should have been for his purpose and his time--neither more nor less;
he had so much to say and of a kind so delightful that I have no time
to pick holes in his mode of expression, which at its best has
satisfied far more discriminating experts than I; besides which, the
methods of printing and engraving have wonderfully improved since his
day. He drew straight on the wood block, with a lead-pencil; his
delicate grey lines had to be translated into the uncompromising
coarse black lines of printers' ink--a ruinous process; and what his
work lost in this way is only to be estimated by those who know. True,
his mode of expression was not equal to Keene's--I never knew any that
was, in England, or even approached it--but that, as Mr. Rudyard
Kipling says, is another story.

The story that 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