ALBERT SMITH AND LEECH.
In July, 1851, a new work appeared, under the name and title of the
_Month_: "a View of Passing Subjects and Manners, Home and Foreign,
Social and General, by Albert Smith and John Leech." The publication was
a serial one--monthly, in fact; and as it contained many amusing skits
by Albert Smith, and much of Leech's best work, notice of it is
incumbent upon a writer of Leech's life.
Eighteen fifty-one, as everybody knows, was the year of the Great
Crystal Palace Exhibition in Hyde Park. I well remember visiting the
huge glass building in February, 1851, in company with Dickens and Sir
Joseph Paxton. Dickens was wrapped in furs, and we shivered through the
place, which was only partially roofed; and seemed altogether so far
from completion as to cause great doubts in our minds of the possibility
of its being ready for its contents by the first of May.
I put the question to Paxton, and his reply was:
"I _think_ it will; but, mind, I don't _say_ it will."
Paxton's thought was justified; for the Exhibition was opened by the
Queen in great state at the date fixed, though many of its intended
exhibits were still to come.
I confess I shared the foolish dread that the opening would be so
crowded as to be very uncomfortable, if not dangerous, to sight-seers;
and I therefore declined to accompany my brother, who was braver than I;
and sorry enough I was when I found that the panic had been so universal
as to enable the few courageous visitors to have the show, as my brother
expressed it, "all to themselves."
The first number of the _Month_ appeared in July, 1851, and the last
was issued towards the close of that year. It seems to have been the
intention of the authors to have taken typical young ladies, and, under
the heading of "Belles of the Month," have used them as prefixes to each
monthly part. Unfortunately, I think this idea was only partially
carried out. True, we have Belles of the Park, and Belles of the Ball,
and one or two Belles of the Month, so charmingly done by Leech as to
make it a matter of surprise that such great attractions were not more
frequently admitted to the paper.
The literary portion which begins the _Month_ is very Albert Smithian
indeed. In proof, I quote some of his description of "The Hyde Park
Belle":
"The charming young lady introduced to me," says Mr. Smith, "was of
middling stature, with oval face, chestnut hair, dark eyes, and very
white and regular teeth. She had on a white transparent bonnet, and
light muslin dress all _en suite_. In answer to my questions, she
replied as follows:
"'I shall be nineteen in August, and have been out two years and a
half. Have I ever been engaged? Only once, and that was broken off
because I went on a drag to Richmond with the officers of the --th. Lady
Banner was inside--it was all perfectly proper. She is a very nice
woman--always ready to chaperone anybody anywhere if her share is paid.
Only sometimes she bores one dreadfully. Edmund went to India. I don't
know where he is now; I have not heard. I dare say he is somewhere. He
bored me dreadfully at last. I work very hard--oh, very hard
indeed!--that is, in the season. My maid always sits up to make tea for
me when I come home. Her hours are very regular, considering. She goes
to bed every morning about four; but, then, she doesn't have to dance
half the night. Yes; I like the Crystal Palace. Oh! I get so tired
there--walking, and walking, and walking, you can't think how far! I
know the Crystal Palace fountain and Dent's clock, and the stuffed
animals and the envelope-machine. I don't think I have seen anything
else; I have never been out of the nave and the transept--nobody goes
anywhere else. I did not know that there was anything to see upstairs,
except large carpets. I am sure they would bore me dreadfully. We are
engaged every night.... We had scarcely time to dress for the Grapnels'
dinner-party; and then we went to Mrs. Crutchley's, to meet the Lapland
Ambassador. We could not get into the room, and stood for two hours on
the landing. Old Mr. Tawley was there, and would keep talking to me; he
always bores me dreadfully. He is going to take mamma and me to see some
pictures somewhere. I hate seeing pictures; they bore me dreadfully.
After Lady Crutchley's, we went to Mrs. Croley's amateur concert, which
was nearly over. She had only classical music. I don't know what
classical music is; I only know it bores me dreadfully. Ashton Howard
says the same people who like classical music buy old china and wear
false hair. I wish people would give up classical music. It never amuses
anybody--that is, anybody worth amusing. I don't know whether "The
Huguenots" is classical music or not; I only know that when they give it
at the Royal Italian Opera nobody seems bored _then_. I don't know that
I am exactly.'"
Whether in these boxes full of beauties one amongst them is intended by
Leech to personate Mr. Smith's "dreadfully bored" young lady, I cannot
say. Certainly there is not one who seems in the condition described as
not being "exactly bored."
The Belle of Hyde Park continues:
"'I go into the Park every day with mamma, but it bores me dreadfully.
I see nothing but the same people, and I know all the trees and rails by
heart. I ride sometimes; I like it better than the carriage. But papa
don't ride very often; and if he don't I can't, except with the
Pevenseys and their brothers. John Pevensey is very stupid, and talks to
me about farming. I get very tired; but I am obliged to go, because the
Pevenseys know so many receivable people. But they bore me dreadfully;
in fact, I don't know who or what does not. I long for the season to be
over; and when I go into the country, I long for it to begin again. I
wish I could do as I pleased, like Marshall--that's my maid--when she
has a holiday. She is going to marry the man at the hairdresser's; and
last Sunday they went down all by themselves to Gravesend. I see mamma's
face if Ashton Howard was to propose to take me to Gravesend next
Sunday, and without Lady Banner! I wish sometimes I was Marshall. Now
and then I would give a good deal for a good cry. I can't tell you
why--I don't know; only that everything is a trouble, and bores me
dreadfully.'"
In reply to further inquiries from Mr. Smith, the young lady tells him
what she pays for her satin shoes, which are worn out after two parties.
Does she have her gloves cleaned?
"'Certainly; but not for evening parties--the men's coats blacken them
in an instant. They do very well for the opera and evening
concerts--nothing else. The Pevenseys wear cleaned gloves. Everybody
knows it; and Ashton Howard always asks out loud if a camphine-lamp has
gone out when they come into the room. You can get a nice bouquet for
five or six shillings. Old Mr. Rigby, in the Regent's Park, told me I
might cut any flowers from his conservatory. But I don't care for
that--I would sooner buy them; he bores me dreadfully.'"
It cannot be denied that ugliness has reached its climax in men's dress
of the present day. It would be extremely difficult to find a garment
more hideous than a dress-coat; and it is impossible for any
head-covering to exceed the stove-pipe hat in ugliness, to say nothing
of inconvenience and detestable uncomfortableness.
These sentiments were fully shared by one of the _Month's_
correspondents, a gentleman named Simmons, who "emerged from his
residence at Islington" on the day of the opening of the Great
Exhibition with the intention of showing to the multitudes who were
expected to attend that ceremony the kind of hat that should depose, at
once and for ever, the detestable chimney-pot.
"It was, in fact," says the bold reformer, "merely a wide-brimmed,
flat-crowned wideawake, to which I thought a feather--in these days of
foreign immigration--would not be an out-of-the-way addition. I had
contemplated my own features beneath it in as much variety of light and
shadow as I could obtain from my shaving-glass for half an hour
preceding my departure, and had arrived at such a satisfactory
conclusion as to its effect, that I regarded myself as a sort of modern
William Tell, about to release my country, by a bold example, from an
oppressive and degrading subjection to a detested hat."
A love of change is said to be inherent in human nature; but attacks
upon custom--indeed, innovations of all kinds--are usually futile unless
very special conditions attend the attempts. If the famous hat invented
by a Royal Prince was received with overwhelming ridicule, as my older
readers will remember that it was; a less melancholy fate could scarcely
be expected for the wideawake and feather of the little gentleman from
Islington.
"My appearance in the street certainly created a sensation," says Mr.
Simmons; "but it was one exceedingly mortifying to my feelings. Omnibus
drivers winked at each other, and pointed at me with their whips.
Occasionally a stray boy would indulge in personal observations, or a
grown-up ragamuffin would sputter out an oath, and burst into a horse
laugh, which to my mind appeared totally unwarranted by the
circumstances of the case."
The managers of the _Month_ very wisely placed this etching in the front
of their first number. In all respects Leech is here seen at his best.
The figure of the poor little victim of reform, the street-boys and
their surroundings, are all unsurpassable; while to an artist the
composition of the figures and the arrangement of light and shadow are
excellent.
After escaping from the attentions of Leech's inimitable Arabs, Mr.
Simmons reaches Hyde Park to find fresh troubles. The feathered
wideawake creates a sensation, but not of the kind that its wearer
expected; he was asked where "he bought it," and "if he would sell it";
"if he made it himself"; and if he had "another at home like it to spare
for a friend," and so on. The "air of unconsciousness" that the reformer
assumed irritated his assailants, whose "offensive remarks and insolent
mirth" were soon exchanged for attentions more uncomfortable.
[Illustration: _Mr. Simmons's attempt at Reform._]
Says Mr. Simmons: "A bright flash of practical jocularity suddenly
illumined the mind of an original genius, who at once carried it into
effect by casting at my decided article of costume a large tuft of
grass, which struck me on the back of my neck, broke into dry dirt, and
raised a perfect roar of delight at my expense." Instead of patiently
enduring this assault, as a prudent man would have done when surrounded
by enemies, the valiant Simmons turned upon his assailant, "and struck
the wit a severe blow in the face." That was a death-blow to the
picturesque hat, which "afforded some slight sport as a football for a
few moments, and then vanished and was seen no more."
It will be seen by the quotations that the literary portion of the
_Month_ is of the slight character--though sometimes clever and
amusing--to which so much of Leech's work has been allied. A sketch,
entitled "Home from the Party," gives occasion for the accompanying
drawing by Leech of a young gentleman who has "danced all night till the
broad daylight," "and gone home" by himself "in the morning." On his
journey a brougham overtakes him, containing "the handsome dark girl
with the clematis and fuchsia wreath, looking pale and pretty, with a
pocket-handkerchief over her head cornerwise, held together at the chin.
We think about that brougham-girl till she is out of sight, and wonder
if we appeared to the best advantage as she passed. We don't much think
we did. One of the springs of our hat was out of order, and we were
carrying our gloves in our hand, crumpled up to the size of a walnut, as
though we were going to conjure with them; and we were blinking as we
met the sun at the corner, and holding a seedy bouquet in our hand,
which evidently she had not given us."
The remarks, conversations, comments, and so forth, that generally
accompany Leech's drawings were invariably his own composition, and in
their humorous aptness are almost as admirable as the drawings they
explain. In illustration I note a design under the heading of "Moral
Courage."
"SCENE--_A Station of the Shoeblack Brigade_.
"FIRST BOY: 'Here's another swell, Bill, a-coming to be blacked.'
"SECOND BOY: 'Ooray!'
"THIRD BOY: 'Ain't his boots thin neither?'
"FOURTH BOY: 'Wouldn't they pinch my toes if I had 'em? Oh my!'
"FIFTH BOY: 'They don't pinch his'n.'
"SIXTH BOY: 'Yes, they do.'
"FIRST BOY: 'Go easy, Blacky; mind his corns.' (_Swell winces_.) 'That
was a nasty one.'
"(_The comments are extended from the swell's boots to his costume and
appearance generally. And all this for a penny_)."
Mr. Thackeray's "Four Georges" are, no doubt, familiar to my readers,
some of whom may also remember his delivery of them in the form of
lectures to large audiences. In that great writer's early time he wrote
many essays, art-criticisms, etc., under the name of "Michael Angelo
Titmarsh," and it is under that title that he is represented in the
drawing by his friend Leech, as he appeared at Willis's Rooms "in his
celebrated character of Mr. Thackeray."
In the _Month_, Mr. Albert Smith makes Leech's drawing a peg upon which
he hangs some justly complimentary remarks on the Thackeray lectures
which took the town by storm forty years ago.
Whether the "Belle of Hyde Park" or the "Belle of the Ball" is to be
considered the belle of the _Month's_ July issue is left in doubt; but
there is no doubt whatever about the claim of the pretty creature (who,
accompanied by an extremely plain and dissolute-looking cavalier in the
costume of Charles II.'s time, enters an imaginary ball-room) to a
loveliness that it would be difficult to surpass, as the drawing amply
proves.
This cut is accompanied by some verses which appear to me quite
unreadable; I therefore spare my readers from the infliction of any of
them.
The frontispiece to the _Month_ for August is an etching by Leech of
singular beauty, called "Charade Acting." I have looked in vain through
the letter-press for any explanation of this charade, so I suppose the
meaning is purposely left for discovery to the intelligence of the
observer. It represents the clever performance of Mr. Smiley and Miss
Corgy.
Mr. Smiley evidently represents a valorous knight--else why that
dish-cover shield, that saucepan helmet, that long surcoat of nightshirt
in the place of mail? The knight has armed himself further with sword
and lance (sword of any period, lance a roasting-spit). Those warlike
preparations must have been made in defence of that delicious girl
leaning over the back of the ancient chair. Is she supposed to be a
distressed damsel leaning from her prison-window and listening to Mr.
Smiley's vows of liberating her or dying in the attempt? If so, where is
the word that will express as much? Not in the brain of the stout old
gentleman who is fast asleep amongst the audience, nor in that of the
pretty little girl who sits in front of him apparently wondering why
people should be "so silly." The lady who tries to hide a yawn with her
fan has evidently "given it up," and the two lovely women near her are
much in the same condition.
Now we come to the belle of the month of August, who is riding with her
papa in Kensington Gardens. An attempt was made--later, I think, than
the Exhibition year--to extend Rotten Row into Kensington Gardens, and
thus deprive pedestrians--notably children and nursemaids--of their
promenades amongst the trees. For some months the equestrian habitues of
Rotten Row careered in the Gardens, to the terror and danger of
children, and the disturbance of many groups of soldiers and nursemaids.
This usurpation created very strong opposition.
I lived in the neighbourhood, and I accompanied a deputation to Sir
Cornewall Lewis--then in power--with a view of impressing upon that
Minister the desirability of rescinding the objectionable privilege
which had been granted to the riders. We had some eloquent talkers, but
their oratory seemed to me to make no impression upon Sir C. Lewis, who
may have listened, but during the harangues he was always writing
letters, and no sooner was one finished than he began another; and we
left him without an intimation of our success or failure. But what is
certain is, that within a week of our interview the equestrians
disappeared--I hope for ever--from Kensington Gardens. Leech being a
constant rider, both spoke and drew in favour of the new ride. Drawings
may be found in the _Punch_ series in which he laughs at the opponents
of the horses in the Gardens, and I remember his indignation when I told
him of our deputation and its successful issue.
[Illustration: THE BELLE OF THE MONTH--AUGUST--TAKING A "CONSTITUTIONAL"
IN KENSINGTON GARDENS. TIME, 8 A.M.]
Leech was never happier than in the infinite variety of his pictures
of life at the seaside; his invention was inexhaustible, as numberless
groups of seaside visitors engaged in the search of health or
pleasure--from the small digger on the sands to the valetudinarian at
the Spa--sufficiently prove. Never was he more delightful than in
dealing with the charming lady bathers, one of whom plays the part of
the _Month's_ "Belle of September."
I think this picture might have inspired the poet of the _Month_, but
his lyre is silent.
"The Balcony Nuisance!" Without some explanation the drawing that
follows this title would be perfectly incomprehensible. How, in the name
of common-sense, of propriety, or of justice, can the word "nuisance" be
applicable to the occupants of that balcony? Well, it is in this wise: A
correspondent of the _Month_, who signs himself "Narcissus," lives in a
suburban square, from which he indites a remarkable letter. According to
"Narcissus," suburban squares are famous for the production of vast
numbers of "single ladies." He calls his square a "realm of girldom,"
the proportion of the belles being very great over the marriageable
young men, and therefore they watch with keen eyes for any new
flirtations. "And now," said he, "comes my complaint. I cannot call at
any house where there are daughters but, the instant I knock, every
balcony near me is filled with waves of rustling muslin, and a dozen
pairs of bright eyes are on the _qui vive_ for every movement or
expression. I need not say how annoying this is."
[Illustration: THE BALCONY NUISANCE.]
I see no trace of annoyance in the simpering buck who is the cynosure of
all eyes in the drawing. Leech evidently saw through the affectation of
annoyance, and depicted the Narcissus mind in its real condition of
gratified conceit.
The _Month's_ October issue contains a good deal of Leech's work. The
number contains a "Belle of the Month," but she is so inferior in
attractiveness to her sisters that I am ungallant enough to pass her by.
I find, however, a pretty musical group entitled "Pestal." In 1851 Mr.
Albert Smith says that Pestal, who was a Russian officer, was imprisoned
for marrying without the consent of his Sovereign, and "cast for death."
Of course, though, according to Mr. Smith, this unfortunate man may have
been a "Pestal-ent person," we are not expected to believe the crime for
which he was executed was only that of neglecting to ask the Czar's
consent to his marriage. "On the eve of his execution, as he lay
_ironed_, awaiting the next morning's _mangling_," continues the
inveterate punster, "in a happy moment of enthusiasm, he composed the
waltz that bears his name."
The pretty music seems to have sentimentalized the handsome youth, and
drawn him closer to the performer, who is one of those sweet creatures
with whom the artist has made us so familiar. I cannot refrain from
presenting my readers with an example of the _poetry_ that adorns the
_Month_, so that they may be convinced of the propriety of giving them
as little of it as possible. Forty-one verses, of which the two
following are fair examples, accompany the drawing called Pestal:
"In London, as usual, last season I spent,
To Pocklington Square my notes were addressed all,
And wherever I rambled or wandered or went,
I was pestered with that horrid pest of a 'Pestal.'
"I thought this mysterious, moreover, and queer,
'Tis better at once that the truth be confest all--
That all through the city one word should appear,
And that word the incomprehensible 'Pestal.'"
"The Great Dinner-Bell Nuisance" not only gives occasion for a capital
drawing by Leech, but the title also heads a capital paper, in which the
absurdity of the function, when there is not the least necessity for it,
is well satirized. A retired lawyer named Watkins Brown lives in a
village which contains at most 347 people, "in a comfortable sort of
house in the Italian style, which he christened Somerford Villa." He has
no children, and his establishment consists of five persons, Mrs. W. B.,
Betsy, the cook, etc., including Buttons, the page. This boy, armed with
a bell, is a nuisance to the neighbourhood; he performs upon it three
times a day. "Now," says the indignant writer, "why does Buttons do
this? Is it to echo back the sound that comes at the same hours from Sir
Marmaduke Hamilton's, of Somerford Hall, and to impress people that
Brown and Sir Marmaduke are the only gentlemen in the neighbourhood? It
can't be to let Brown and his wife know that luncheon or dinner is
ready, for in nine cases out of ten they are in the room when the cloth
is laid. Again I ask, why does Buttons do this? If he is of opinion that
his master is unaware it is time to dress for dinner, why doesn't he
tell him so at once when he is in the room, instead of using such an
absurd system of information? However, by six o'clock Brown and his wife
are in the drawing-room, and Buttons seeing them there, and perceiving
that they are just about to go to the dining-room, rushes out to the
little court-yard, and then to the door of the miniature conservatory,
and again commits the offence he had committed half an hour before. In
the baby courtyard there are two dogs chained, and two other sporting
dogs in a model of a kennel. Well, Buttons appears in the presence of
the dogs with his great bell, and the sensible brutes, conscious of the
pain they are about to endure, immediately set up a howl of quadruple
agony, to which the bell tolls its awful accompaniment."
Exactly fifty years ago I went on a portrait-painting tour into the
country. Some sitters were promised to me, and I had hope, subsequently
justified, that they would be the precursors of others. Amongst my
patrons was a clergyman of aristocratic lineage; who, though he had
inherited little in the shape of money, was possessed of certain tastes
common to the upper ten, in which he could not afford to indulge; but
amongst them was the dinner-bell, in which he did indulge, to the great
annoyance of his neighbours. The Vicarage was an unpretending house with
a small garden about it, in a small village; the inhabitants were
chiefly Methodists, and the congregation at church was the smallest I
ever saw.
The Vicar was not popular; the villagers disliked what they called "his
airs and graces," and they detested his dinner-bell. After sittings from
the Vicar, he and I took occasional walks together, and one day, as we
were passing a cobbler's shop, the proprietor of it, "a detestable
little Radical Methodist," as the Vicar called him, appeared at his door
with a huge bell in his hand; he stepped into the middle of the road,
and, affecting not to see us, he rang it furiously.
"Man! man!" cried the Vicar, "stop that! What are you making that
dreadful noise for?"
"Well, ye see," replied the cobbler, in the language of the county,
"it's ma dinner-time, and aase joust ringin' mysen in, to a bit of berry
pudden."
I was so vividly reminded by the _Month's_ "Dinner-Bell Nuisance" of my
early experience, that I could not resist my inclination to introduce it
into what purports to be the life of John Leech, in which it has no
business whatever to appear. Once more I apologize, and hope I may not
be tempted to "do it again."
Of all the Belles of the Month, the belle of the month November is
perhaps the most lovable. There she stands on Brighton Pier--stands,
that is to say, as well as she can on those pretty feet of hers, against
a wind that is so boisterously rude to her and to her mother, whose
figure, blown out of shape, makes a striking contrast to her daughter's.
The little dog declines to face the gale, which seems likely to carry
him away altogether, as well as the struggling child behind. The touches
of cloud and sea, together with the screaming gulls, are indicated with
the facile skill peculiar to Leech.
[Illustration: THE BELLE OF THE MONTH NOVEMBER "IN DISTRESS OFF A
LEE-SHORE--BRIGHTON PIER."]
In a paper headed "Hotels," Mr. Smith expatiates somewhat tediously on
the "old-established house" of the "old coaching days." He says "the
inmates of the coffee-room were mostly commercial travellers." Those
gentlemen may have been permitted to use the coffee-room; but my
recollection of such places tells me that the commercials always had a
room of their own, specially provided for them.
The writer goes on to tell us that "the commercial gents," on the
occasion of his discovery of them in the coffee-room, "pulled off their
boots--not a very delicate performance--before everybody; and then,
after sitting over the fire, and drinking hot brown brandy and water
until they were nearly at red heat, ordered 'a pan of coals,' and went
to bed."
Yes; and provided an excellent subject for Leech, worthy of being
reproduced here, or anywhere, if only for that inimitable old
chambermaid, who has lighted commercial gents to bed any time these
forty years.
Judging from the twist of the commercial's necktie as he follows, or
rather staggers, after the ancient maid, the brown brandy has done its
work; and it is ten to one against his carrying that box of patterns
safely upstairs.
One boot is successfully removed from commercial number two, and it
will evidently not be the fault of the man who is struggling with the
other if it does not follow suit.
Let the observer note the marked difference in character in all these
figures, as well as the skill and truth with which the details in the
room are rendered.
In 1851 Bloomerism was in full bloom, or rather the attempts of few
foolish people to make it prevail amongst us were so persistent as to
bring upon them attacks by pen and pencil.
As I have already drawn attention to the craze, and to some examples of
the way Leech dealt with it, I should have made no further allusion to
the subject had I not found in the pages of the _Month_ drawings of such
charm that, in justice to the magazine and my readers, I felt I must
notice them.
First, then, we have a Bloomer whip "tooling" her friends down to the
races. If Bloomerism prevailed, this is the sight that Epsom might have
seen in the year 1851, to say nothing of equestrian bloomers of whose
horsewomanship Leech shows us examples.
I think in my last selection from the _Month_ I might claim for myself
a position resembling that of the pyrotechnic artist whose display of
fireworks culminates in a glorious blaze in the last scene of his
entertainment, if I were permitted to introduce it.
My firework takes the form of a bouquet of young ladies at some
"ancestral home" in the country, who have just received a box of books
from London--perhaps from Mudie. What a bevy of beauties!--two of them
already absorbed in the last new novel, while another makes off with an
armful of treasures.
When I say that this drawing--whether we regard it as a composition of
figures and of light and shade, or as an example of Leech's supreme
power over grace of action and beauty--is worthy of admiration for
itself, and of our gratitude to the _Month_ for the opportunity of
reproducing it, I fear no contradiction.