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