best work that one line more or one line less would impair the
perfection of the whole--that of all the many directions, curves, and
thicknesses they might have taken he has inevitably hit upon just the
right one. He has beaten all previous records in this respect--in this
country, at least. I heard a celebrated French painter say: "He is a
great man, your Charles Keene; he take a pen and ink and a bit of
paper, and wiz a half-dozen strokes he know 'ow to frame a gust of
wind!" I think myself that Leech could frame a gust of wind as
effectually as Keene, by the sheer force of his untaught natural
instinct--of his genius; but not with the deftness--this economy of
material--this certainty of execution--this consummate knowledge of
effect.

To borrow a simile from music, there are certain tunes so fresh and
sweet and pretty that they please at once and for ever, like "Home,
Sweet Home," or "The Last Rose of Summer"; they go straight to the
heart of the multitude, however slight the accompaniment--a few simple
chords--they hardly want an accompaniment at all.

Leech's art seems to me of just such a happy kind; he draws--I mean he
scores like an amateur who has not made a very profound study of
harmony, and sings his pretty song to his simple accompaniment with so
sweet and true a natural voice that we are charmed. It is the magic of
nature, whereas Keene is a very Sebastian Bach in his counterpoint.
There is nothing of the amateur about him; his knowledge of harmony in
black and white is complete and thorough; mere consummate scoring has
become to him a second nature; each separate note of his voice reveals
the long training of the professional singer; and if his tunes are
less obviously sweet and his voice less naturally winning and
sympathetic than Leech's, his aesthetic achievement is all the