in the volumes of which this is
one sad leaf, and in a hundred works which at this hour few will
remember more easily than those who have just left his grave. While
society, whose every phase he has illustrated with a truth, a grace,
and a tenderness heretofore unknown to satiric art, gladly and proudly
takes charge of his fame, they, whose pride in the genius of a great
associate was equalled by their affection for an attached friend, would
leave on record that they have known no kindlier, more refined, or more
generous nature than that of him who has been thus early called to his
rest.
NOVEMBER THE FOURTH."
FOOTNOTES:
[156] I estimate the number of his cartoons as nearly as possible as
follows:--
1842 3 1850 37 1858 30
1843 11 1851 42 1859 21
1844 42 1852 35 1860 15
1845 43 1853 32 1861 10
1846 35 1854 34 1862 4
1847 35 1855 41 1863 3
1848 38 1856 33 1864 4
1849 37 1857 33
[157] Shirley Brooks in _Illustrated London News_ of 19th November,
1864.
[158] Charles Mackay's "Forty Years' Recollections."
[159] "Thackeray the Humourist and the Man of Letters," p. 12.
[160] MS. Diary of the late Shirley Brooks, 1st January, 1864.
[161] Died on the 18th of December, 1864, exactly within a year from
the date of her son's death.
[162] Shirley Brooks in _Illustrated London News_ of 19th November,
1864.
[163] "I suggested the cut, Moses being dressed for the Fair, Johnny
Russell for the Conference." MS. Diary of the late Shirley Brooks.
[164] The first time I find mention of his name is on the 22nd of
March, 1864, when the late Shirley Brooks met him at a party at Mr.
Ernest Hart's, 69, Wimpole Street. Some years afterwards, he adds in
a note, "Met him next at Whitby." I first meet with his name at a
_Punch_ council, 7th November, 1864: "Dumaurier first time."
[165] Mr. Yates in _Morning Star_.
[166] MS. Diary of Shirley Brooks: 29th October, 1864.
[167] _Illustrated London News_, 19th November, 1864.
[168] MS. Diary of Mr. Shirley Brooks.
[169] _Ibid._
[170] H. K. Browne ("Phiz"), T. Landseer, George Cruikshank, Marcus
Stone, Sir John Gilbert, and Mr. Philips, R.A., were also present.
[171] The Rev. J. Reynolds Hole, author of "A Little Tour in
Ireland," to which his friend, John Leech (who accompanied him),
contributed some of the most charming of his illustrations.