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.