The History of "Punch"

by M. H. Spielmann

PUNCH'S WRITERS: 1841-2.

Percival Leigh—His Medical Shrewdness—Unsuspected Wealth—His Ability and Work—His Decay—Kindness of the Proprietors to the Old Pensioner—Albert Smith—Inspires varied Sentiments—Jerrold's Hostility—"Lord Smith"—Parts Company—H. A. Kennedy—Dr. Maginn—John Oxenford—W. M. Thackeray—His First Contribution—"Miss Tickletoby" Fails to Please—He Withdraws—And Resumes—Rivalry with Jerrold—As an Illustrator—A Mysterious Picture—Thackeray's Contributions—And Pseudonyms—Quaint Orthography—"The Snobs of England"—He Tires of Punch—His Motives for Resignation—The Letter—Death of "Dear Old Thack"—Punch's Tribute to his Memory.

How Percival Leigh (otherwise called "Paul Prendergast" in those early days) was sought out by George Hodder, on the strength of the "Comic Latin Grammar," and how, after a judicious pause, he joined the Staff of Punch, has already been made known. He was twenty-four when, in 1835, he took his M.R.C.S. He had been a medical student of "Bart's," but had already abandoned, in great measure, the lancet for the pen. He sent in as his first contribution the article to accompany Leech's "Foreign Affairs;" and though he became best known as a humorist, as a doctor he was in his early days equally to be respected. Mr. Arthur à Beckett tells the following stories of his powers in the direction of diagnosis and surgery:—

Although he had given up practice for a number of years, he was an excellent doctor. Sir James Paget has told me that when he and "the Professor" [Leigh's nickname at the Table] were fellow-students at "Bart's," the latter was considered quite the best man of his year. He was admirable at diagnosis, and I shall never forget one of his prognostications. He was in the company of a number of littérateurs and artists who were dining together. A well-known dramatist was expected, and did not turn up to time. The absentee was allowed ten minutes' grace, and then dinner was commenced without him. After a while he came in full of apologies. He had missed one train (he lived in the suburbs), and would have missed another had he not run for it. And then he laughingly explained to "the Professor" that he thought he had sprained his leg. Percival Leigh, who had been looking at him with keen attention since his entrance, asked him a couple of questions; and having received replies to them, spoke as follows: "My dear fellow, if you will take my advice, you will go home at once in a cab and get to bed. Send for your doctor and make him overhaul you. But call special attention to the sprain." The dramatist, who was one of "the Professor's" oldest friends, obeyed orders and departed. Then the rest of the company twitted the doctor on the clever ruse "of getting rid of one who deserved to be punished for keeping the soup waiting." Of course, it was only chaff, but "the Professor" took it seriously. "No, my boys," he replied, very gravely, "I did not send him away on our account, but in his own interest. Of course, while there is life there is hope; but, unless I am very greatly mistaken, we shall never see him again." And "the Professor" was right. Within a month the dramatist had joined the silent majority.

The second story about my dear old friend is not so grim as its predecessor.

Mr. Percival Leigh, when he was more than seventy years old, was knocked down by a passing vehicle as he was crossing the road. He was immediately picked up by a policeman and conveyed in a cab to the nearest hospital. "The Professor," who was covered in mud, asked to be taken home, but the constable would not listen to him. So he was carried into the accident ward. After a while he was seen by the house-surgeon and his assistant. The two medicos entirely ignored "the Professor," and gave their exclusive attention to his leg. "I think you are wrong," said Mr. Leigh, in a mild tone of voice, after he had listened to their conversation for a few moments. The doctors paid not the slightest attention to the observation, and continued their investigations. Now "the Professor" was the most mild and kindly of gentlemen—courteous to a degree, and as polished as a traditional Frenchman—but when he was roused he was—well, emphatically roused. He attempted a second remonstrance, but with the same result. The two medicos calmly ignored him. "Drop that leg, you confounded blockheads!" he thundered out suddenly. "Can't you see, you idiots, that I have fractured my ——," and then he supplied a highly technical and scientific description of his accident. The two medicos stared at "the Professor" in blank astonishment. Then "the Professor" abandoned his incognito, and gave his name and quality. "You see, gentlemen," he said, resuming his customary courteous tone, "I venture to believe that I know more about my leg than you do. It has been under my personal observation all my life, and I consequently have given more time to studying its constitution and idiosyncracies than you, naturally (with all your numerous engagements), could afford to devote to such a purpose!"

Leigh had a philosopher's head and a fine face. In later life he was extremely careless in his person—so much so that when he died Mr. Bradbury, with his usual thoughtfulness, went to the funeral with a cheque-book in his pocket, intending, if necessary, to pay the undertaker's expenses. His surprise, therefore, was great when he learned that "the Professor" had died worth from ten to eleven thousand pounds. Leigh, who lived for some years in Hammersmith Road, in a house which, judged from its exterior, promised little comfort within, was a profound Shakespearean and a good classical scholar, and from these attainments he earned the sobriquet by which he was known. He vied with Jerrold himself in his knowledge of the Bard, and was fond of spouting the poets, classic and English, with the least possible excuse, breaking out into verse with a loud voice, utterly oblivious of his companions. It was he who introduced into the pages of Punch the assumption of scholarship in its readers, and so acquired at once for the paper a position never held by any other humorous journal in this country. His work, which for many years averaged a column and a half each week, included nearly every sort of contribution known to Punch, including, in 1845, his striking "Pauper Song"—the wail of the poor man who prefers the prison to the workhouse, the second stanza running thus:—

"There shall I get the larger crust,
The warmer house-room there;
And choose a prison since I must,
I'll choose it for its fare.
The Dog will snatch the biggest bone,
So much the wiser he:
Call me a Dog;—the name I'll own:—
The gaol—the gaol for me."

In 1843 Leigh began his effectively satirical "Punch's Labours of Hercules," and in 1849 "Mr. Pipps's Diary" appeared as the text accompanying Doyle's pictures of "Ye Manners and Customs of ye Englyshe." The extraordinary success of this admirable parody was, perhaps, the greatest he ever won, though he achieved many. He was essentially a "safe man" at his work, and for that reason he would act as locum tenens to Shirley Brooks when that Editor was away; and the only occasions on which he failed (so far as I can ascertain) except towards the end, was in May, 1847, when his wife died, and in April of the following year, when he lost his father. He always had a strong feeling for art, both in subject and treatment, and was always very fastidious about his work; he would touch up a poem over and over again, and take the utmost pains with metre and "swing" until he was satisfied.

But as he grew old it became evident that the "Professor" was beyond his work, and although he attended the Table with the utmost regularity up to the very end, the decay of nature robbed him of his value as a member of the Staff. Then came an example of the kindliness of spirit that has animated for so long the little côterie of humorists of Bouverie Street and the generosity of the men for whom they work. For a long while before his death "the Professor's" copy had been practically useless to the Editor; yet everything was done to spare him the pain of rejection. At first Mr. Burnand or Mr. Arthur à Beckett would rewrite the paragraphs; and Leigh's delight when they were printed was sad to see. But soon it was impossible to conceal the fact that they were utterly useless; and so for some years it was the practice to set his "copy" up in type and to send him proofs, which he duly corrected and returned. But they never appeared in the paper, nor was ever question asked nor explanation offered. Did the old gentleman forget all about them? Or was he hoping against hope that some day room might again be found for him in the pages to which he had contributed with so much applause? Or did he appreciate the real motive and kindly feeling of the proprietors, who, though they could not use his work, actually increased his salary? Whatever the cause, "the Professor" to the last maintained a pathetic silence. He died at Oak Cottage, King Street, Hammersmith, on October 24th, 1889, and was laid to rest in the Hammersmith Cemetery in the presence of a circle of old Punch friends. For one thing, at least, he had laid the paper under a deep debt of gratitude—he had introduced to it his hospital chum and life-long friend, John Leech, and that was a service which could never be forgotten.