Leech's doctors had warned him against excitement of any kind; he was forbidden to ride on horseback or to walk rapidly; and he was told that, if he would cease to work, and dismiss all anxiety from his mind, they had good hope of his recovery. Cease to work and dismiss anxiety! What vain words to a man who was consumed by the desire to raise money, which nothing but work would bring! And for whom were these dying energies put forth? Clearly not for himself or "his own household."
The day before his death Leech went to see Dr. Quain, who again prescribed absolute rest as his only chance. And how did the poor fellow follow this advice? He went home and wrote to the _Punch_ office, saying that a messenger might be sent for a drawing in progress, which "he would finish if he could." Strange to say, the fancy was as bright and the imagination as powerful as ever, and, for the moment, the hand itself had lost none of its cunning; but the physical strength failed utterly, and the pencil fell from that wonderful hand for ever. The messenger came, and was sent empty away.
On the day of his death--having spent the rest of the previous day, after his failure to complete the _Punch_ drawing, in bed--he begged to be allowed to draw. "It would amuse me," he said. A medical friend who was present gave a reluctant permission, and seeing no immediate appearance of danger, the doctor left him to his amusement. "Instead, however, of beginning at once," says Miss Leech, "he threw himself upon a couch in the room, and after a little while he was persuaded to go to bed and keep himself perfectly quiet. This he did, but scarcely had he composed himself for sleep than he suddenly started up and, calling to his father and sister, fell back and expired in their arms without a sigh."
Thus, on the 29th of October, 1864, died John Leech, done to death by overwork in his anxiety for others, who, let us hope, were worthy of the sacrifice. It is not too much to say that the death of this inimitable artist was a sorrow to all English-speaking people, and no less to many foreign peoples, who--"as one touch of nature makes the whole world kin"--fully relished the beauty, truth, and humour of all Leech's work. Of this we have ample proof in the elaborately appreciative remarks of French and German writers. Among the former, M. Ernest Chesnau, in the _Gazette des Beaux Arts_ of June, 1875, has an exhaustive article on Leech and his works--too long for reproduction here. Of the loving sympathy felt by his German brethren, the following tribute from the German _Punch_--the _Kladderadatsch_--offers ample evidence. It is entitled "A Cypress Branch for the Tomb of John Leech."