KENNY MEADOWS.
The reader has only to look at the early numbers of _Punch_ to see how
inferior were the drawings compared to Leech's work, or to that of the
excellent artists now at work on _Punch_. Kenny Meadows was perhaps the
best; indeed, he was a fellow of excellent fancy, quaintly humorous at
times--seen, I think, at his best in his Shakespeare illustrations;
which, in spite of some extravagance, are full of character, and, as in
the "Midsummer Night's Dream," almost poetical in their realization of
the scenes of that immortal play. But Kenny was a sad Bohemian, a jovial
soul, loving company and the refreshments that attend it, in which he
indulged in happy forgetfulness till "all but he departed."
In illustration of Kenny's habits, I introduce a little story told to me
by himself. Long years ago Mr. Carter Hall edited a book of British
ballads, and engaged a number of artists to illustrate them; Kenny
Meadows amongst the rest. I also had the honour of supplying a
contribution. When the drawings were finished, we were invited one
evening to the Rosery--as Mr. Hall called his Brompton cottage--to
submit our work for his criticism, and approval or condemnation, as the
case might be. Our refreshment was coffee and biscuits, a repast very
unsatisfactory to all of us, more or less--to Meadows especially. Kenny
bore his disappointment very well till we left the Rosery--this we did
at the earliest moment consistent with good manners--when he said, after
criticising our entertainment in strong language:
"There is a house close by where we can get supper. What do you fellows
say?"
We all said "that was the place for us."
Under Meadows' guidance, we found an inn and an excellent supper, and
about midnight, when the fun was getting fast and furious, I left;
Meadows remaining with two or three other choice spirits--how long I
only knew when I met him a few days afterwards. The time of his return
home may be guessed by what follows. Day was breaking as Meadows
stealthily entered his bedroom, almost praying that Mrs. Meadows might
be asleep; but that lady awoke, and, catching sight of her husband,
said:
"You are very late, Meadows."
"Oh no," said Meadows, "I am not; it's quite early."
("So it was, you know," said the Bohemian to me, as he told me of his
reception.)
"Early!" exclaimed the wife. "Why, what o'clock is it?"
"Oh, about one, or a little after," said Kenny.
Unluckily, at that moment the peculiar but unmistakable cry of the
milkman was heard--"and that pretty well settled the time, you know,
Frith."