"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 Noel 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.]