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

The reduced scale proved no obstacle, and the success was gracefully acknowledged as follows:

"London, April 14, 1852.

"Dear Sir,

"In these critical days of the Crystal Palace, let me request your acceptance of the seal for which you gave me the idea.

"And that you may not have any feeling as to depriving me of it, I must tell you that I have another.

"Believe me,                                      
"Most sincerely yours,            
"Devonshire."

But what was the subject of the drawing? In a courteous reply to my inquiry, I find from the present Duke that he has no such drawing in any of his books, and he knows nothing of the seal. In a postscript to one of Leech's letters to his friend Adams, however, I find the following mention of it:

"Look at the seal on this envelope. I told you, I think, some time ago about my making a little sketch for the Duke of Devonshire, and how kind he was about it, saying he must have a seal made of it. Well, he called here himself, and left me a most handsome and valuable seal the other day, of which, I confess, I am proud to send you an impression. As you say of some of your people, 'It's very nice to be treated so, isn't it?' The design of the seal is a spade turning up the Crystal Palace, in allusion to Paxton being a gardener.

"Ever yours, my dear Charley,

"John Leech.

"31, Notting Hill Terrace,
"April 20, 1852."

Though the present Duke of Devonshire knows nothing of the seal, or the drawing from which it was made, I am happy to say that I am able to present to my readers an impression from it, through the kindness of Leech's son-in-law, Mr. Gillett, to whom I applied in my perplexity.

Everybody may not know that Sir Joseph Paxton, the Duke of Devonshire's gardener, was the architect of the glass house of 1851, afterwards christened the Crystal Palace, which—greatly enlarged—now flourishes at Sydenham. I conclude this chapter with an extract from Notes and Queries, evidently written by a friend of Leech. The writer, under date November, 1864, says:

"Leech's success was owing to his almost daily practice of jotting in his note-book every remarkable physiognomy or incident that struck him in his rambles. Such, at any rate, was his practice at the commencement of his too brief career. On one occasion he and I were riding to town together in an omnibus, when an elderly gentleman in a very peculiar dress, and with very marked features, stepped into the vehicle, and sat down immediately in front of us. We were the only inside passengers. For whom or for what he took, or probably mistook, us, I know not; but he stared so hard, and made such wry faces at us, that I could hardly refrain from laughter. My discomfiture was almost completed when Leech suddenly exclaimed, 'By the way, did Prendergast ever show you that extraordinary account that has been recently forwarded to him?' and, showing me his note-book, added, 'Just run your eye up that column, and tell me what you can make of it.' Instead of a column, the features of the old gentleman were reflected upon the page with life-like fidelity. On another occasion I saw him strike off with promptitude and skill the scene of a quarrel between some dirty little urchins in a suburban village."

Note.—To my great regret, I find that the material in which Mr. Bentley's drawing was executed made its reproduction impossible.

CHAPTER XXII.

ARTISTS' LIVES.

"Silent, gentle, forbearing, his indignation flashed forth an eloquence when roused by anything mean or ungenerous. Manly in all his thoughts, tastes, and habits, there was about him an almost feminine tenderness. He would sit by the bedside, and smooth the pillow of a sick child with the gentleness of a woman. No wonder he was the idol of those around him, but it is the happiness of such a life that there is so little to be told of it."

I do not know to what friend of Leech's we are indebted for these few words; which are, however, sufficient to convey a perfect idea of the subject of them to those to whom he was only known by his works.

The lives of most artists are uneventful. Leech's short life was especially so. His incessant labour prevented his giving the time to what is called society—that is so often devoted to it—to the loss of the happiness that home always afforded to him. He was a self-sacrificing and most dutiful son, a good and loving father and husband, and a true and faithful friend. In the quotation above we read that there is little to be told of Leech's life. I have talked with those who had the happiness of greater intimacy with him than I can boast of, without being able to learn anything beyond the ordinary events of an everyday life, void of dramatic incident, commonplace in fact, except for the constant triumph of an unapproachable genius.

Leech had a large circle of friends and acquaintances, with here and there an aristocrat amongst the latter; but his intimates were few: between them and him, however, there were unusually strong ties of affectionate regard; his nervous, modest, retiring nature often conveyed a false impression of him to casual acquaintances. I have heard him described as haughty, "stand-offish," cold, and so on; and his manner to some of those who may have met him for the first time, occasionally admitted of that construction; but it arose from nervousness, or from an aversion to loud and ill-timed compliment, feeling, as he sincerely did, his "little sketches" deserved no such eulogium. Though Leech's life offers no field for the description of stirring events, the delightful nature of the man affords matchless opportunities for study, reflection, and emulation; and that study may be pursued in the examination of his works, in which, as in a looking-glass, the nature of their producer is reflected. There may be seen ever-recurring proofs of the artist's intense love of Nature in all her forms; whether he deals with woman, the most beautiful of all Nature's works, or with children in the endless variety of their attractiveness, absolute truth, tenderness and beauty are paramount; and not only are these creatures natural and beautiful, but the artist is at one with them in all their doings, from the sympathy peculiar to him with all that is simple, pure, and lovable. Side by side with this tenderness of heart, we have a robust manliness which shows itself constantly.

As a matter of course Leech's love of Nature was not confined to humanity, but was extended to the animal creation, to the trees and the fields, the sea-shore and the sea—in short, to every form of animate and inanimate nature. Think what a delight such a constituted heart and mind must be to the possessor of them! and not only to him, but to us to whom he so freely offers the results of his sympathies, making us certainly happier, and it is to be hoped better, by the taking in of so much that is exhilarating, healthy, and true. Evidence is frequent of pity for the sufferings of the poor and the oppressed. In many a scene Leech becomes a warm sympathizer with unmerited distress; and constantly his honest heart is stirred into indignation at some instance of injustice; then we find that the pencil which can deal so gently with childhood and woman can also, in indelible lines, stigmatize the stony-hearted oppressor.

Underlying the refined and delicate humour that distinguishes the greater part of Leech's work we frequently find some more or less serious social grievance smartly satirized. In "Servant-Gal-ism," for example, the airs and graces, the impudent assumption, and the dishonesty even, which sometimes disgrace those otherwise worthy people, are shown to us in drawings so humorous as to make us laugh heartily, but at the same time we feel the full force of the satire intended. In the encounters between servant-girls and their mistresses the ladies sometimes get the worst of it; notably in a drawing that represents a mistress and her maid in conflict respecting the dressing of their hair. The old lady has tortured her few remaining locks into miserable little ringlets, that make a shocking contrast to the long curls of her young and pretty servant; and no sooner does she catch sight of the girl's ringlets, than she angrily tells her she will not permit such bare-faced imitation of the way she chooses to wear her hair. Here I am afraid we cannot help feeling a certain amount of contempt for the blind vanity and tyranny of the mistress, while we sympathize with the maid.

Footmen afford a wide field for the good-humoured banter of Leech.

Amongst the many striking proofs of the genius that distinguished him, is one that to me, as an artist, is astonishing. I allude to the individual character with which Leech invests each of his servant-girls and footmen, as well as every type that comes under his hand. I have not counted the number of servants of "all sorts and sizes" that appear in "Pictures of Life and Character," but I am quite sure that a comparison of one with another will prove that not one can be found in the slightest degree to resemble another; each is an individual by himself or herself, separate and distinct—a footman from top to toe; take away his uniform, and, from some peculiarity of manner or action, he is unmistakably a footman still. The same may be said of the maid-servants, in whom Leech's wonderful power of individualizing is shown even more palpably; for the cook is a cook, and perfectly distinct from the scullery-maid and the charwoman; and no two cooks or kitchen-maids resemble each other personally, but only in their offices.

The same may be truly said of numberless types immortalized by Leech; but, strange to say, it cannot be said of the young ladies: they almost all have a family likeness to one another—a resemblance that can be traced to Mrs. Leech. This fault, for it is a fault, and a grave one, is as strange to me as the infinite variety shown in his representation of all sorts and conditions of men and women is astounding. In marking this I point to the only shortcoming in all Leech's work, and though, as I think (I may be wrong), he has this fault in his treatment of young ladies, it is absent in his drawings of elderly or old ones; the aristocratic or plebeian old women are as well marked in personal contrast with each other as the rest of his delightful creations.

The rest of his creations! What a dazzling, bewildering mass of humanity crowds upon the mind when one attempts to point out special scenes for examination and criticism! If I were to say a tithe of what I feel about hundreds of Leech's drawings, I should greatly exceed the space permitted to me in this book, and I should also show how inferior my powers of analysis are to those of Dickens and Thackeray, and others whose delightful appreciation of beauty, humour and character are so eloquently set forth elsewhere in this memoir; and perhaps I may add that I have sufficient respect for the intelligence of my readers to convince me that they require no directions from me as to when they should laugh and when look grave, or where to discover the point of a joke that is palpable to the "meanest capacity."

With Leech's work in an artistic sense I have more to do. Considering the limited means employed, the results produced are very wonderful. Nothing is left to desire in character or expression; the story is perfectly told in every drawing; and it can be read without reference to the few lines beneath, which in the wording of them appear to me as perfect as the cuts themselves. The composition of groups and figures, which looks so simple and natural, is the result of consummate art. The drawing, notably of figures and animals in action, is always correct. Chiaroscuro is too comprehensive a word to apply to the light and shadow of Leech's drawings; but in what we call "black and white," or, in other words, in the distribution of the masses of dark, and what I may term semi-dark, and light, they are always skilfully effective.

I have been told that Leech's work, in the opinion of a high authority in matters of art, resembles, and successfully rivals, the silver-point drawings of the old masters. I have seen many examples of those beautiful drawings, but I have never seen one that bore the faintest resemblance to the way in which Leech "lays his lines." The same judge tells us that Leech's work betrays an ignorance of the principles of effect—in other words, a neglect of the laws that should guide an artist in the selection of his scheme of light and shadow. An intelligent glance at any of Leech's drawings will show the fallibility of that judgment.

CHAPTER XXIII.

LEECH EXHIBITION.

About the year 1860—or thereabouts—there was exhibited in London a huge picture of Nero contemplating the ruins of Rome, by a German artist named Piloti. On seeing the picture I was much struck by a certain somewhat coarse vigour in the work, which asserted itself in spite of crude and harsh colouring; the principal figure—as often happens—was disappointing and theatrical. Nero stood in a melodramatic posture, with his arms folded, enjoying the destruction of the city. Leech, accompanied by his friend, the late Sir Edgar Boehm, R.A. (the eminent sculptor who made an admirable statuette of Leech), saw the picture, and after a long study of it he turned to Boehm and said: "I would rather have been the painter of that picture than the producer of all the things I have ever perpetrated!" Leech's friend received this avowal with incredulous laughter, and, pointing out some of the glaring faults of the Nero, endeavoured to convince his companion that one of his drawings was worth acres of such work as Piloti's; in which I, for one, entirely agree with him.

The hankering after oil-colours which always possessed Leech was destined to be gratified; for soon after this—in 1862—he came before the public as the painter of a series of "sketches in oil," being reproductions of his own drawings in Punch. These—almost virgin—attempts were exhibited at the Egyptian Hall, where they were visited by thousands of admiring spectators, who left several thousand pounds behind them. Everyone knows what a few inches of space are taken up by one of Leech's drawings as it appears in "Pictures of Life and Character." A sketch of such small dimensions would have been ineffective in colours, and it was owing to an invention by which the originals were enlarged, that the artist was enabled to offer to the public copies of drawings four or five inches square, increased in some instances to three feet by two.

"'The idea originated,' says Dr. Brown, 'with Mr. Mark Lemon, Leech's friend and colleague, who saw that by a new invention—a beautiful piece of machinery—the impression of a block in Punch being first taken on a sheet of indiarubber, was enlarged; when by a lithographic process the copy thus got could be transferred to the stone and impressions printed upon a large sheet of canvas. Having thus obtained an outline groundwork, consisting of his own lines enlarged to some eight times the area of the original block, Leech proceeded to colour these. His knowledge of the manipulation of oil-colours was very slight, and it was under the guidance of his friend Millais that his first attempts were made, and crude enough they were. He used a kind of transparent colour, which allowed the coarse lines of the enlargement to show through, so that the production presented the appearance of indifferent lithographs slightly tinted. In a short time he obtained great mastery over oil-colour, and instead of allowing the thick, fatty lines of printer's ink to remain on the canvas, he, by the use of turpentine, removed the ink, particularly with regard to the lines of the faces and figures. These he redrew with his own hand in a fine and delicate manner. To this he added a delicacy of finish, particularly in flesh-colour, which greatly enhanced the value and beauty of his later works."

The catalogue to the sketches in oil is prefaced by a few modest words by the artist, who concludes some remarks upon their production thus:

"These sketches have no claim to be regarded, or tested, as finished pictures. It is impossible for anyone to know the fact better than I do. They have no pretensions to a higher name than the name I give them, 'Sketches in Oil.'"

The exhibition consisted of sixty-seven works, and the room containing them was filled all day long by a laughing crowd. Leech shrank from crowds at all times, and an assembly drawn together by his own works would have special terrors for him. After the opening of the gallery he was never known to visit it, mainly from his innate modesty, but also from his dread of being "caught and talked at by enthusiastic people."

A story is told of a visit of a sporting lord who took his huntsman—whose judgment of hounds and horses was celebrated for its acumen—to give his verdict on the Leech Exhibition in general, and on dogs and horses in particular.

"'Ah, my lord, nothin' but a party as knows 'osses could have drawed them there 'unters.'"

If the huntsman offered an opinion on other features of the exhibition, it is not recorded; he criticised only what he understood—therein giving a much-needed example to many critics.

In the few remarks in the way of criticism on the Leech Exhibition which I allow myself to make, I claim to be in the position of the huntsman whose experience of the horse made his opinion of that animal valuable; my own experience of pictures, as it extends over fifty years, may fairly claim for me the right of judgment, and I acknowledge myself to be one of those who thought the exhibition of "Sketches in Oil" did not increase Leech's reputation; though it happily did increase his own fortune, or the fortune of somebody else.

Dr. Brown says that Leech "obtained a great mastery over oil-colours." The huntsman may have thought as much; if he did, he was as much in error as Dr. Brown. The sketches lost much charm by their enlargement, and they were further greatly damaged by the crude and inharmonious way in which they were coloured. The girls' lovely faces, which delight us so thoroughly in their pencilled forms, became almost vulgar under the artist's attempts to paint flesh—the most difficult of all things to render truly. When he first gives them to us fresh from the wood block, conveying to us, as he does, the most ravishing beauty by a few pencil-marks, we paint the faces for ourselves with the colours and brushes of the mind, with a result unattainable by the colourman's tools unless they are in the hands of a Reynolds or a Vandyke. Leech's delightful backgrounds, too, were terribly spoilt by his oil-paints: air and distance disappeared altogether in many of them. But it is time my grumbling gave place to what Mr. Thackeray had to say about the Leech Exhibition in the Times of June 21, 1862:

"Now, while Mr. Leech has been making his comments upon our society and manners, one of the wittiest and keenest observers has been giving a description of his own country of France in a thousand brilliant pages; and it is a task not a little amusing and curious for a student of manners to note the difference between the two satirists—perhaps between the societies they describe. Leech's England is a country peopled by noble elderly squires, riding large-boned horses, followed across country by lovely beings of the most gorgeous proportions, by respectful retainers, by gallant little boys emulating the pluck and courage of the sire. The joke is the precocious courage of the child, his gallantry as he charges his fences, his coolness as he eyes the glass of port, or tells grandpapa he likes his champagne dry. How does Gavarni represent the family father, the sire, the old gentleman, in his country—the civilized country? Paterfamilias, in a dyed wig and whiskers, is leaning by the side of Mademoiselle Coralie on her sofa in the Rue de Bréda. Paterfamilias, with a mask and a nose half a yard long, is hobbling after her at the ball. The enfant terrible is making papa and mamma alike ridiculous by showing us mamma's lover, who is lurking behind the screen. A thousand volumes are written protesting against the seventh commandment. The old man is for ever hunting after the young woman; the wife is for ever cheating the husband. The fun of the old comedy never seems to end in France, and we have the word of their own satirists, novelists, painters of society, that it is being played from day to day.

"In the works of that barbarian artist, Hogarth, the subject which affords such playful sport to the civilized Frenchman is stigmatized as a fearful crime, and is visited by a ghastly retribution. The English savage never thinks of such a crime as funny, and, a hundred years after Hogarth, our modern 'painter of mankind' still retains his barbarous modesty, is tender with children, decorous before women, has never once thought he had the right or calling to wound the modesty of either.

"Mr. Leech surveys society from the gentleman's point of view. In old days, when Mr. Jerrold lived and wrote for that famous periodical, he took the other side; he looked up at the rich and great with a fierce, a sarcastic aspect, and a threatening posture, and his outcry or challenge was: 'Ye rich and great, look out! We, the people, are as good as you. Have a care, ye priests, wallowing on a tithe pig and rolling in carriages and four; ye landlords, grinding the poor; ye vulgar fine ladies, bullying innocent governesses, and what not—we will expose your vulgarity, we will put down your oppression, we will vindicate the nobility of our common nature,' and so forth. A great deal has to be said on the Jerrold side, a great deal was said, perhaps, even, a great deal too much. It is not a little curious to speculate upon the works of these two famous contributors to Punch, these two 'preachers,' as the phrase is. 'Woe to you, you tyrant and heartless oppressor of the poor!' calls out Jerrold as Dives' carriage rolls by. 'Beware of the time when your bloated coachman shall be hurled from his box, when your gilded flunkey shall be cast to the earth from his perch, and your pampered horses shall run away with you and your vulgar wife and smash you into ruin.' The other philosopher looks at Dives and his cavalcade in his own peculiar manner. He admires the horses and copies, with the most curious felicity, their forms and action. The footmen's calves and powder, the coachman's red face and flock wig, the over-dressed lady and plethoric gentleman in the carriage, he depicts with the happiest strokes; and if there is a pretty girl and a rosy child on the back seat, he 'takes them up tenderly' and touches them with a hand that has a caress in it. The artist is very tender to all these little people. It is hard to say whether he loves girls or boys most—those delightful little men on their ponies in the hunting field, those charming little Lady Adas flirting at the juvenile ball, or Tom the butcher's boy on the slide, or ragged little Emily pulling the go-cart, freighted with Elizerann and her doll. Steele, Fielding, Goldsmith, Dickens, are similarly tender in their pictures of children. We may be barbarians, monsieur; but even savages are occasionally kind to their papooses. 'When are the holidays?' Mothers of families ought to come to this exhibition and bring the children. Then there are the full-grown young ladies—the very full-grown young ladies—dancing in the ball-room or reposing by the sea-shore: the men can peep at whole seraglios of these beauties for the moderate charge of one shilling, and bring away their charming likenesses in the illustrated catalogue (two-and-six). In the 'Mermaids' Haunt,' for instance, there is a siren combing her golden locks, and another dark-eyed witch actually sketching you as you look at her, whom Ulysses could not resist. To walk by the side of the much-sounding sea and come upon such a bevy of beauties as this, what bliss for a man or a painter! The mermaids in that haunt, haunt the beholder for hours after. Where is the shore on which those creatures were sketched? The sly catalogue does not tell us.

"The outdoor sketcher will not fail to remark the excellent fidelity with which Mr. Leech draws the backgrounds of his little pictures. The homely landscape, the sea, the winter road by which the huntsmen ride, the light and clouds, the birds floating overhead, are indicated by a few strokes which show the artist's untiring watchfulness and love of Nature. He is a natural truth-teller, as Hogarth was before him, and indulges in no flights of fancy. He speaks his mind out quite honestly like a thorough Briton. He loves horses, dogs, river and field sports. He loves home and children—that you can see. He holds Frenchmen in light esteem. A bloated 'mosoo,' walking 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? No man has ever depicted the little 'snob' with such a delightful touch. Leech fondles and dances this creature as he does the children. To remember one or two of these dear gents is to laugh. To watch them looking at their own portraits in this pleasant gallery will be no small part of the exhibition; and as we can all go and see our neighbours caricatured here, it is just possible that our neighbours may find some smart likenesses of their neighbours in these brilliant, life-like, good-natured Sketches in Oil."

The publication of this sympathetic article in such a paper as the Times, by such a writer as Thackeray, no doubt increased the popularity of "Sketches in Oil." However that may have been, its appearance gave the keenest pleasure to Leech, who is said to have "rejoiced like a child, exclaiming:

"'That's like putting a thousand pounds into my pocket!'"

By far the best examples of Leech's oil paintings are in the collection of his old warmly attached friend, Mr. Charles Adams, of Barkway. Instead of a garish stain of washy colour merely passed over an engraving, these small sporting subjects are painted in a good solid style, well drawn and carefully finished; carrying with them the conviction, to my mind, that Leech might possibly have been as great with the brush as he was with the lead pencil.

Amongst the "Pictures of Life and Character" there is a drawing of two young ladies sitting vis-à-vis on a rustic seat; from the books held by both of them it might be supposed they were reading, as no doubt they were, till one of them caught sight of their partners at the ball the night before, who by a strange coincidence are advancing upon them through the wood. The drawing is entitled "Remarkable Occurrence," with the following explanation: "On the morning after the dispensary ball, as Emily Deuxtemps and Clara Polkington were sitting in the plantation, who should come to the very spot but Captain Fastman and young Reginald Phipps!"

I forget the year in which this drawing appeared. The scene is laid at Scarborough, where Leech was passing his summer holiday. I was so taken with the beauty of the girls, the composition of the drawing, and its general adaptability to the making of an oil picture, that I wrote to the artist; and, pointing out these characteristics, begged him to "paint the subject." I received no reply to my entreaty, but on meeting him afterwards in London, he apologized, and declared he would take my advice.

"You don't mind my not answering you, old fellow: I hate letter-writing. It was very kind of you to write—glad you like the girls on the garden-seat. Well, I will try my hand at it the moment I have time to spare." The time never came. A "Remarkable Occurrence" did not even appear amongst the "Sketches in Oil."

It would have been a very onerous task for a man in perfect health, and accustomed to the use of the brush, to have prepared those sixty-seven sketches in oil for exhibition, even if his time could have been wholly devoted to it. To Leech, with the hand of Death nearly touching him, in almost entire ignorance of the method in which he was working—the ordeal was terrible. To the entreaties of his friends that he should stick less closely to his easel at Lowestoft or Whitby, he would reply that the fine air of the former, and the picturesque scenery abounding at the latter, were intended for idle people, and not for him.

To the man with well-strung nerves Leech's sensibility to noises of all kinds seems incomprehensible; but for years before the oil sketches were undertaken I knew of his sufferings from himself; and the world must have guessed them from his attacks upon the organ-grinders, the bellowing street-hawkers, and the thousand and one noises that distress the London householder whose livelihood depends upon his brain. Of course most of the drawings in which the organ-grinder and the itinerant vendor of stale fish figure, are highly humorous; causing the unthinking to laugh, unconscious of the terrible seriousness under which they have been produced.

Humour was so much a part of Leech's nature that it sometimes asserted itself incongruously. For example: One evening a convivial party of the Ancient Order of Foresters returning from, perhaps, the Crystal Palace, where high festival had been held, roused poor Leech almost to madness by a yelling uproar opposite his door. He left his work, and rushed bare-headed amongst them.

"What are you making this horrible row for?"

Then seeing the extraordinary Robin Hood kind of costume affected by these people, he said:

"What's it all about—who are you?"

"We are Foresters, that's what we are," was the reply.

"Then, why on earth don't you go into a forest and make your infernal row there, instead of disturbing a whole street with your noise?" said Leech.

There is no doubt that hyper-sensitiveness to noises troubled Leech "from his youth up," for we find in comparatively early drawings in Punch examples of the nuisances created by the fish-hawkers, and the sellers of the great variety of things that nobody wants, at the different seaside places where he took his so-called holidays. He was naturally hard upon the encouragers of these pests. There is an inimitable sketch of an old lady who has called an organ-grinder into her parlour. The man, a perfect type of the Italian performer, grinds away at his instrument, the old woman snaps her fingers and kicks up her heels in mad delight; her parrot screams, and her dog howls an accompaniment. Cake and wine are on the table, and there is a stuffed cat in a glass case on the wall. The drawing is called a "Fancy Sketch of the Old Party who rather likes Organ-grinding."

In another sketch an elderly paterfamilias is seen sitting upon the beach attempting to read his newspaper under the difficulties caused by a boy with guinea-pigs, and others with something to sell; a sailor proposes a sail, an old woman has a box of baby linen, and the inevitable sweetstuff merchant looms in the near distance. The drawing is entitled "The Bores of the Beach," with the following explanatory lines:

"So, as it's a fine day, you'll sit on the beach and read the paper comfortably, will you? Very good! Then we recommend you to get what guinea-pigs, brandy-balls, boats, and children's socks, to say nothing of shell-work boxes, lace collars, and the like you may want, before you settle down."

Perhaps the drawing that most happily illustrates the terrible suffering that is caused by those wandering minstrels, the Italian organ-grinders, is in double form—two scenes, so to speak. The first represents a dignified, middle-aged father of a family who stands at his door "expostulating with an organ-grinder, who is defying him with extreme insolence, alternated with performances on the instrument of torture," says Leech. The Italian, who is an embodiment of brutal impudence, says, "Ha! ha! P'lice! Where you find p'lice?"

In the second drawing we see why the noise is more than commonly distressing, for it represents a bedroom in the indignant father's house, where a "sick boy, tended by his mother, is suffering from nervous fever."

I dwell at some length upon these drawings, because they greatly aided Mr. Bass in his efforts to put a stop to some extent—alas! only to some extent—to a serious public nuisance. The Bill which that gentleman carried through Parliament still requires amendment before the author, the musician, the artist, or the tradesman even, can pursue his calling in the peace so essential to success.

An eminent artist friend of mine lived in a part of the town where organ-grinders greatly congregate. The interruptions to his work were constant and terrible. After finding that remonstrance, threats of the police, and other inducements, failed to procure relief, he armed himself with a pea-shooter, with which he practised upon his lay figure until he acquired considerable skill in the use of it; and when he considered he was enough of a marksman, he stood by his shutter window and waited; not for long, for the notes of "Champagne Charley is my name"—a favourite melody some years ago—pierced his ears from "an instrument of torture" opposite to his window. Through a narrow aperture made by the shutter the pea-shooter was projected, a smart blow on the cheek of the organ-grinder stopped "Champagne Charley" in the middle of one of his notes; the man rubbed his face and looked about him, up and down and round about, with an expression of pained surprise pleasant to behold. He then took up the tune where he had left it, and had produced a few more notes when a blow upon the grinding hand, and another almost instantly on his face, again stopped the performance. "It was very gratifying," said my friend, "to study the puzzled expression of the fellow as he looked about for the cause of his trouble." After another attempt to play out his tune, and another salute from the pea-shooter, he shouldered his organ and took himself off. "Yes," said the sportsman, "after a while they found me out, but they couldn't get at me, and now I am never troubled by any of them."

I am writing these pages at Lowestoft, where Leech passed several summer holidays. Under the name of "Sandbath," this place had the honour of appearing in Punch as the scene of several humorous incidents, notably of one in which the street-horrors are stigmatized under the heading of "How to Make a Watering-place Pleasant, particularly to Invalids." Time 6.30 a.m. (a hint to the powers that be at Sandbath). The principal performer is an admirably drawn figure of a big burly ruffian—ugliness personified—from whose monstrous mouth one can almost hear "Yah-ha-bloaters!" Two little boys, carrying baskets of shrimps, are yelling "Ser-imps, fine ser-imps!" while two more youths add to the din by ringing bells by way of announcing other delicacies likely to be in request early in the morning. The date of this drawing can be fixed pretty accurately, for I hear from Mr. Adams that several of the sketches in oil exhibited in 1862 were finished at this place, Mr. Adams constantly watching his friend as he worked.

To the unexaggerated truth of the incident I can speak, for the cry of "Bloaters!" arouses me every morning, and precisely at the time indicated by Leech. Added to this, even as I write about the organ-grinder detested of Leech, comes one, as if in revenge, under my window; and in reply to my threat of police, I am told to "go and find a policeman"—an impossibility, as the wretch well knows, for there is but one in Sandbath—as far as my observation goes—and he never appears in this part of it.

A petition, very numerously signed by eminent members of all the professions, and by others, was a formidable weapon in Mr. Bass's hands in his crusade against street musicians and other peace-breakers. The Bill passed both Houses, and became law. Leech signalized the success by an admirable drawing called "The Rival Barrels."

"Three cheers for Bass and his barrel of beer, and out with the foreign ruffian and his barrel-organ."

One of Mr. Bass's draymen is using a cask of beer in the form of a weapon as he rolls it against a foreign organ-grinder, who finds himself perilously near the edge of a cliff at Dover or Folkestone, en route from the country he has tormented so long. The brutal Italian scowls and threatens as the barrel rolls upon him, but we feel he must go; the stalwart, good-humoured drayman is too much for him.

If—as I feel sure—the brilliant powers possessed by Leech were certain to be attended by a highly sensitive and nervous organization, absolute tranquillity and ease of mind were required for the exercise of them; but in this unhappy case what do we find? No repose—no cessation—no peace. The conditions under which these wonderful drawings were produced were no doubt to some extent uncontrollable—the public appetite grew with what it fed on; it was not Punch only who insisted upon his weekly portion, but numberless publications, stories, biographies, poems, taxed the genius of the popular illustrator.

It was not till I undertook this task that I had any idea of the quantity of work done by Leech: to say nothing of the excellence of it, the quantity is astonishing. But surely, I hear my reader say, though Punch required ever-recurring contributions, other demands upon the artist were within his own control. There are men, and plenty of them, who would have turned deaf ears to appeals from relatives and friends; but John Leech was not one of those, and I fear it cannot be denied it was to meet pressing solicitation for money from various quarters that we must look to account for the worn brain and the shattered nerves that throbbed with agony at noises which would scarcely have disturbed a healthy man.

For some years before his death he suffered from sleeplessness, and at length he yielded to the suggestion of his friends and the order of his doctor—that change of air and scene should be tried as a remedy. Mark Lemon became his companion, and the two went to Biarritz, staying a short time in Paris on their way.

"That Leech's pencil was not idle on this holiday," says Shirley Brooks, "two well-known pictures will testify. One of them is a general view of that now famous watering-place, with specimens of its curious frequenters. The other 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 on record for many a day after the offence shall have ceased.

"This brief visit," continues Mr. Brooks, "to the Continent was his last but one. His strength did not increase, and he no longer found pleasure in hunting, of which he had been exceedingly fond, and later he discontinued riding on horseback. He was then not merely advised, but ordered to travel. About this time the great man who had been to him as a brother, the schoolmate of his boyhood, the chief friend of his manhood—Thackeray—died. He told Millais of his presentiment that he, too, should die suddenly, and soon. In the summer of 1864 he went to Homburg, accompanied by his friend, Alfred Elmore, and afterwards he sojourned at Schwalbach. His mind was amused if his body was not strengthened by these visits to new scenery, and his sketch-book was soon filled with memorials, some of which he embodied in his last large Punch engraving—a view of the place where the residents of Schwalbach meet to drink the waters, and with figures of illustrious political people.

"Soon after his return he resolved to try what pure fresh English air would do for him, and accompanied by his family he went to Whitby. Several friends were also staying there at the same time, and he wrote to London that he liked the place. In September, on his writing to me that he would prolong his stay if I and wife would come down, we went, and remained at Whitby till he left it, on the 3rd of October.

"The scenery round Whitby is varied, and some of it is exceedingly fine; and Leech, when we could induce him to leave the painting in oil—to which he devoted far 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 around Mulgrave Castle. I hoped that good was being done; but it was very difficult to stir him from his pictures, of which he declared he must finish a great number before Christmas. It was not for want of earnest and affectionate remonstrance close by his side, nor for lack of such remonstrance being seconded by myself and others, that he persevered in over-labour at these paintings, which he had undertaken with his usual generosity, in order 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. His contributions to that periodical had not exceeded one half-page engraving for some time, until he volunteered to compose the large Schwalbach picture. Let me note another instance of his kindness to utter strangers. A deputation from the Whitby Institute waited upon him to ask him to attend a meeting, and to speak in promotion of the interests of the association. He was on that day too ill to bear an interview with more than one of the gentlemen, and was, of course, compelled to refuse their request. But it occurred to him that they might think his refusal ungracious (as I am sure they could not), and he sent for all his 'Sketches of Life and Character' from London, and presented them to the Institution."

Amongst the party at Whitby was Mr. George Du Maurier, whose charming drawings are familiar, not only to the readers of Punch, but also as excellent illustrations in other newspapers and periodicals; especially good are they in Thackeray's great novel of "Esmond." Du Maurier only made Leech's acquaintance a few months before his death, but he tells me that in the Whitby walks and talks he found him to be the most delightful companion, and the most "lovable" of men. My friend also tells me that he was the last of the craft that shook the hand to which we all owe so much. Du Maurier called upon Leech the day before his death to present a little drawing to him; he seemed "much as usual," and the artists parted, little dreaming that they had parted for ever.

On the day after Mr. Hill's party the weekly dinner of the Punch staff took place. Leech attended as usual, but the readiness with which he was wont to make suggestions, or to discuss those already made, seemed to have deserted him. He was dull, silent, and appeared, says Shirley Brooks, "scarcely to understand what was going on"—requiring a question to be repeated two or three times before he could frame a reply to it, and then his answer was often wide of the mark. This condition, I suppose, showed the alternations of the disease that was killing him, for he was perfectly free from such a distressing symptom only the night before the Punch dinner, and as free from it, according to Du Maurier, the day before his death.

The journeys abroad, and the Whitby sojourn, even if the sufferer could have been prevailed upon to cease work altogether, came too late. The sword had worn out the scabbard. Leech's conversation and letters after his return from Whitby expressed ardent hope, but feeble conviction, that he had materially benefited by the change of air and scene. I think he knew that his prophecy, so mournfully spoken to Millais by the death-bed of Thackeray, was near its fulfilment. In common with all Leech's friends, I knew that he had suffered from attacks of angina pectoris, or breast pang; but in our ignorance of the serious character of the disease, most of us thought lightly of its attacks. One idea amongst us was that he had strained, and perhaps injured, some muscle in one of his hunting tumbles. That the agony of the spasms was very dreadful we knew, because on one occasion, after a severe attack, he said, "If it had lasted a little longer, I must have died." But how often have sufferers used the same words when they were in no danger whatever!

I approach the end of my endeavour to show my illustrious friend in his true colours, with sad feelings, grievously increased by the conviction that under happier circumstances he might have been the delight of all who did—and did not—know him for many years beyond the time so cruelly shortened. The letter to a friend which follows—written at Kensington after his return from Whitby—gives us in his own melancholy words a sad account of his condition.

"6, The Terrace, Kensington,        
"October 6, 1864.

"My dear ——,

"I received your most kind note last night on my return from Whitby in Yorkshire, where I have been with my family since I came from Germany; and I assure you I have so many things to put in order, that to go away from my work would be impossible just now. I was amused with Homburg, and to some extent I think the waters did me some good; but I am sorry to say I can give but a sorry account of my health. Nothing seems to quiet my nervous system, and I suffer still from sleeplessness dreadfully. Alas for Sheldrake! Why, I could not ride him if I had him; anything out of a walk would bring on a spasm that would occasion me to drop from his back. I trust I may be able to ride some time yet, but do not see my way. As for shooting, you would see me disappear amongst the turnips in about five minutes from exhaustion. But, however, I look forward with hope, and with a will, shall try and make myself a better man; and I am not yet incapable, thank God, to enjoy the society of a friend, and hope you will find me out—no, not out, but at home—should you come to London this autumn or winter. You must see a pantomime, you know. I have one great consolation—that the air of Yorkshire did my wife and children great good; and hoping that you and all your kind relations at ... are well,

"Believe me,                     
"Yours faithfully,      
"John Leech."

CHAPTER XXIV.

MILLAIS AND LEECH.

The way to a certain place is said to be paved with good intentions. If that be so, a large space in the pavement must be filled by intentions to write the life of Leech. In the Dean of Rochester—the intimate friend of the artist when known as the Rev. Reynolds Hole—the intention still exists, as I gather from a letter received from him in reply to my appeal for assistance. The Dean tells me he possesses "above a hundred letters" by Leech—one and all denied to me—barred by the "intention," which seems to have come to life again, after being resigned by him many years ago in favour of Dr. John Brown; who in his turn relegated his intention to its place in the pavement.

I think it was about the year 1882 that, when calling on my old friend Sir John Millais, I was introduced to a Mr. Evans, who was presented to me as a literary man engaged in writing the life of Leech—a stranger to Millais in quest of information. Though I felt that Millais, in the genial and hearty way peculiar to him, over-estimated the importance of my assistance in his advice to Mr. Evans to tax my memory, "and he would find the tax paid in full," I promised to try to remember something of interest, and communicate with him further. The result of the "taxation" was a paper, which I sent to the address given to me at Manchester.

Years passed, and as I heard nothing I concluded that the Evans life was abandoned, and thought no more of the matter. Alas! events proved that the Evans intention was destined to take its place amongst the others, for the promoter died; but not till he had collected a quantity of material, to which I have been greatly indebted in writing this memoir. After my interview with Mr. Evans at Millais', I never saw or heard from him, except in acknowledgment of my contribution; and it is strange to me, that with every requisite for the carrying out of the intention, into which, judging from his manner, he entered enthusiastically and lovingly, he should have made such little way with it—probably from ill-health—when the material fell into the hands of Messrs. Bentley, and from theirs into mine.

Amongst the papers I found the following from Sir John Millais, of all the friends of Leech one of the dearest, the most loving and steadfast, and the best able to appreciate his qualities as an artist and a man. In a letter to Mr. Evans—February, 1882—Millais says:

"I knew John Leech intimately, and I think saw more of him than any other of his friends. He was one of the very best gentlemen I ever knew, with an astounding appreciation of everything sad or humorous. He was both manly and gentle, nervous and brave, and the most delightful companion that ever lived. I loved John Leech (and another who is also gone) better than any other friends I have known."

In a further communication, Sir John says:

"I will endeavour to find some letters which may be of interest. Unfortunately, I have given most of them away at the time I received them, many containing sketches; I cannot remember now where they are. I am sure I had more than anyone, as I was for years his daily companion. There is another friend of his—Percival Leigh, attached to Punch—whom you do not mention. You should see him, as he could give you a great deal of information. Mr. Adams was a hunting friend, and many times Leech and myself stayed with him. Mr. Parry was the master of the Puckeridge hounds, and most of the hunting sketches were the upshot of scenes in Hertfordshire.

"Leech stayed with me twice in Scotland, and out of those visits came Mr. Briggs's exploits in deer-stalking, salmon-fishing, and grouse-shooting.

"The late Duke of Athole asked him to Blair, and took him for a deer-drive. Previously to that there had been a good deal written in the papers against the Duke, in consequence of his Grace having stopped two University men from crossing the forest; and Leech made a drawing in Punch by no means complimentary of the Duke, who was represented turning back the tourists, exclaiming, 'I am the regular Do-Dhu.' But you must turn to Punch, and you will find the illustration for yourself. I speak from memory as to the exact words; but I well recollect Leech, in his jocose way, asking me whether I thought he would be safe in the Duke's hands after that squib. I afterwards heard his Grace was delighted with it, and carried the woodcut about in his pocket to show to his friends.

"I have seen Leech make his first sketch (of which I have specimens), and trace them on to the block, scores of times. The first was rapid; but on the wood he was very deliberate, knowing how necessary clearness of execution is to the engraver.

"The late Mr. Trelawney—the intimate friend of Byron and Shelley—speaking one day to me of his recollections, said that Shelley and Leech were the two men he had loved best, and that he cared to know me only because I was a great friend of the man he admired so much."

Here I may interpose to remind my readers that the figure of the sailor in Millais' superb picture of the North-West Passage was painted from Trelawney, who is supposed to say, "It should be done, and England must do it." The man's head, painted with all Millais' power, is a most perfect likeness of Shelley's friend.

Millais goes on to tell us that "some of the happiest days we spent together were at the Peacock Inn at Baslow, in Derbyshire, close to Chatsworth, where every kindness was shown to Leech by the Duke and Sir Joseph Paxton—shooting, fishing, and cricketing."

I again interpose to say that the portrait given as frontispiece to this volume was drawn on one of the "happy days" at the Peacock Inn at Baslow.

"We played together in a match with a neighbouring village, and at a supper which he gave to the teams he sang 'King Death' with becoming gravity, and was much entertained by the local amorous ditties sung by the young farmers."

In further advice to Mr. Evans, Sir John says:

"You cannot dwell too much on his tender anxiety for his wife and children, almost distressing at times to those about him."

The great painter continues:

"I should tell you that he was always careful in his dress, and always went to the best houses for everything he purchased, probably from having early in life discovered the wisdom of such a course—see his satire of everything shoddy—but chiefly from inherent good taste. His choice was so quiet that one only felt he was perfectly attired. Leech was six feet high, slim, well but rather delicately made. Strangers felt when they were introduced to him that they were in the presence of a gentleman grave and courteous always, and a merry fellow when harmless fun was demanded. Like Landseer, he had the power of telling a story in the fewest words, and with astonishing effect upon his hearers; but as a rule he was averse to taking the initiative in conversation. He would sit placidly smoking his cigar in an easy-chair, and only chime in to cap what was said by some voluble speaker, and then retire again into the full enjoyment of his weed and silence."

In his evidence before a Committee of the House of Commons which was formed to inquire into the constitution and working of the Royal Academy, with a view to certain changes in that body, Millais said that he thought Leech was deserving of full membership in the institution, for, indeed, said he:

"Very few of us painters will leave behind us such good and valuable work as he has left—work which is in great part historical. His appreciation of the pathetic was as strong as his sense of the ridiculous, and you will never find a bit of false sentiment in anything he did."

Landseer is reported to have said—after expressing enthusiastic admiration of Leech's genius—that the worst thing he ever did deserved to be framed and placed before students as an example for their emulation and improvement. Sir John Millais concludes his remarks upon his friend—remarks for which I am sure my readers will be as grateful as I am—by a few pathetic words heralding the sad and final scene:

"He became so nervous latterly that he used to take my arm when we were walking together, jerking it perceptibly at any sudden noise, or at any vehicle passing rapidly near us; lingering an unnecessary time at the street crossings; and the morning he came from Thackeray's house, on coming downstairs after seeing his dead friend, he said, 'I also shall die suddenly.'

"I arrived from a Continental tour," concludes Millais, "the day of his death, and by arrangement went immediately to his house to dine with him. His wife told me he had been asking for me; but I did not think it wise to disturb him then. A little later I returned, ran upstairs to his bedside, and found him dead."

CHAPTER XXV.

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.