MR. H. O. NETHERCOTE AND JOHN LEECH.
For the following interesting paper my readers are indebted to Mr.
Nethercote, of Moulton Grange, Northamptonshire, who sent it to my
predecessor, Mr. Evans, amongst whose Leech material I found it. As Mr.
Nethercote's anecdotes were intended for publication, I reproduce them
without alteration or abbreviation. Mr. Nethercote and Leech were at
Charterhouse together.
"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 evade
Her 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 trace
Half pouting, as rude Boreas unfurls
A 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 descended
Sleepy, 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 tender
On the river glancing forward,
Till the laughing wave sprang upward,
Upward from his reedy hollow
With the lily in his bosom,
With his crown of water lilies--
Curling every dimpled ripple
As he sprang into the starlight,
As he clasped her charmed reflection
Glowing 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 crisping
Foam 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 river
Like 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 Lane
You wed Sir Gobble Grist;
And whilst with pomp and pageant high
I scrape, and strut, and star it by
St. George's in the East, you'll try
St. 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 there
When 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 sold
The '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 hat
Or 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 North
With 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."
[Illustration]
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.
[Illustration]
FOOTNOTES:
[A] I regret to say that, from the nature of the material in
which this early drawing is made, it has been found impossible of
reproduction.]
BILLING AND SONS, PRINTERS, GUILDFORD.
_J. D. & Co._
Transcriber's Notes:
Hyphenation has been standardised.
"Duval" has been changed to "Derval" on page 57 for consistency.