h, and no doubt
hundreds of other nervous people who die and make no sign!'" Leech's
last drawing appears on p. 188 (November 5th, 1864), in which an
Irishman is shown thoroughly enjoying the after-effects of a fight,
his face having been pummelled out of all recognition. It is full of
fun and life and spirit, and gives no hint that he who drew it would
delight the world no more.

[Illustration: MY LORD BROUGHAM AS SEEN AT MR. LUMLEY'S.

(_From a Sketch by John Leech. By Permission of Henry Silver, Esq._)]

And when the news went forth that John Leech was dead, a hush seemed to
fall on the country, as it had done ten months before, when Thackeray
died, and as it did again a few years after, on the death of Dickens.
The three men all died sudden deaths, and Leech felt and declared that
Thackeray's was the knell of his own. "I saw the remains of the poor
dear fellow," he said, "and, I assure you, I can hardly get over it. A
happy or merry Christmas is out of the question." What wonder, then,
that on hearing that Leech had followed, Mrs. Thackeray Ritchie should
have exclaimed, "How happy my father will be to meet him!"

"I fancy Thackeray was tired of life," said Leech in his deep bass voice
to his _Punch_ colleague Mr. Henry Silver. "At these words I wondered
much," says the latter gentleman, "as any young man might who failed to
see beneath the surface of a loved and prospering life. 'I feel somehow
I sha'n't survive him long,' he added rather wearily; 'and I shouldn't
much care either, if it were not for my family.' Then, after a pause, he
said more cheerfully, 'But I can do some work yet. And at any rate,
thank Heaven! they needn't send the hat round.'" But they _had_ need,
and they did. After his death _Punch_ made sturdy, repeated, and
successful efforts, not only to collect a fund for the artist's family,
but also to make known the facts of his death-sale.

_Punch's_ tribute to his mighty servant befitted the occasion: "The
simplest words are best where all words are vain. Ten days ago a great
artist in the noon of life, and with his glorious mental faculties in
full power, but with the shade of physical infirmity darkening upon him,
took his accustomed place among friends who have this day held his pall.
Some of them had been fellow-workers with him for a quarter of a
century, others for fewer years; but to know him well was to love him
dearly, and all in whose name these lines are written mourn for him as a