churches that morning,' but going leisurely, like large butterflies from flower to flower, and resting on them, till we knew them well. In fact, you cannot hurry in Ireland, there is something in the humid. atmosphere and in the habits and demeanour of the people which ignores haste. Ah me, how happy we were! Looking from the steamer at the calm phosphorescent waves (so thankful they were calm, for we were miserable mariners, though Leech had represented himself in a letter as revelling in stormy seas),1 or gliding along the rails, or riding in cars, or rowing in boats, listening to quaint carmen, oarsmen, and guides, talking and laughing in genial converse with each other, or silent in serene fruition of the exquisite scenery around-silent in perfect sympathy, one of the surest signs, and one of the purest delights of a true friendship! There are so many worthy folks who are afraid you will be dull if they don't go on gently buzzing into your ear, and there are so many unenlightened folks to whom, upon the same kindly principles, we consider it our duty to buz. But in all our easy and placid enjoyment, Leech never forgot his art. There was constantly a lovely bit of expression upon the face of nature, animate or inanimate, or there was something which he had never been able to get quite right, or something

1 See pen-and-ink sketch of John Leech as the jolly tar, by himself, on next page.

which he wanted for a special purpose, or which could not fail to be useful, or which would illustrate our tour. Of course, I was intensely curious upon

the latter point; but the memoranda which he made from time to time, as we agreed that this or that were worthy of delineation, were not instructive. Just a few lines, and dots, and curves. All that he wanted was there, none the less, and all the truth, as surely as in shorthand notes. Nothing absurd, abnormal, incongruous, in any way ridiculous, ever escaped him, I need hardly say; and a touch of his elbow, or a turn of his thumb, drew my attention continually to something amusing in the aspect, or the remarks of those about us, at the table-d'hôte, on the steamer, or the public car, which else in my obtuseness I had never relished. On rare, very rare, occasions it was my privilege to tell or to show him something which took his fancy, and he would say, in a tone which told you at once that he really thought he was asking a favour, 'May I make use of that?' Then would I draw myself up as a monarch upon his throne, and, extending my arms in royal clemency, would make reply, 'You may!' Thus passed the pleasant days of that 'Little Tour in Ireland, which his truthful, charming sketches afterwards made so justly popular. These illustrations are not numerous, but with them as with all his work, he took anxious pains. He went a second time over the Channel, and across Ireland to Galway, that he might finish to his satisfaction that wonderful picture of the Claddagh, which makes the frontispiece of the book.

It was always his rule, however pressed for time, surrounded with engagements, or enticed by pleasures, never to 'scamp' his work. This is proved by the fact, that in looking through it, you always find some new attractions, some delicate touch, which you had missed before. Sometimes his rapidity of execution was marvellous (I have known him send off from my own house three finished drawings on the wood, designed, traced, and rectified, without much effort, as it seemed, between breakfast and dinner), but there was never haste. How I used to wish that the world could have seen those blocks! They were committed, no doubt, to the most skilful gravers of the day, but the exquisite fineness, clearness, the faultless grace and harmony of the drawing could not be reproduced. If the position of an eyelash was altered, or the curve of a lip was changed, there might be an ample remainder to convey the intention, and to win the admiration of those who never knew their loss, but the perfection of the original was gone. Again and again I have heard him sigh, as he looked over the new number of Punch; and as I, seeing nothing but excellence, would ask an explanation, he would point to some almost imperceptible obliquity (not 'a pleasing obliquity,' as Charles Matthew says in the play, when he would compliment his friend with the squint) which vexed his gentle soul.

V

After our Irish tour, the friendship between us was very brotherly and true, and a continuous intercourse, personal and epistolary, was continued up to his death. The city mouse and the country mouse paid each other many visits, but without any interruption of their mirth. It was a great intellectual treat to me to meet at his house Thackeray and Millais, Holman Hunt and Tenniel, Dasent, Wingrove Cooke, Knox, Mark Lemon and Shirley Brooks, and dear old Percival Leigh; and it was a refreshment to him to have a walk over the stubbles, or a gallop after the hounds, or a day of tranquil rest. The latter was to me the prime happiness of our communion-to sit and converse quietly with the friend I loved best on earth. Next to this, to see him in his house, with his wife and children.

He first saw Mrs. Leech, then Miss Eaton, walking in London, and felt as the opossum, who, on the approach of a great American rifleman, requested him to take no further trouble, for that he was perfectly willing to come down. He followed her home, noted the number, looked out the name, obtained an introduction, married the lady. She was one of those Anglican beauties whom he loved to draw (I could show you faces like hers in Punch), a very pleasant and amiable person-a devoted mother and wife.