In corroboration of this, I may mention an accident that happened to Mr. Elmore (brother of the R.A. and great friend of Leech), who was terribly injured by a blow on the head in a railway accident on the Marseilles line.
"I was reading a novel," said Mr. Elmore to me, "and the next instant, as it seemed, I found myself suffering great pain in a strange bed, with strange surroundings, in what I afterwards found was a French cottage."
The sufferer also found that more than three weeks had elapsed between the blow and the recovery of consciousness from it. Where, in my blind ignorance I venture to ask, was the ever-living soul all this time?
One of the amusements of the visitors at Folkestone consists in watching the arrival of the French packet; and I have noticed that the more stormy the day, the greater is the crowd that forms itself into an avenue, through which the voyagers must pass in landing. This amusement, I think, is not very creditable to us, because it is derived from an enjoyment arising from the sufferings of our fellow-creatures. The rosy passenger, who is evidently "a good sailor," attracts no attention—we rather resent his condition as inappropriate to the occasion; but the man from whose face every vestige of colour has flown, whose legs can scarcely support him as he walks up the gangway, is an object of great delight to us. We are generally—not always—silent in our enjoyment, scarcely ever receiving a poor sea-sick creature as Leech was once welcomed at Boulogne.
In 1854, Leech and his wife went to Boulogne to stay with Dickens. The day was stormy, and when the artist stepped ashore, he was received with cheers by a crowd of people, mostly English, who loudly congratulated him as looking more intensely miserable than any of the wretched passengers who had preceded him. Leech told Dickens that he had realized at last what an actor's feelings must be when a round of applause greets his efforts.
"I felt," he said, "that I had made a great hit."
My intimacy with Leech led to the usual exchange of hospitalities. I recall with pleasure the occasions on which I had the great delight of welcoming him at my house in London or at the seaside. He never varied from the simple, modest demeanour of the perfect gentleman, was never noisy or argumentative, and always considerate of the feelings of others; prodigal in his praise of his brother artists; never, if he could avoid it, speaking of himself or his works, but if, in course of conversation, allusion had been made to some cut more than commonly attractive, he would meet it with: "Glad you like it, my dear fellow; don't see anything particularly funny in it myself;" or, "Ah! I wish you could have seen it on the wood; they seem to me to have cut all the prettiness out of the girl's face."
The first time I dined with Leech was at his house in Notting Hill Terrace, on the occasion of some Highland sports that took place in Lord Holland's park hard by, out of which Leech made some capital sketches, that afterwards appeared in Punch. Leech's dinners, without being too lavish or extravagant, were always unexceptionable as to food, and notably so as to wine; of the latter, being no judge himself, he took care it should be supplied by "one who knew," and who was also reliable. One of the guests at this particular dinner was the Rev. Mr. White, whose acquaintance our host had made at the Isle of Wight. I mention this gentleman because he was not only a very jovial clergyman, but a great friend of Leech and Dickens, and the author of some plays which had more or less success—one of them, with the title of "The King of the Commons," was played under Phelps' management, and had a considerable run.
"White," Leech whispered to me, "is a great judge of port. I hope to goodness he will like some I have got on purpose for him—and for you, my boy; only you know nothing about it, do you?"
"Not a bit," said I.