Social Pictorial Satire | Page 4

I will tell now is that of my brief acquaintance with
Leech, which began in 1860, and which I had not many opportunities
of improving till I met him at Whitby in the autumn of 1864--a
memorable autumn for me, since I used to forgather with him every day,
and have long walks and talks with him--and dined with him once or
twice at the lodgings where he was staying with his wife and son and
daughter--all of whom are now dead. He was the most sympathetic,

engaging, and attractive person I ever met; not funny at all in
conversation, or ever wishing to be--except now and then for a capital
story, which he told in perfection.
[Illustration: JOHN LEECH.]
The keynote of his character, socially, seemed to be self-effacement,
high-bred courtesy, never-failing consideration for others. He was the
most charming companion conceivable, having intimately known so
many important and celebrated people, and liking to speak of them; but
one would never have guessed from anything he ever looked or said
that he had made a whole nation, male and female, gentle and simple,
old and young, laugh as it had never laughed before or since for a
quarter of a century. He was tall, thin, and graceful, extremely
handsome, of the higher Irish type; with dark hair and whiskers and
complexion, and very light greyish-blue eyes; but the expression of his
face was habitually sad, even when he smiled. In dress, bearing,
manner, and aspect, he was the very type of the well-bred English
gentleman and man of the world and good society; I never met any one
to beat him in that peculiar distinction of form, which, I think, has
reached its highest European development in this country. I am told the
Orientals are still our superiors in deportment. But the natural man in
him was still the best. Thackeray and Sir John Millais, not bad judges,
and men with many friends, have both said that they personally loved
John Leech better than any man they ever knew.
At this time he was painting in oil, and on an enlarged scale, some of
his more specially popular sketches in _Punch_, and very anxious to
succeed with them, but nervously diffident of success with them, even
with [Greek: hoi polloi]. He was not at his happiest in these efforts; and
there was something pathetic in his earnestness and perseverance in
attempting a thing so many can do, but which he could not do for want
of a better training; while he could do the inimitable so easily.
I came back to town before Leech, and did not see him again until the
following October. On Saturday afternoon, the 28th, I called at his
house, No. 6 The Terrace, Kensington, with a very elaborate drawing in
pencil by myself, which I presented to him as a souvenir, and with

which he seemed much pleased.
He was already working at the Punch Almanac for '65, at a window on
the second floor overlooking the street. (I have often gazed up at it
since.) He seemed very ill, so sad and depressed that I could scarcely
speak to him for sheer sympathy; I felt he would never get through the
labour of that almanac, and left him with the most melancholy
forebodings.
Monday morning the papers announced his death on Sunday, October
29th, from angina pectoris, the very morning after I had seen him.
I was invited by Messrs. Bradbury and Evans, the publishers of
_Punch_, to the funeral, which took place at Kensal Green. It was the
most touching sight imaginable. The grave was near Thackeray's, who
had died the year before. There were crowds of people, Charles
Dickens among them; Canon Hole, a great friend of Leech's, and who
has written most affectionately about him, read the service; and when
the coffin was lowered into the grave, John Millais burst into tears and
loud sobs, setting an example that was followed all round; we all forgot
our manhood and cried like women! I can recall no funeral in my time
where simple grief and affection have been so openly and
spontaneously displayed by so many strangers as well as friends--not
even in France, where people are more demonstrative than here. No
burial in Westminster Abbey that I have ever seen ever gave such an
impression of universal honour, love, and regret.
"Whom the gods love die young." He was only forty-six!
I was then invited to join the Punch staff and take Leech's empty chair
at the weekly dinner--and bidden to cut my initials on the table, by his;
his monogram as it was carved by him is J.L. under a leech in a bottle,
dated 1854; and close by on the same board are the initials W.M.T.
I flatter myself that