f apprehension in the designer; and then again we get
convinced that real apprehension--real apprehensiveness--would not have
insisted upon such things, could not have lived with them through almost
a whole career. There is one drawing in the _Punch_ of years ago, in
which Charles Keene achieved the nastiest thing possible to even the
invention of that day. A drunken citizen, in the usual broadcloth, has
gone to bed, fully dressed, with his boots on and his umbrella open, and
the joke lies in the surprise awaiting, when she awakes, the wife asleep
at his side in a nightcap. Every one who knows Keene's work can imagine
how the huge well-fed figure was drawn, and how the coat wrinkled across
the back, and how the bourgeois whiskers were indicated. This obscene
drawing is matched by many equally odious. Abject domesticity,
ignominies of married life, of middle-age, of money-making; the old
common jape against the mother-in-law; ill-dressed men with whisky--ill-
dressed women with tempers; everything that is underbred and decivilised;
abominable weddings: in one drawing a bridegroom with shambling sidelong
legs asks his bride if she is nervous; she is a widow, and she answers,
'No, never was.' In all these things there is very little humour. Where
Keene achieved fun was in the figures of his schoolboys. The hint of
tenderness which in really fine work could never be absent from a man's
thought of a child or from his touch of one, however frolic or rowdy the
subject in hand, is absolutely lacking in Keene's designs; nevertheless,
we acknowledge that here is humour. It is also in some of his clerical
figures when they are not caricatures, and certainly in 'Robert,' the
City waiter of _Punch_. But so irresistible is the derision of the woman
that all Charles Keene's persistent sense of vulgarity is intent
centrally upon her. Never for any grace gone astray is she bantered,
never for the social extravagances, for prattle, or for beloved dress;
but always for her jealousy, and for the repulsive person of the man upon
whom she spies and in whom she vindicates her ignoble rights. If this is
the shopkeeper the possession of whom is her boast, what then is she?

This great immorality, centring in the irreproachable days of the
Exhibition of 1851, or thereabouts--the pleasure in this particular form
of human disgrace--has passed, leaving one trace only: the habit by which
some men reproach a silly woman through her sex, whe