MR. PERCIVAL LEIGH AND LEECH.
In the death of Mr. Percival Leigh, which took place a short time ago, the last member of the original staff of Punch passed away. Mr. Leigh never married, and died at a very advanced age. I frequently met him in society, where his refined and gentle manners, and his quaintly humorous conversation, were what might have been anticipated from the author of “Pips his Diary,” the “Comic Grammars,” and other contributions to the paper to which he was so long and so faithfully attached. From the days of their fellow-studentship at St. Bartholomew’s (with a short interval), to the time of Leech’s death, a firm friendship existed between these two distinguished men.
Much alike in their sense of humour, they also resembled each other in numberless amiable qualities of heart and mind. Leigh’s pen was as free from personality, and as conspicuous for the gentleness with which it dealt with folly, as Leech’s pencil. In early and late days, when Leech was in trouble, Leigh’s was the hand—amongst others—ever ready to help; and to those who can read between the lines in the paper which Mr. Leigh has contributed to this book, there will be little difficulty in discovering the “friend” who found purchasers for work that the producer was barred (in a double sense) from selling for himself.
I see little or no reason for weakening my assertion that Leech arrived at his supreme eminence without any art education; for the slight mechanical knowledge of the art of drawing upon wood which he acquired from Mr. Orrin Smith, a wood-engraver, is no more worthy the name of art-teaching, than the few lessons in etching given to Leech by George Cruikshank can be called art-education. Following the example of Sir John Millais, Mr. Percival Leigh (to whom, it will be remembered, Millais recommended my predecessor, Mr. Evans, to apply) furnished the following remarks for this memoir.
Said Mr. Leigh: “Orrin Smith has been dead many years. How long Leech was with him I cannot say precisely. Perhaps a twelvemonth or thereabouts. Smith was a sociable and rather a clever man, but according to Leech, occasionally so economical that he would now and then try to get a little gratuitous work out of him. On one occasion Smith asked him to introduce a few figures, so as to put a touch of action into a drawing on wood, meant to illustrate a serious little book, the work of a clergyman. The scene represented was a quiet churchyard. Leech improved it with a group of little boys larking and boxing.
“Of course these embellishments, on discovery, were objected to as painfully incongruous, and had to be cancelled. I forget whether or no they had been actually engraven before they were taken out.”
Thus far Mr. Leigh. I think I can interpret the incongruity. I fancy I can hear Leech say, after previous unrequited sketches, “Oh, hang it! this is too bad. Well, here goes; he shall have a few figures, and I hope he’ll like ’em.”
Mr. Leigh continues: “The post-office envelope was one of Leech’s successes; so were the ‘Comic Histories’ of England and Rome, and the ‘Comic Blackstone’; but his growth in popularity was gradual. He had previously illustrated ‘Jack Brag’ for Bentley, and subsequently various articles for Bentley’s Miscellany, particularly the ‘Ingoldsby Legends,’ as well as other ephemeral works of the same publisher; amongst them the ‘Comic Latin’ and ‘English’ Grammars, and the ‘Children of the Mobility,’ a travesty of the ‘Children of the Nobility,’ long since out of print. He also furnished coloured illustrations to the ‘Fiddle-Faddle Fashion-book,’ a whimsical satire on the fopperies and literary absurdities of the period, also out of print.”
I venture again to interrupt the current of Mr. Leigh’s narrative with a word or two on the “Fiddle-Faddle” book. A copy of it, date 1840, has been lent to me. The literary portion, consisting mainly of a thrilling story of brigand life, the blood-curdling tenor of which may be imagined from the title, “Grabalotti the Bandit; or, The Emerald Monster of the Deep Dell,” is the work of Mr. Leigh. The story opens thus:
“Italia! oh, Italia! blooming birthplace of beauty! land of lazzaroni and loveliness! clime of complines and cruelty, of susceptibility and sacrilege, of roses and revenge! thy bright, blue, boundless skies serene I love; thy verdant vales, volcanoes, vines, and virgins! Thy virgins? ay, thy bright-eyed, dark-haired virgins. I love them—how I love them, though mine, alas! they ne’er can be! And there was one who, in earlier, happier hours, before these locks were—no matter. Let me proceed with the calmness becoming a narrator with my tale.”