ble characters of either sex or any age. Here
and there a good-natured cabby, a jolly navvy, a simple-minded
flautist or bagpiper, or a little street Arab, like the small boy who
pointed out the jail doctor to his pal and said, "That's my medical
man."

Whereas Leech's pages teem with winning, graceful, lovable types, and
here and there a hateful one to give relief.

But, somehow, one liked the man who drew these strange people, even
without knowing him; when you knew him you loved him very much--so
much that no room was left in you for envy of his unattainable mastery
in his art. For of this there can be no doubt--no greater or more
finished master in black and white has devoted his life to the
illustration of the manners and humours of his time; and if Leech is
even greater than he--and I for one am inclined to think he is--it is
not as an artist, but as a student and observer of human nature, as a
master of the light, humorous, superficial criticism of life.

[Illustration: "NOT UP TO HIS BUSINESS"

CROSS BUS DRIVER. "Now why didn't you take that there party?"

CONDUCTOR: "Said they wouldn't go."

CROSS BUS DRIVER. "_Said_ THEY wouldn't go? THEY said they wouldn't
go? Why, what do you suppose you're put there for? You call that
conductin' a buss. Oh! THEY wouldn't go! I like that, &c., &c."--
_Punch_, September 1, 1860.]

Charles Keene died of general atrophy on January 4, 1891. It was
inexpressibly pathetic to see how patiently, how resignedly he wasted
away; he retained his unalterable sweetness to the last.

His handsome, dark-skinned face, so strongly lined and full of
character; his mild and magnificent light-grey eyes, that reminded one
of a St. Bernard's; his tall, straight, slender aspect, that reminded
one of Don Quixote; his simplicity of speech and character; his love
of humour, and the wonderful smile that lit up his face when he heard
a good story, and the still more wonderful wink of his left eye when
he told one--all these will remain strongly impressed on the minds of
those who ever met him.

I attended his funeral as I had attended Leech's twenty-six years
before; Canon Ainger, a common friend of us both, performed the
service. It was a bitterly cold day, which accounted for the
sparseness of the mourners compared to the crowd that was present on
the former occasion; but bearing in mind that all those present were
either relations or old friends, all of them with the strongest and
deepest